BEFORE she could answer, his cell phone rang. It wasn't his da's ring-and if they'd been home, he'd have let the answering machine pick up. But this wasn't home. He was here to do a job, and that meant answering phone calls at inconvenient times. So he snagged his coat off the floor and took his cell out of the pocket.

"Charles," he said.

He was answered by a stream of southern French that flowed by so fast he caught one word in four. But that was enough.

"I'm coming," he said, and hung up while the other wolf was still speaking.

"Did you catch that?" he asked pulling on his boots.

Anna shoved her feet in her shoes. "I don't speak French."

"The Spanish wolves were eating at the restaurant that Jean Chastel decided to bring his wolves to. Matters are escalating-and to add to the fun, the British Alpha is there, too."

"Who called you?"

"Michel, one of the other French Alphas-who'll be punished if Jean ever figures it out. I gather our informant called from the men's room. Hopefully, he'll take proper precautions to protect himself." He jerked on his coat. " Seattle is a big city. Hard to fathom that three factions of werewolves ended up in the same restaurant at the same time. If I find out someone planned this, heads will roll."

"If the restaurant is Bubba's Basement Barbeque, it might be an accident," Anna said, pulling on her own coat. "I had at least five pack members-including your father and Asil-tell me to make you take me there. It's apparently famous for its endless, endlessly good ribs. Asil told me he'd never been, but its reputation was good enough that it had spread all the way to the packs in Europe."

Charles looked at her thoughtfully. "People talk to you," he said. "That could be useful."

APPARENTLY, they were going to jog to the restaurant. Anna was glad of her tennis shoes on the wet and steep hill they charged down.

Charles, cat-footed as he was, slipped and slithered in the pouring rain. His cowboy boots were slick-bottomed, though she didn't think it really slowed him down much. They both ran quietly, but she could feel the attention they were drawing. In the city, people pay attention when you run because it makes you either predator or prey.

It concerned her for a moment, but risk assessment was something she'd have to leave to Charles. She didn't know the wolves involved-or how far they were from the restaurant, exactly. He kept their speed to easily within human limits, so he was giving some consideration to the attention they were gathering.

She liked running with him. Without him, something inside her always worried that she would become the prey. She couldn't imagine Charles being anyone's prey.

After a few blocks, he slowed to a brisk walk, and they turned onto a level street paralleling the Sound. Like Lake Michigan in her native Chicago, the water had a presence, a weight that she'd have felt even if she hadn't been able to see it peeking out between buildings and streets.

A red neon sign proclaiming Bubba's Basement the best barbecue in Seattle had an arrow that pointed down a wide set of steps to the basement of something that might have been some kind of bank or office building-it had that neutral upscale look.

Charles opened one side of the double-door entrance, releasing the heady combination of beef, barbecue sauce, and coffee. The restaurant was dimly lit and, to Anna's quick glance, mostly full. There was a pall over the room like the weight of a thunderstorm, so strong Anna wondered if even humans could sense it.

Charles inhaled and turned left, walking around a wall of shrubbery, through a swinging door, and into a room set apart from the rest of the place. A discreet sign above the door noted that the room could be reserved for large groups for a small fee and could hold up to sixty people. When Anna followed Charles through it, she noted that there were barely a quarter of that many people in the room right now-and it wouldn't have been large enough for them even if it had been four times as big.

Alpha wolves don't mingle well with others. Anna wondered if all of them had congregated here on purpose, or if some misguided person on the restaurant's waitstaff had decided to keep all the potentially problematic clients in one place.

Someone had made a hasty effort to clear a space for fighting because a couple of tables were lying on their sides against a wall, and chairs had been tossed wherever they landed.

"You don't have the courage of a half-bred mongrel," said one of the two men standing in the center of the room with cool deliberation. He had an accent, but it was so slight she couldn't place it immediately.

Charles looked at her, then at the door they'd just come through. Anna understood. This was private business, and they didn't need any unexpected visitors to complicate matters further. She shut the door and leaned against it.

It also gave her a quick escape-so many dominant wolves... Even with Charles, she couldn't help remembering what the dominant wolves in her first pack had done to her. And her heartbeat picked up. Not panicked. Not yet. But not comfortable either.

