“You Changed her without her consent,” the Marrok said softly when Charles finished. “Without talking to me. And she is witchborn.”

His da was just repeating what Charles had already told him, so he saw no reason to say anything more. He also knew it would annoy the Marrok, and decided it served him right for the implied chastisement. Da knew that Charles wouldn’t Change someone lightly.

Silence played loudly between them. Until he heard his father take a deep breath and release it. When he spoke he sounded more willing to discuss the matter.

“You are certain she was bespelled by a fae?”

“Absolutely,” Charles replied. And that was the real cause of his da’s temper.

When Bran spoke again, he didn’t sound happy, but he wasn’t playing the chastising Alpha, either. “You got her husband’s consent, which will appease the worst of the letter-of-the-law crowd. Most of them are old enough to believe that a husband’s word is good enough for his wife. I will give my retroactive permission—it was an emergency situation. The witchborn part can stay between us. It may not be against our law to Change a witchborn, but it is frowned upon. There is no sense in making a nasty monster into a nastier one.”

Charles listened for irony, but he didn’t hear it. That didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Bran was witchborn and he certainly considered himself a very nasty monster. So did Charles. He’d glimpsed what lurked inside his da, and if he never saw it again it would be too soon.

“She’s not a black witch,” Charles told his da, because that was important. “She hid her witch blood pretty well. I got only a faint scent until I tasted it in her blood. It might have been what attracted the fae’s attention to her, though. Or she might have seen something that a human would have overlooked, and the fae tried to get rid of her.”

“It sounds as though the fae was trying to get rid of her children.”

Charles grunted. “That’s a fae thing, going after children. But she was supposed to kill herself, too.”

His father sighed. “I suppose you’re going to go looking for the fae.”

There was a long silence, because Charles seldom bothered answering stupid questions.

His da swore, taking a good long time about it. That he used Welsh made it softer sounding—and might fool someone who didn’t know him about just how frustrated he was. The drop into Welsh meant he was really unhappy.

“It took us a long time to hammer out that agreement,” he complained, his voice a little bitter. “And it’s been in place not even six months. My whole intent was to keep our people safe.”

“It attacked children,” Charles said. He wasn’t pleading, not really. Because whatever his da said, he was going after it.

“Mortal children,” growled his father harshly. “Human.” When he heaved a big sigh Charles knew he’d won, even before his father spoke. “The first trespass was theirs. They attacked the great-grandchildren of the Salt River Pack Alpha. You won’t be breaking the treaty because they already did. Maybe I can salvage something from this. Find out who it is and stop them.”

“By whatever means necessary,” Charles clarified.

“This is a fae capable of making a woman kill her children,” his da snapped. “Assuming that she didn’t have a hidden desire to kill them?”

“No,” said Charles. “Quite the opposite.”

“Then this is a powerful fae. Mind control, forcing someone to act against their nature and perform a specific task, especially a task repugnant to them, is rare. At least outside Underhill it is rare. Leaving such an enemy alive is stupid. Find this one and kill him if you can.” He snorted, and his voice was full of self-directed amusement. “I’ll deal with the Gray Lords. You go kill whatever is attacking children. And tell Hosteen that I authorized it.” He muttered, “Not that he’d wait for my approbation, either.”

The Marrok ended the call.

Charles loosened his shoulders to lessen the tension of Brother Wolf’s eagerness. “I told you he would not object,” he murmured. They would hunt, but it would take patience and care. Hunting a fae was different from hunting a deer or elk. More challenging—and more satisfying.

Then his phone rang.

“You couldn’t tell she was witchborn until you tasted her blood?” asked his father.

“You can leave,” Hosteen told Anna. He’d been pacing for the better part of the twenty minutes that had passed since he’d driven Kage and Maggie out of the guest room, with a brief pause when Charles had come in.

He stopped moving, possibly accidentally, between Anna and the bed where Chelsea lay in the comalike sleep that marked the Change from human to werewolf. He put his hands on his hips, stared at Anna, and waited for her to obey him.

Alphas were used to people obeying them.

Anna raised her eyebrow at him and continued to knit, rocking herself in a dark wooden rocking chair that was a lot more comfortable than it had looked when she sat down in it. Knitting was new for her.

She’d started with quilting. She loved the feel and looks of the fabric. It was like making stained-glass pictures with cloth, and it was an effective gateway drug. Weekly lessons with one of the people who kept the little craft store in Aspen Creek had led her into a whole world. She’d found knitting particularly useful because it let her wait without being restless.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Hosteen said, nodding toward the bed.

“Okay,” Anna said, continuing to work on the sweater she was making for Charles.

The last one had not turned out very well, and she was determined that this one would be better. It was red, his favorite color. She wasn’t ready to try any kind of fancy pattern yet, but so far the sweater was looking like the picture in her how-to book, so she was encouraged. Except, that is, for those weird little holes that crept in here and there.

“Go,” Hosteen said with power.

She gave him a chiding click of her tongue, though it wasn’t diplomatic. But she wasn’t feeling very charitable toward him because he thought she was stupid. Anna could tell when someone was trying to lie with the truth. It didn’t tingle her magic werewolf senses, but her plain old body language skills were plenty adequate. Sure, he wouldn’t hurt Chelsea: death can be painless.

The idea that Hosteen would kill Chelsea would never have occurred to her. For one thing, murder was murder, even among werewolves. But Kage had been worried, and Maggie had been emphatic. Hosteen’s actions since then weren’t exactly subtle. She didn’t know Chelsea, but she wasn’t going to let anyone be murdered on her watch.