Frost Burned

say anything because I didn’t know what to say. Packs changed over the years—people move. The Marrok’s pack tended to gain problematic wolves who couldn’t function in a normal pack. This wolf’s body language told me that he was dangerous, that he spent a lot of time on the edge of violence, that his wolf was very close to the surface.
    The wolf in human-seeming spoke into my silence. “When word came to Charles to see if there was someone who could . . . play ambassador with you and Mr. Brooks, I was already on my way, sent here by the whispers of the fairies.” He paused, and . . . preened a little, as if he enjoyed being the center of attention, then looked at Kyle. “Mr. Brooks, it is rather cold out here. Would you mind calling off the gentleman who is aiming at us from your neighbor’s roof and letting us in?”
    “Who
are
you?” I asked the werewolf, again.
    He smiled again, though his eyes were cool. “Asil, Ms. Hauptman. You might also know me as the Moor, though I find the title overly dramatic and wouldn’t have mentioned it, but that you would find it, perhaps, a little more recognizable.”
    I gripped Kyle’s arm a little more tightly. I knew who the Moor was. The Moor was a scary, scary wolf who I’d thought was merely a story, like the Beast of Gévaudan.
    “It’s okay, Kyle,” I said, hoping I was right. “Asil is one of Charles’s wolves.” Kyle would understand I meant the Marrok.
    Asil smiled because he heard the lie in my first sentence. Maybe Kyle did, too, because he gave me a sharp look before he waved at the security team with the two-finger salute immortalized by President Nixon before either of us was born.
    “I am not at liberty to tell you anything,” Armstrong half apologized as he sipped his coffee. He glanced from my face to Kyle’s, taking in the spectacular bruising Kyle was sporting and my own, more modest bruise—which started at my jaw and hit the top of my hairline. Kyle looked like he’d gone into a boxing match with his hands tied behind his back—which is sort of what he’d done.
    Armstrong grimaced. “I know it’s not fair. But I have to operate by my superior’s orders.”
    We were sitting in a room I’d actually never been in before. It was decorated in cool tones and was in the basement, with only a small window. Presumably it was one of the rooms that Adam’s security team had deemed safe—or else Kyle had some other reason to drag us down to a room that smelled of carpet shampoo and the lady who cleaned his house, with no hint of either Kyle or Warren.
    “Don’t tell me,” Kyle said sourly. “A group of Cantrip agents who were unhappy with the limited power given them to combat the scary werewolves and suddenly scarier fae decided to go off on their own. Someone decided that they needed a really big event to turn the tide of public opinion in their favor—and they decided the murder of a popular anti-fae senator would be the torch they could use to inflame the public and get, at last, the right to shoot werewolves and fae on sight. They failed when Mercy, Ben, and I managed to call the police on them, and you’ve been sent to fix the situation however you can while also finding out where they got the money to hire a private army. How am I doing?”
    For a moment, Armstrong’s friendly face wasn’t so friendly. The Moor smiled and lifted his own cup to his lips. If I wasn’t looking at his eyes, he appeared too young, too urbane to be responsible for the violence he was famous for. He caught me looking, and I looked away—but not before I saw his pleased smile.
    “Don’t patronize us,” Kyle said softly, his attention on Armstrong. “You need us to find your people before they do something even stupider. I’m not sure we need you at all.”
    “Your cooperation will be noted,” Armstrong said. “That might become important for you if Bennet succeeds in making a bloodbath here that he can blame the werewolves for.”
    “Who is Bennet?” I asked, and Armstrong pursed his lips.
    “Ah, excuse me,” he said. “Let us instead say, ‘our rogue agent’ who is apparently responsible for recruiting other dissatisfied agents.” The slip of his tongue that gave away Bennet’s name seemed purposeful because he wasn’t very upset. “It is imperative that we stop him, and you can help by telling me anything you know about how Hauptman and his pack were taken. Anything about the men who held you here. Anything might