Jenks shoved the three Weres off him in disgust and got to his feet, a sullen, beaten pixy. He was bleeding from a scratch on his forehead, and his face went ashen when he saw the blood on his hands. With that, he lost all his will to fight, obediently wobbling into place behind me when we were encouraged to head back to the road.

Time to go meet the boss.

Thirteen

As we jostled down the shaded road, the wind from our passage dried my sweat and made my curls into lank tangles. Jenks and I were in the back of the open-aired Hummer—whoo-hoo, a convertible—the Were with the pin on his black cap sitting opposite us along with three other guys, weapons pointed. It was kind of sad, really, as it wouldn’t take much to wrestle one away and fall out of the vehicle if I wanted to risk being shot. But Jenks was bleeding from a scalp wound, shaking as he sat beside me, his hand pressing the clean bandage they gave him against it. It hadn’t looked bad when I first saw it, but by his reaction, he’d be dead in five minutes. I wanted to see how bad it was before we did anything spectacular.

The Were in wolf ’s clothing was up front with the driver, squinting against the wind, his tongue hanging out. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been for the guns.

“Do they have to drive so fast?” I muttered to Jenks. “There’re deer out here.”

The guy in charge met my eyes. They were brown, pretty in the flickering light coming through the skimpy tree cover and reminding me of David’s boss, being both everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“They don’t move much ’cept for dusk, ma’am,” he said, and I bobbed my head. Especially if they’re dead and gutted, I thought sourly.

Not really caring, I turned away. What I’d wanted to know had been answered; he wasn’t adverse to Jenks and me talking. I didn’t know if we were prisoners or guests. But there were those weapons…

Mr. I’m-in-charge adjusted his cap, then jiggled the driver’s elbow, pointing to the radio. “Hey,” he drawled into the mike after the driver passed it to him. “Somebody pick up.”

After a moment a slurred, crackling “What?” came back.

The man’s thin lips went thinner. “Three of Aretha’s pack are down at Saturday’s kill. I want a tank truck out there—now. Get a full data spread before you douse them.”

“I don’t have any saltwater made up,” whoever it was complained. “No one told me we were collecting data this month.”

“That’s because we aren’t,” he answered, anger growing in his face, though it wasn’t in his slow speech. “But they’re down, and since Aretha has pups in her, I want an ultrasound. And be careful. They’re riled up and likely to be unpredictable.”

“An ultrasound?” came an indignant voice. “Who the hell is this?”

“This here is Brett,” he drawled, shifting his cap farther back and squinting at the sun. We hit a bump, and I clutched at a support post. “Who the hell is this?”