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around to the back of the table, taking a chair with no one sitting next to her. The Cantrip agents took empty chairs on the other side of the table after he warned the younger one away from Anna with a lifted eyebrow. Charles stood behind Anna’s chair.
“This is my husband, Charles,” Anna told them, her hands folded. “Perhaps it would be a good thing to introduce ourselves again, now that we are all here. I’m Anna.”
“Special Agent Leslie Fisher,” said the other female in the room, a black woman with intelligent eyes and a firm voice. “Violent Crimes Unit, FBI.”
“Special Agent Craig Goldstein,” said a slender man in his fifties. “On assignment to the Boston Violent Crimes Unit because I have a background with this serial killer.”
Charles nodded to the FBI agents. Fisher’s background he knew, because he’d done background checks on all of the Boston VCU. Goldstein he’d find out more about.
“Jim Pierce,” said the only man in the room who was smiling. He aimed it at Charles. “Homeland Security. They send me out to gather information.”
He’d had a pretty good idea whom they’d send in from Homeland Security because they had only eight people specializing in preternatural matters, and he had files on them all.
Political climber,
he told Anna silently, returning Pierce’s smile. Pierce’s face became a lot less happy and he pushed his chair back a few inches.
On his way to public office. Do you think I should work on my smile?
Anna glanced back at him and frowned.
Behave,
said his mate, seriously enough. But he read her amusement in the little upturn of her lips.
“Dr. Steven Singh,” said the second Homeland agent.
An old-fashioned patriot,
Charles informed Anna after exchanging martial arts-style nods with the doctor.
He’s on record as personally classifying the fae and werewolves as domestic terrorists.
Charles tended to agree with him.
Neither is here because they desire to help catch a serial killer. Pierce won’t have anything to add. Singh is smart enough that he might be of use, even though he doesn’t care about the crime.
The Cantrip agents were more interesting. He didn’t know as much about Cantrip, as it was an even newer agency than Homeland Security, having come into being when the werewolves outed themselves. Though funded and authorized by the government, their role was “to collect and share information about nonhuman and altered-human groups and individuals,” which left them a lot of leeway. They had two main offices, one on either coast, and otherwise seemed to travel around the country to concern themselves mostly in criminal cases that involved fae, werewolves, or anything else that looked odd to them.
His father tended to dismiss the Cantrip agents as harmless, since they had no authority to arrest or detain anyone. Charles was less sanguine, as they were one of the government agencies required to go armed at all times—and they carried guns with silver bullets. He had files on a lot of their people, but had decided to see who they sent before refreshing his memory.
The older of the two Cantrip agents tried (and failed) to meet his eyes, then stared rather intently at Anna, which caused Charles’s hackles to rise—and Brother Wolf didn’t like him much, either.
“Patrick Morris,” he said. “Cantrip, special agent.”
“Formerly of the FBI,” said Ms. Fisher with a cool disapproval that said anyone who chose to leave the FBI was a fool.
“Les Heuter,” said the younger man, and abruptly became more interesting.
Heuter is a poster child for Cantrip,
Charles told Anna.
His father is a senator from Texas. If someone from Cantrip is interviewed in the press, three times out of four it is Heuter.
Which was one of the reasons, Charles thought, that people tended not to take Cantrip more seriously.
He should have recognized Heuter right away, but he looked different in person, not as stalwart, impressive, or pretty, but more earnest
“This is my husband, Charles,” Anna told them, her hands folded. “Perhaps it would be a good thing to introduce ourselves again, now that we are all here. I’m Anna.”
“Special Agent Leslie Fisher,” said the other female in the room, a black woman with intelligent eyes and a firm voice. “Violent Crimes Unit, FBI.”
“Special Agent Craig Goldstein,” said a slender man in his fifties. “On assignment to the Boston Violent Crimes Unit because I have a background with this serial killer.”
Charles nodded to the FBI agents. Fisher’s background he knew, because he’d done background checks on all of the Boston VCU. Goldstein he’d find out more about.
“Jim Pierce,” said the only man in the room who was smiling. He aimed it at Charles. “Homeland Security. They send me out to gather information.”
He’d had a pretty good idea whom they’d send in from Homeland Security because they had only eight people specializing in preternatural matters, and he had files on them all.
Political climber,
he told Anna silently, returning Pierce’s smile. Pierce’s face became a lot less happy and he pushed his chair back a few inches.
On his way to public office. Do you think I should work on my smile?
Anna glanced back at him and frowned.
Behave,
said his mate, seriously enough. But he read her amusement in the little upturn of her lips.
“Dr. Steven Singh,” said the second Homeland agent.
An old-fashioned patriot,
Charles informed Anna after exchanging martial arts-style nods with the doctor.
He’s on record as personally classifying the fae and werewolves as domestic terrorists.
Charles tended to agree with him.
Neither is here because they desire to help catch a serial killer. Pierce won’t have anything to add. Singh is smart enough that he might be of use, even though he doesn’t care about the crime.
The Cantrip agents were more interesting. He didn’t know as much about Cantrip, as it was an even newer agency than Homeland Security, having come into being when the werewolves outed themselves. Though funded and authorized by the government, their role was “to collect and share information about nonhuman and altered-human groups and individuals,” which left them a lot of leeway. They had two main offices, one on either coast, and otherwise seemed to travel around the country to concern themselves mostly in criminal cases that involved fae, werewolves, or anything else that looked odd to them.
His father tended to dismiss the Cantrip agents as harmless, since they had no authority to arrest or detain anyone. Charles was less sanguine, as they were one of the government agencies required to go armed at all times—and they carried guns with silver bullets. He had files on a lot of their people, but had decided to see who they sent before refreshing his memory.
The older of the two Cantrip agents tried (and failed) to meet his eyes, then stared rather intently at Anna, which caused Charles’s hackles to rise—and Brother Wolf didn’t like him much, either.
“Patrick Morris,” he said. “Cantrip, special agent.”
“Formerly of the FBI,” said Ms. Fisher with a cool disapproval that said anyone who chose to leave the FBI was a fool.
“Les Heuter,” said the younger man, and abruptly became more interesting.
Heuter is a poster child for Cantrip,
Charles told Anna.
His father is a senator from Texas. If someone from Cantrip is interviewed in the press, three times out of four it is Heuter.
Which was one of the reasons, Charles thought, that people tended not to take Cantrip more seriously.
He should have recognized Heuter right away, but he looked different in person, not as stalwart, impressive, or pretty, but more earnest
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