The room looked like nothing so much as a scene from a reenactment of West Side Story or, with slightly different props and costuming, Gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Four men stood on one side of the room, six on the other. A few paces in front of either group stood a man, ready to fight. The testosterone level was so high that she was amazed it hadn't triggered the little sprinklers in the ceiling.

There was a thirteenth man still seated in the corner of the room. He had his back to the wall and was cleaning his hands with a damp towelette. He noticed Charles's entrance first and tipped his head in a casual salute. "Ah," he said in a beautiful upper-class British accent, "I was wondering when the cavalry would arrive. Good to see you, Charles. At least the Russians aren't here, eh? Or the Turks."

Action froze for a moment as everyone realized a new player had entered the game.

"You know how to see the bright spot in a cloudy day," said a dark-skinned man in the larger group. "I've always liked that about you, Arthur." His accent made him, and therefore the group of wolves he stood with, the Spaniards.

Which meant that the man who'd been tossing insults could be none other than Jean Chastel, the Beast of Gevaudan.

He wasn't handsome, precisely, but there was a power to his features and in the way he carried himself that made her first Alpha, Leo, look like a half-grown pup. He made an impression, as most of the Alphas she'd met did; he took up more space in the room than he should, as if he were weightier, both physically and metaphysically, than he ought to be.

He was aware of Charles, but his pale eyes stayed firmly on his opponent. Neither tall nor short, Chastel had a lean build. His hair was longish and brownish, brushing his shoulders. His beard was several shades darker than his hair and close-trimmed. But the physical details didn't matter nearly as much as the force of who and what he was.

His opponent didn't stand a chance against him-and the Spaniard knew it. Anna could see it in his stance, in the way he wouldn't look at the Frenchman's eyes. She could smell it in the scent of his fear.

"Sergio, mi amigo," said the dark Spaniard who'd spoken before. "Stand down. The fight is over. Charles is here."

The Spanish fighter hadn't noticed Charles's approach, and his startled look was very nearly his undoing. Jean Chastel's right arm shot out and would have connected with his opponent's neck, but Charles had already been moving-as if he'd known what the French wolf would do before Chastel had known it himself.

Charles intercepted the blow and jerked Chastel around, using the other's momentum to propel him into his own people. A quick glance at the Spanish wolves had them all backing up a step, then his attention was focused on the first wolf.

"Fools," Charles snarled. "This is a public place. I'll not have you disturbing the peace while you are guests on Emerald City Pack grounds."

"You'll not have us, pup?" murmured the Frenchman, who'd recovered quickly from the unplanned impact with his wolves. He tugged on the sleeves of his long-sleeved, button-up shirt, a gesture that looked more habitual than effectual. "I'd heard the old wolf had sent his puppy for us to feast on, but I thought it was merely wishful thinking."

There was something abject about the way the rest of the French contingent stood that told Anna that none of them liked what their leader was doing, that they followed Jean Chastel out of fear. It made them no less dangerous-maybe more so. Her wolf knew them for Alphas, every one of them, and all afraid.

Beneath all the aggression and posturing in the room, there was an undercurrent of fear: hers, the Spaniard's, and the French wolves', so thick that she sneezed at the smell of it, drawing unwanted attention. Jean Chastel's eyes met hers, and she held them, despite the violence they promised. Here, she thought, here was a monster worse than the troll under the bridge. He stank of evil.

"Ah," he said, sounding almost gentle. "Another story I'd dismissed. So you found yourself an Omega, half-breed. Pretty child. So soft and delicate." He licked his lips. "I bet she's a tasty morsel."

"You'll never find out, Chastel," said Charles softly. "Back down or leave."

"I have a third choice," Chastel whispered. "I think I might take that one."

There was no good outcome for this, Anna realized, the push bar of the door digging into her lower back. Charles might have allies among the Spaniards, and maybe even the British wolf. But even so, if they stepped in, they'd be showing that Charles was weak. She had boundless faith in Charles's abilities to wipe the floor with the French wolf, but even that would be a failure of sorts. This was a public place-a fight would mean police and exposure of quite a different sort than what Bran wanted.

Maybe she could help defuse it. She'd been working with Asil, an old wolf in her new pack, to try to come to some understanding of what she could do. His dead mate had been an Omega just like Anna, so he knew something about how her abilities worked-which was more than anyone else did. Even Bran, the Marrok, had only vague ideas. With Asil's help, she'd managed a few interesting things.

