“I had some problems in Chicago a few days ago,” Charles said.

“You’ll need to heal,” Jack whispered.

Charles shook his head. “Not if we have a werewolf out hunting people.” He looked at Heather. “Was this unprovoked? ”

She shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. He just broke cover and attacked. There are a lot of reasons the rogue could have done that-maybe he’s set up territory or has something or someone he is guarding. But I barely tagged him, and he ran.”

“So he could be hunting,” Charles concluded. “We can’t afford to wait for him to find someone else to kill.”

Anna followed Charles down the stairs in a hunt for Heather’s uncle Tag. The stairs ended in a narrow hall lined with steel doors, complete with thick iron bars ready to be set in the brackets on either side.

On one of the doors, the bar was in use. Whoever was in it had been making noise until they stepped out into the hall. Then he dropped into utter silence, and she could feel him listening to them as they walked by.

She might have asked Charles about it, but his face didn’t invite questions. She couldn’t tell if he was mad at her or just thinking. Either way, she didn’t want to bother him. She had already annoyed him enough. She should have told him that she would stay behind.

But that would have meant he would go alone, wounded, to face some unknown rogue. His father seemed to think he could take care of himself, but he hadn’t been there yesterday when Charles had been too hurt to move without help.

If Charles decided he didn’t want her, what would she do?

There was a friendlier door at the end of the hall-no locks or bars. But as they approached it she heard the sound of an explosion.

“Hoo yah,” someone said with fierce appreciation.

Charles opened the door without knocking.

Anna had a quick impression of a huge TV screen connected to a variety of sleek black boxes and speakers by a rainbow spiderweb of cables. But what caught her eye and held it was a big man stretched over the back of a couch like a giant house cat. And “giant” was the word.

Charles was a tall man, but she’d be willing to bet that Colin Taggart was taller by several inches and broader all the way around. Despite the cold, he wore Birkenstock sandals on his big feet, strapped over a pair of heavy wool socks, worn and frayed, but clean. Baggy khaki pants were topped by a tie-dyed T-shirt hanging down past his thighs. His hair was spectacularly orange-red and coarse like a pony’s mane; it curled and matted in a hairstyle that might have been a deliberate attempt at dreadlocks or just lack of care. He’d pulled the whole mass away from his face with a substantial, ink-stained rubber band.

He hadn’t been at the funeral, she thought. She’d have remembered him. Probably he’d been out getting his niece.

His skin was Celt-pale, with freckles dusted across his cheekbones. With his coloring and blade-sharp features he might as well have “Irish” tattooed across his forehead. He smelled of some odd incense that overlaid a pleasant earthy tone that she couldn’t quite place. He looked ten or fifteen years younger than his niece, and the only thing they had in common was the clear gray of their eyes.

After a quick glance at Charles when they entered the room, Tag turned his attention back to the TV and watched the last of the explosion, then aimed the remote in the TV’s general direction and paused the movie.

“So,” he said in a surprisingly high voice. “You don’t smell like death.” It wasn’t soprano, but a man that big should rumble like a bass drum. He sounded more like a clarinet. An American clarinet: his accent was pure TV announcer.

“If Heather’s friend can keep his mouth shut, he’ll be safe enough,” said Charles. “We’re going hunting bright and early in the morning. I’d appreciate if you could do a few things for me.”

The relaxed pose had been a ruse, Anna realized, as the other werewolf sat up and allowed himself to slide down onto the seat of the couch and used that momentum to come all the way to his feet. All with the controlled speed and grace of a danseur noble.

Standing, he took up more than his share of the small room. Anna took an involuntary step back that neither of the men appeared to notice.

He grinned, but his eyes were wary and he kept them on Charles. “All right then, as long as you’re not going to kill my little friend, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

“I need you and Heather to figure out exactly where they were when they were attacked-preferably on a map. See if she can pinpoint where the other werewolf victim was-and the grad student’s attack, too.” Charles glanced back at Anna, giving her an impersonal once-over before turning his attention back to the other man. “Then stop by Jenny’s and see if she has some dirty clothes, something she’s sweated in.”

The wolf’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to do that scent thing? Jenny’s Harrison is about your size. You want me to grab something of his for you?”

“That would be good. Meet us back at my house in a couple of hours with the map and clothes.”

“Bran’s really not going to execute Heather’s man.” It was a statement, but there was a thread of uncertainty in Tag’s voice.

Charles shrugged. “Not right now, anyway. Not unless he decides to do something dumb.”

It didn’t sound like reassurance to Anna, but Tag seemed to take it that way.

“Fine, then,” he said with a nod. “See you in a couple of hours.”

Charles Sparked the Humvee in front of the house, probably because it wouldn’t have fit in the garage. He was stiff and limping by that time, but when Anna tried to take the packages they’d amassed from the store, he just gave her a look. She raised both hands in surrender and let him take everything into the house himself.

He hadn’t said anything personal to her since they’d left his father’s study.

“Maybe you ought to take someone else,” she said, finally, as she shut out the winter’s cold. “Another wolf might be more helpful.”

Charles turned and looked her in the face. He slowly took off his gloves while he stared at her, his eyes black in the dimmer light of the house. She met his gaze for a breath or two before dropping her own eyes.

“I don’t like bringing reinforcements to a kill,” he told her after a moment. “More wolves tend to muck things up.”

He took off his coat and set it deliberately across the back of the couch. “This is a werewolf who is killing humans. It might be a plant, someone who intends to stop my father’s plans to carefully unveil our presence to the humans. I’ve been considering that, though, and I don’t think that’s what is going on. It would take a desperate person to go into the Cabinets this time of year when Missoula or Kalispell are so much more convenient-and more sure to attract attention. Running around in the wilderness in the winter is too much trouble, I think, for a planned attack or a hardened killer. I think we’re dealing with a rogue. Someone who doesn’t know much and is trying to keep out of sight. Dangerous, as he has so ably demonstrated, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“I’ll do as you tell me,” she told the floor, feeling stupid for insisting on going and heartsick because he didn’t want her with him. “I’ll try not to get in the way.”

“I would not have considered taking you without my father’s insistence,” he said slowly. “And I would have been wrong.”

His words took her totally by surprise. Half-suspecting that she’d mistaken him, she looked up to see his sheepish smile.

“I think,” he said, “that even a werewolf deserves a chance, don’t you? A rogue hiding out in the Cabinets is pretty desperate, and there’s a good chance he’s as much a victim as the dead hunter and Heather’s Jack. But even if I knew for certain he was only moonstruck, out of control through no fault of his own-I’d still probably have to kill him if I went alone. But look at what you did with Asil this morning. If you come with me, we just might be able to give this wolf a chance.”