Fair Game

she walked by his table.
    “That’s right,” she told him.
    “You ever have sex as wolves? Is it different from normal sex? Do you like it better?” He grinned hugely and took a swig from his glass, obviously thinking he’d gotten one over on her. But Anna had been raised in a household of men—her father, her brother, and all of her brother’s friends who thought of her as a little sister. He’d had a lot of friends.
    “You ever have sex with your mother?” she asked casually. “Was it better than with your girlfriend or did you prefer it with your boyfriend or your pet rat?”
    His jaw dropped open and the guy nearest him slapped him on the head and told him, “And that is why you are never going to get a date, Chuck. You see a pretty girl and the things your mama taught you about politeness and all the IQ points you can’t count on your fingers to keep track of just leave your head—and then you are compelled to open your mouth. Women are
not
impressed by crudeness.” He looked at Anna. “He apologizes for being a dumbass. He’ll feel really bad about it in about four hours when he starts to sober up. He’s really a good cop and not usually—” He looked at the offending man and sighed. “Well, okay. There’s a reason he doesn’t date much.”
    “How did you know I had a pet rat?” said Chuck in a tone filled with awe. He was really drunk and had probably missed the point of everything anyone else had said in the last few minutes: everything except, evidently, the rat.
    Several of his buddies laughed and gave him a hard time.
    Anna smiled; she couldn’t help it—he sounded about six years old. “I can smell him.” And that started another round of questions.
    It wasn’t exactly a fun evening—Anna felt like she’d spent most of her time walking a tightrope. But it was better than being stuck in the condo while Charles buried himself in electronics. And it wasn’t all bad. She enjoyed meeting Leslie’s husband, who was funny and smart—and offered to stuff Chuck in a wastebasket. The fish and chips were superb and so was the stew.
    Eventually the fascination with werewolves seemed to wear off and Anna found a quiet table in a corner where she could relax and watch everyone.
    The crude Chuck’s friend saw her and came over to apologize again. “He knows he’s stupid when he drinks, so he usually doesn’t. It was just a bad day today, you know? The last call we took before coming here was a domestic abuse call—some lady’s boyfriend beat her up and then started in on her toddler. Chuck has a little boy he hasn’t seen since his ex-wife moved to California, and he took it pretty hard.”
    “I have bad days, too,” Anna told him. “I understand. Don’t worry about it.”
    Chuck’s friend nodded and wandered off.
    She closed her eyes for a minute. She was a little short on sleep thanks to Charles, and it made her eyes dry.
    Someone came over and sat on the chair opposite her. Anna opened her eyes to see Beauclaire pouring himself a glass of beer.
    “Isaac said he invited you,” she told him. “But we were pretty sure you weren’t coming.”
    “Lizzie’s out of the operating room,” he told her, sipping his beer as if it were fine wine. “Her mother and stepfather are there—and Lizzie will be drugged and sleeping until tomorrow.” He took a bigger sip. “Her mother thinks it is my fault that she was taken. As I agree with her, it was difficult to defend myself, and so I retreated here.”
    Anna shook her head. “Never accept the blame for what evil people do. We are all responsible for our own actions.” She was lecturing him, so she stopped. “Sorry. Hang around with Bran too long, and see if you don’t start passing around the Marrok’s advice as if he were Confucius. How is Lizzie doing?”
    “Her knee was crushed.” He looked at the wall behind Anna where there was a very nice print of an Irish castle. “They might repair it enough so she can walk, but dancing is definitely out.”
    “I’m so sorry,” Anna said.
    “She’s alive, right?” Beauclaire said, and took a long, slow drink. “The things they carved in her skin…In time, the surgeons might be able to get rid of them, they think. Until then, every time she looks in a mirror she’ll have the reminder of what she went through.” He paused. “She knows she’ll never dance again. It broke her.”
    “Maybe not,” said Leslie. She sat down beside Anna on the dark brown bench seat and