Charles didn't say anything to Chastel. He just stood, his arms loose at his sides, his weight on the balls of his feet, as he waited for Chastel to make a decision.

Only Charles allowed her to put her fear aside-Charles, her wolf, and the door.

She imagined a place in her mind, deep in the forest where the snow lay lightly on the ground and her breath frosted in the air. It was quiet there, and sheltered. Peaceful. A creek full of fat trout trickled under a thin layer of misty ice. In her mind's eye she followed a trout as it slid, a silver shadow, through the fast-moving water.

When she had it clear and perfect in her head, she pushed that feeling out.

Her power hit the British wolf first; she saw it in the relaxing of his shoulders. He recognized what she was doing, raised an eyebrow at her, then took his coffee cup (or maybe he drank tea-didn't the British all drink tea?) and sipped from it. A few of the Spaniards began breathing slower, and the tension in the room ratcheted down a full notch.

Charles turned, his eyes pure blinding gold-and growled. At her.

Leaving Anna standing alone in a room filled with dominant wolves and violence. The smells of it were so familiar that her body flashed with phantom pains, and it hurt to breathe.

She fled through the door she'd been holding closed, fled before her blind terror became the tinder that caused an orgy of violence. She'd seen that happen, too, though never in such a public place.

The Frenchman said something rude as the door swung shut behind her, but she wasn't paying attention. Panic, raw and ugly, made it hard to breathe as her conditioning tried to overwhelm her common sense.

She needed to find something else to focus on. So she looked around.

The patrons in the main restaurant were still unnaturally quiet-and there were a lot fewer of them than there had been when she and Charles first came into the restaurant. Most of them were looking down, an involuntary reaction to so many Alphas, she thought. Even the humans could feel it, though hopefully they didn't know what it was that made them so uneasy.

Even though they were all in the next room, there was a weight to their presence, just like there was a weight to the Puget Sound. While Charles had been at her side, she'd been able to push it away-but now it ate at her. The sound of her heart beat loudly in her ears.

But the wolves were on the other side of the door-and Charles wouldn't let them touch her.

She paused in front of the outside door.

She could go back to their hotel room and wait. The city at night held no terrors for her-all the bad guys were here. But that would be cowardly. And Charles would get the wrong idea.

Away from the drama and the first impulse to flee attack, she figured out the reason he'd growled at her: he needed to stop her. He couldn't afford to let her quiet Brother Wolf.

Charles might be naturally more dominant-but he was the only wolf in the room who was not an Alpha of a pack. She knew that there were less dominant wolves coming to the conference, but none of them were here.

So many Alphas put Charles in a bad position. They had to fear him, they had to know that he would kill them if they moved against him-or they would smell weakness and attack him together, like a pack of wolves taking down a caribou. She'd been taking away his edge.

There was a battered piano on a small stage in the corner of the room that beckoned to her like an oasis in the desert. She could wait if she found something to think about other than old memories of pain and humiliation. Anna caught the eye of a passing waitress.

"Do you mind if I play?"

The waitress, looking a little stressed, paused midstride and shrugged. "It's fine, but if you don't play well, the cook may come out and ask you to stop. He makes a big production of it. Or the crowd will boo you off. It's kinda tradition."

"Thanks."

The waitress looked around the room. "Play a happy tune, if you can. Someone needs to liven up this place."

The piano was an ancient upright that had been old a long time ago. Someone had painted it black, but the paint had faded to a dull gray, scuffed on the corners and sprinkled with initials carved into it. Most of the edges of the ivory keys were broken, and the highest E key popped up an eighth of an inch higher than the rest.

Something happy.

She played the theme from Sesame Street. The piano had a much better tone than it looked as though it should-and it was mostly in tune. She segued into "Maple Leaf Rag," one of two ragtime pieces that every second-year piano student learned. The piano wasn't her instrument, but after six years of lessons, she was moderately competent.

The lively feel and fairly easy music lines of the piece made it tempting to play too fast. "Ragtime is not fast" was a favorite rant of one of her teachers. She disciplined her fingers to keep a steady beat. It helped that she was a little out of practice.

CHARLES watched Anna walk out and knew he'd sent their relationship back to the beginning. But if he hadn't stopped her, it would have been disastrous. He couldn't afford to let himself be distracted. Not by his Omega, and not by the real possibility that he'd destroyed something between them.

