Fair Game

you.”
    “Thanks,” Charles said, hanging up without ceremony. “So, anyone know a local witch we can talk to?”
    “I know a witch,” said Leslie. “But she’s in Florida.”
    Charles shook his head. “If we’regoing to bring someone up, I know a reliable one or two. Do you know any in Boston?” He looked at Beauclaire, who shook his head.
    “I know of none who would help.”
    “If we find someone,” Anna said, “could we get her in to see one of the bodies?”
    “We can arrange it,” said Leslie.
    “All right, then, let’s call the local Alpha and see if he has a witch who will cooperate with us.”
    Charles dialed and then gave Anna his phone. “He likes you better. You ask him.”
    “He’s scared of me,” Anna said, feeling a little smug.
    “This is Owens.”
    “Isaac, this is Anna,” she said. “We need a witch.”
    THE FBI AGENTS left to arrange a viewing for the witch, who wouldn’t be available until ten in the morning. Beauclaire told them he was going to see if he could find anyone who might know if the horned lord who died in 1981 had left any half-blood children behind.
    Anna waited until Charles had closed the door. “What do you see in the mirror?” she asked him.
    He closed his eyes and did not turn to look at her.
    “Charles?”
    “There are things,” he said slowly, “that are made better by talking them out. There are things that are given more power when you speak of them. These are of the second variety.”
    She thought about that for a moment and then went to him. The muscles of his back were tight when she touched them with her fingertips.
    “It doesn’t appear,” she said slowly, “that being silent about whatever it is has helped, either.” What kinds of things did he not like to talk about? Evil, she remembered. “Is it like a Harry Potter thing?”
    He turned his head then. “A what?”
    “A Harry Potter thing,” she said again. “You know, don’t say Voldemort’s name because you might attract his attention?”
    He considered it. “You mean the children’s book.”
    “I have got to get you to watch more movies,” she said. “You’d enjoy these. Yes, I mean the children’s book.”
    He shook his head. “Not quite. Noticing some things make them more real. They are already real to me. If you notice them, they might become real to you as well, and that would not be good.”
    Suddenly she knew. Charles had told her once that he didn’t speak his mother’s name for fear that it would tie her to this world and not let her go on to the next. Ghosts, he’d told her, need to be mourned and then released. If you keep them with you, they become unhappy and tainted.
    “Ghosts,” she said, and he drew in a sharp breath and stepped away from her, closer to the window.
    “Don’t,” he said sharply. She’d have snapped back at him if she hadn’t remembered that when he’d closed down their bond he’d been worried about her.
    “All right,” she said slowly. “You feel better than before we came here, though. Right?” If he was getting better, he was dealing with it.
    He had to think about that one before he answered her. “Yes. Not good, but better.”
    She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and breathed him in. “I’ll leave it alone if you promise me one thing.”
    “What’s that?”
    “If it starts getting worse again, you’ll tell me—and you’ll tell Bran.”
    “I can do that.”
    “All right.”She brushed off the back of his shirt, as if there were some lint or something on it and not as though her hands were hungry for the warmth of his skin. “Sleep or breakfast?” she asked briskly. “We have two hours before the FBI picks us up and takes us to the morgue.”
    THE SMALL, SHEET-COVERED body on the table smelled of rotting flesh, salt, and fish. None of which managed to quite cover up the lingering scent of terror. From the size of the corpse, Anna thought he might have been seven or eight.
    Anna had been Changed by rape both physical and metaphorical. She had served three years in a pack led by a madwoman, during which time death had become something to look forward to, an end to pain. Charles had changed all of that—and Anna appreciated the irony that the Marrok’s Wolfkiller, arguably the most feared werewolf in the world, had made her safe and made her want to live.
    Irony aside, Anna knew death. The morgue smelled of it, as well as a healthy dose of antiseptic, latex gloves, and body fluids. When