Anna glanced over her shoulder to see the red wolf standing in most of the available floor of their galley kitchen. She wondered, again, why Bran had decided to give the FBI a werewolf to look at.

It was not a bad idea to remind your enemy of who you are, she supposed. Though she hadn’t thought the FBI were their enemies. She had considered Leslie a friend. But she couldn’t afford them to be friends now.

“We have two items of business to bring before you today,” Goldstein was saying. “We know some things we think you should know. And we’d like to start building toward a more formal relationship that could help us both.”

Brother Wolf had said to let them in, but Anna wasn’t sure it was a good idea. She was reasonably certain that Charles wouldn’t tear into the FBI agents without violent provocation. And she was reasonably certain, having dealt with both agents in the past, that neither of them was likely to be violently provocative. But Brother Wolf was an entirely different kettle of fish.

We’ll behave, Brother Wolf assured her. You can let them in.

“I see,” said Anna. “Perhaps you should come in.”

She stepped back, opening the door as an invitation. The open door also gave them a very good view of Brother Wolf. If the sight of the werewolf bothered them, neither of them let it show. They had met Charles’s wolf before.

Anna waved a hand, directing the agents through the living room and into the dining area beyond. Leslie let Agent Goldstein take the lead, and Anna followed behind them.

Leslie paused, looking at the large painting hung over the fireplace. Other than the various instruments that were scattered about, it was the only piece of art in the room.

It was a new painting, still smelling of oils to Anna’s sensitive nose. The smaller piece it replaced had been moved to their bedroom, both works by the same artist.

On one level, the painting was of a gray wolf—not a werewolf—standing in winter woods. But that wasn’t the lingering impression it made. Whenever Anna looked at it, she could feel the tension drain away and optimism flood in to replace it. Anna had stared at the painting for hours, and she still didn’t know how Wellesley had done it. Wellesley’s work had always been spectacular—but this one, painted after his curse had been removed, was more … more something.

Asil had brought it over after Wellesley had left. It had come with a note that read: For Anna. He hadn’t signed either the note or the painting.

“Beautiful piece,” Leslie said, reaching out but not touching the canvas. “Who is the artist?”