Fair Game

staying with Isaac to make sure that the residual magic didn’t get a grip on any of the forensic people who were going to go over the island with a fine-tooth comb.
    So the boat was a lot emptier on the way back than it had been on the way over.
    Leslie left Beauclaire in the back half of the boat to sit beside Charles.
    “She’s in pretty rough shape,” she said, sitting precisely on the edge of the seat. “There will be an ambulance waiting for us at the
Daciana
‘s regular berth.”
    The FBI agent looked a little less than professional, wrapped in a blanket from the boat, her hair windblown. Like Charles and Anna, she’d been up for a little more than twenty-four hours. Lack of sleep and lack of the subtle makeup that had worn off sometime while running around the island added years to her face.
    It intrigued Charles that she chose to sit next to him with so many seats available.
    “You aren’t afraid of me?” he asked.
    Leslie closed her eyes. “Too tired to be afraid of anything. Besides, if you could see my husband, you’d understand that it takes a lot to scare me.”
    That sparked his curiosity. “How is that?”
    “Linebacker for the LSU Tigers for three years in college,” she said without opening her eyes. “Hurt his shoulder his senior year or he’d have gone pro. He’s six-five and two hundred forty-two pounds. None of it is fat, not even now. He teaches second grade.” She looked at him. “What are you smiling about?”
    Charles opened his eyes wide. “Nothing, ma’am.”
    She smiled a little. “Jude says he loves the kids better than he ever did football. But he coaches the local high school team anyway.”
    “You didn’tcome over here to tell me about your husband,” he said.
    “No.” Leslie looked at him and then away. “How old are you?”
    “Older than I look,” Charles said. “A lot older.”
    She nodded. “I’ve asked around about you. We have some werewolves who talk to the FBI. They tell me that you’re a detective for all the wolves. You come in and solve crimes.”
    He wondered if that was all they’d told her—and thought it probably was. He didn’t respond because he didn’t know if agreeing with her was more of a lie than disagreeing with her would be.
    “And you know a lot about this world that we’re just learning about. We got Lizzie out of their hands because you knew to bring in witches—and because that witch was scared enough of you to behave herself.”
    That was fair enough. He waited for her to get to the point.
    “Lizzie says that there were three of them,” Leslie told him. “Two young men and an old man. One of the young men called the old guy ‘uncle’ before he was shut up. The old man made the cuts on her skin. Both of the young men raped her first, ‘while she was still pretty.’ They told her the old man preferred women after they were broken.”
    He’d hoped that they had gotten to her soon enough to spare her that, but he’d been pretty sure they hadn’t.
    “I thought Beauclaire had refused to have her questioned,” Charles said. He’d heard Lizzie talking, but Leslie didn’t need to know just how good his hearing was.
    “I didn’t ask her a question. She just talked. Told me she wants them caught and caged so they can’t do anything to anyone else. Tough woman. She fell asleep mid-word—and I think her father had something to do with that. Can the fae send people to sleep?”
    “I am not an expert in fae magic,” Charles said carefully.
    She turned her head and nodded. “You are very good at skirting the truth.” Leslie sighed. “You are an experienced detective and you met the enemy. What are your impressions?”
    “I’ve only met the one,”Charles said. But her request for information was fair—and he wanted the perpetrators caught. “The fae is definitely the junior member of the group, even though he’s probably the only one with magic—and he’s the reason they can take on fae and werewolves.”
    “What makes you think so?”
    “He’s not a hunter,” Charles told her. “He’s a stag—he’s not a predator, no matter how tough or deadly he is.” Herne the Hunter notwithstanding, Brother Wolf knew that the fae they’d fought with was prey. Maybe Herne was more huntsman and less deer, but this one…This one ran from his foes. He was not a hunter; he was a tool of the real hunters.
    “You think he’s a victim?”
    Charles snorted. “No. He’s no angel—but he’d never go out