Fair Game

trying to regain his feet with limited success—but everything seemed to be moving all right except for an obviously broken wrist. Anna…Anna was crouched next to Lizzie Beauclaire and crooning to her, or as close to a croon as a wolf could get.
    The girl…He’d seen photos of her on her wall and she’d been beautiful. Now scabby wounds decorated her forehead and cheeks, all of the skin he could see. She was wearing her father’s shirt, but was obviously naked underneath it, and her formerly flawless skin was covered with sigils and bruises—just as Jacob’s body had been. On a living, breathing person it was even worse, because she was also covered with a miasma of black magic that he could see—like a fog of invisibly small fleas. Lizzie blinked at him with drugged eyes and moved backward, stopping abruptly with a little gasp because something hurt.
    They’dbroken her knee. Shattered it, if he was any judge—and he was. It was deliberate—and he wondered if she, a trained athlete, had been a little tougher than they expected. Her feet were bruised and bloody, as though she had broken free and gone running through the rocky terrain barefoot. She’d have had no chance of really escaping, not unless she could call upon the merfolk—and he doubted that. They tended to be standoffish or aggressive, even with their own kind.
    Lizzie was clearly in no shape to walk. She’d have to be carried out, and, looking at the others, Charles knew he would have to do it. With a broken wrist, her father wasn’t going to be able to, and Anna was still too new of a werewolf to change back and forth this quickly. Isaac was dazed and confused, and pretty new as well. He’d been Changed about the same time as Anna, as Charles recalled, only a few years ago. So Charles was just going to have to manage one more shift to human right this minute.
    It hurt. He’d forgotten how badly it hurt to change when something was wrong. He was old and changing would help heal any injury that wasn’t caused by silver—but the change healed the same way salt water kept wounds from getting infected: accompanied by a lot of pain.
    Charles didn’t cry out. He didn’t howl and scare the poor little dancer who had wrapped herself around Anna as if the werewolf were a stuffed puppy. Sweat poured off his body even before he should have been human enough to sweat. And then he became human, kneeling in the dust-covered cement, wearing a red T-shirt soaked with sweat and his blue jeans, which—he noted with a hint of amusement—were old-style button fly.
    It took Charles a couple of tries to get to his feet, and even then, his hands were still shaking. But the shoulder must have only been dislocated, because that injury the change had healed completely, other than a lingering soreness.
    When he and Anna got back to their condo, he was going to have to sleepfor a week. He looked around to do triage, with the idea of getting everyone up the stairs and on their way to the boat before the horned lord came back to finish them.
    Charles left Lizzie Beauclaire with Anna for a few minutes more and walked over to crouch in front of Isaac.
    “Hey,” he said. “Are you with us?”
    The wolf just panted, not focusing.
    “I’m going to touch you,” Charles told him in a tone that brooked no opposition: dominant wolf to less dominant wolf. “To see if there’s anything that needs mending. You won’t like it—but you will let me do it. Growls are acceptable. Biting is not.”
    After a quick exam, during which Isaac growled a lot, Charles was pretty certain that, though there had probably been other damage initially, the Boston Alpha had healed most of it. What was left were a lot of sore spots and a humdinger of a concussion that would work itself out in a few hours with adequate food. Charles hoped that Malcolm had more in his bait boxes than squid, chum, and worms—though protein was protein.
    Charles stood up and looked around again.
    Beauclaire had managed to get to his feet and walk unsteadily to his daughter. He sat down on the ground a foot or so from her and reached out to touch her hair with a light hand. She flinched and he started to sing to her in Welsh.
    Ar lan y mor mae lilis gwynion
    Ar lan y mor mae ‘nghariad inne

    He had a good voice. Not spectacular, as Charles would have expected from a fae of rank and power (and the fae who’d fought beside Charles this night obviously had power), but good pitch and sweet-toned, though