The corner of Anna’s mouth quirked up, which wasn’t really the agreement Underwood obviously took it to be. Charles assumed that Brother Wolf was keeping her apprised of the magical attacks aimed at her.

Underwood tapped his desk with his hands. “Where was I? Ah, yes. When Carrie Green brought her grandfather to us two years ago, she was a powerless white witch with a necklace to keep her safe.” He sounded like he was a little surprised the necklace had accomplished its task. “The last time Carrie Green attended to her grandfather, she was still a white witch with the amulet—yet she bore such a wake of magic that we all felt it when she walked onto the grounds of the garden.” He licked his lips, and his hunger smelled almost sexual.

“Interesting,” said Anna.

She was not wrong. It was verification that what Erasmus had told them had been true. Something had given Carrie Green more power. That it had been the result of an entity exchanging power for music was indeed interesting.

There was a link between music and magic. His grandfather had used music as part of his healing and his spiritual life. In the hands of such a man as his grandfather, the patterns of music rendered in chords, rhythm, and tone called and shaped magic.

“Ms. Cornick,” Underwood said. “You will tell me the location of Wild Sign, or you and your husband … mate? Mate, yes. You and your mate will not leave this building.”

Silence grew in the office while Underwood made the journey from smugness to anger as he realized Anna had no intention of giving him what he wanted. He increased the power of the magic he was using, breaking into a sweat with the effort.

Charles watched, but the magic continued to slide off the protections he’d laid on Anna. If that changed, it would be time to kill the witch.

“We are werewolves,” Anna told Underwood when sufficient time had passed to make her point—he couldn’t make her do anything. “Your magic does not affect us.”

Both true statements, thought Charles happily. Maybe, depending upon who was listening, the witches here might start wondering if all werewolves had some undefined immunity to witchcraft. Then more witches would be told that. He could feel the intensity of the witch lurking in the hall, hanging on Anna’s words.

“If you want to leave here,” Underwood whispered, “you will tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t think so,” said Anna. “Besides, I don’t deal with underlings.”

Charles did not grin as she stole the tone directly from the most arrogant wolf he’d ever met—but it was a struggle. He would make her use it on Asil and see if that old wolf recognized his own medicine.