I got out and found myself in a garage big enough to house half a dozen cars, though the SUV and a shiny black Mercury were the only two vehicles in it. I recognized the place—Georgia's parents' house, an upper-end place on the north side of town. The Alphas had brought me here once before, when they helped rescue me from the lair of a gang of psychotic lycanthropes. Susan had been with me.

I shook my head, took up my staff and the little book, and walked toward the door to the house. I paused just before I opened it, and heard voices speaking in quiet tones. I closed my eyes and focused on my sense of hearing, head tilted to one side, and the sound of the voices became clear and distinct enough for me to understand. It's a useful skill, Listening, though I couldn't tell you exactly how to do it.

There was the sound of a phone being returned to its cradle. "They're all fine," Billy said.

"Good," Georgia replied. "Something's going on. Did you see his face?"

"He looked tired," Billy said.

"He looked more than just tired. He's afraid."

"Maybe," Billy said, after a second of hesitation. "So what if he is?"

"So how bad must things be if he is afraid?" Georgia asked. "And there's more."

Billy exhaled. "His hand."

"You saw it then?"

"Yeah. After he nodded off."

"He's not supposed to have any movement in it," she said, her voice growing more worried. "You've seen him on gaming nights. He can barely cup his fingers to hold chips. I heard the wood of his staff creaking under them tonight. I thought he would crush it."

I blinked at that news and looked down at my gloved hand. I tried to wiggle my fingers. They sort of twitched.

"He's been a little different since he got burned," Billy said.

"It's been longer than that," Georgia said. "It's been since the year before. Remember when he showed up to gaming with all those bandages under his sweater? He never would talk about what happened. It was a week after that murder at the docks, and that big terrorist scare at the airport. It's been since then. He's been distant. More all the time."

"You think he had something to do with that murder?" Billy asked.

"Of course not," Georgia said. "But I think he might have been working on a case and gotten involved with the victim in some way. You know how he is. He probably blames himself for her death."

I swallowed and tried not to think of a pretty, dark-haired woman bleeding to death while the hold of her boat slowly filled with water. She'd made enough bad choices to get herself into trouble. But I hadn't been able to protect her from the creature that had taken her life.

"If he's in trouble we're going to help him," Billy said.