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Elizaveta’s hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, drawing her attention back to him as he escorted her back to her car. Her grandson Robert gave me a lazy grin.
    â€œDon’t push the babushka too hard, Mercy,” he said softly. “She likes you, but that won’t stop her if she feels you aren’t showing her proper respect.”
    â€œI know,” I said. “I’m going home to see if a few hours of sleep won’t curb my tongue before it gets us into trouble.” I meant to sound humorous, but it just came out tired.
    Robert gave me a sympathetic smile before he left.
    A heavy weight leaned against my hip and I looked down to see Mac. He gave me what I imagined was a sympathetic look. Adam was still with Elizaveta, but Mac didn’t seem to be having trouble. I scratched him lightly behind one pricked ear.
    â€œCome on,” I told him. “Let’s lock up.”
    This time I remembered to grab my purse.

chapter 4
    Home at last, I decided that there was only one remedy for a night like this. My stash of dark chocolate was gone, and I’d eaten the last gingersnap, so I turned on the oven and pulled out the mixing bowl. By the time someone knocked at my door, I was pouring chocolate chips into the cookie dough.
    On my doorstep was a sprite of a girl with Day-Glo orange hair that sprang from her head in riotous curls, wearing enough eye makeup to supply a professional cheerleading squad for a month. In one hand she held my camera.
    â€œHey, Mercy. Dad sent me over to give you this and to get me out of the way while he dealt with some pack business.” She rolled her eyes as she handed me the camera. “He acts like I don’t know enough to stay out of the way of strange werewolves.”
    â€œHey, Jesse,” I said and waved her inside.
    â€œBesides,” she continued as she came in and toed offher shoes, “this wolf was cute. With a little stripe here—” She ran her finger down her nose. “He wasn’t going to hurt me. I was just rubbing his belly and my father came in and had a cow —oh yum, cookie dough! Can I have some?”
    Jesse was Adam’s daughter, fifteen going on forty. She spent most of the year with her mother in Eugene—she must be in town to spend Thanksgiving with Adam. It seemed a little early to me for that, since Thanksgiving wasn’t until Thursday, but she went to some private school for brilliant and eccentric kids, so maybe her vacations were longer than the public schools’.
    â€œDid you dye your hair especially for your father?” I asked, finding a spoon and handing it to her with a healthy glob of dough.
    â€œOf course,” she said, taking a bite, then continuing to talk as if her mouth weren’t half-full. “It makes him feel all fatherly if he can complain about something. Besides,” she said with an air of righteousness, “everyone in Eugene is doing it. It’ll wash out in a week or two. When I was tired of the lecture, I just told him he was lucky I didn’t use superglue to put spikes in like my friend Jared. Maybe I’ll do that next vacation. This is good stuff.” She started to put her spoon in the dough for another round, and I slapped her hand.
    â€œNot after it’s been in your mouth,” I told her. I gave her another spoon, finished mixing in the chips, and began dropping cookie dough on the pans.
    â€œOh, I almost forgot,” she said, after another bite, “my father sent the camera with a message. It was needlessly cryptic, but I knew you’d tell me what it meant. Are you ready?”
    I put the first pan in the oven and started loading the next one. “Shoot.”
    â€œHe said, ‘Got a hit. Don’t fret. He was a hired gun.’ ” She waved her empty spoon at me. “Now explain it to me.”
    I suppose I should have respected Adam’s need to protect his daughter, but he was the one