Most mates would be angry at being chastised in front of others. But most mates hadn't been brutalized in an attempt to break them. Anna hadn't broken, not quite.

But he couldn't afford to risk that she'd quiet Brother Wolf before she affected the Beast. Brother Wolf's aggression, his willingness to kill, was the only weapon Charles had to control the situation.

Thoroughly tired of Chastel, though he'd only been in his presence for less than a quarter of an hour, Charles called on Brother Wolf, who wouldn't be bothered about the future, to take center stage. Negotiations, as far as he was concerned, were over, had been over the moment he'd had to growl at Anna. Or maybe when Chastel had called her a pretty piece, as if she were nothing.

"You don't want to talk about my mate," he told Chastel in a very soft voice. Brother Wolf could care less about politics. This one had made him hurt Anna-and it wouldn't bother him in the slightest to kill him here and now.

Chastel lifted his upper lip-but couldn't make himself say anything, not when faced with Brother Wolf. They stood there, eye to eye for a count of four. Then Chastel dropped his eyes, grabbed his coat, and stormed out of the room.

Charles followed him out, intent on trailing the Beast to make sure he wouldn't take it into his head to go after Anna. Charles took two steps into the main restaurant before he stopped, only vaguely noting Chastel leaving the building-because Anna hadn't left after all.

He'd thought she'd be halfway to the hotel by now. Instead, she sat on a short barstool that wobbled under her and played the infamous battered piano, her back to him and the rest of the people in the room. The piece she played wasn't complex, but it was a happy little tune. Familiar. He frowned but couldn't place it beyond the thought that it was some sort of children's tune.

Automatically, he swept the room for possible threats and found none. The only people here were human-and as he watched, they were relaxing into the music. Someone laughed and someone else called for more ribs.

She hadn't left. And that meant he could clean up the mess Chastel had left behind. It would only take a few minutes, then he could come back here and protect her from... Charles stopped and took a deep breath. Brother Wolf thought he could fix this by saving her from some danger-he didn't understand women very well. That Anna was still here was a hopeful sign that Charles didn't understand them as well as he had thought he did, either.

***

SHE glanced out at the audience and saw that the unusual muted quality of the restaurant had dissipated somewhat. She also hadn't heard any sudden noise that would signal a fight, so she was hopeful that Charles had matters under control. She needed something more modern next, something appropriate to the mostly middle-aged crowd she was playing for-which on the piano generally meant Elton John or Billy Joel, both pianists who could also sing. She took the last few notes of "Maple Leaf" into "The Downeaster 'Alexa.' " It wasn't a "happy tune" precisely, but it was beautiful.

It didn't take Charles long to settle the other wolves down. Without Chastel around to prod and push them, no one was interested in a public fight.

He ordered food for everyone-the house special was limitless ribs at a per-person charge-and asked if they would wait for a few minutes while he made sure his mate was all right. The French wolves were a little restless, knowing that Chastel would note how long they lingered without him-but no one objected. Alphas understood about watching over their own.

Anna had gone on to some melodic piece. Without vo cals, it took him a few bars to pin down the song. He was a fan of Billy Joel, but "The Downeaster 'Alexa' " wasn't one of his favorites. It reminded him too much of all the people he'd known who were left floundering as time brought change that destroyed their lives. It spoke to him like the names of the dead, sending chills of memories best forgotten-but it was beautiful.

Her hands arched gracefully over the battered keys and pulled music and something more into the room. It was subtle, but he could see it in the chatter and in the way the old one who'd been hunched over his plate slowly straightened, eyes bright as he whispered something to the large young man sitting beside him. The man said something quietly in reply, and the old one shook his head.

"Go ask her," he said, his voice still quiet, but loud enough that Charles could pick out the words over the music. "I bet a gal who can play the ragtime right knows a few more old-time songs."

"She's all by herself, Gramps. I'll scare her. Aunt Molly-"

"No. No. Molly won't do it. Won't want me to embarrass myself-or exert myself. You do it. Right now." And the frail old man practically pushed the big man out of his seat.

Charles smiled. That was right. So often people got it wrong, treating their elders like children, people to be coddled and ignored. He knew better, and so did the big man. The Elders were closer to the Maker of All Things and should be deferred to whenever they made their will known.

He tensed a little as the big man made his way through the diners and closer to his Anna. But there was no threat in the human's body language. Charles thought that the big man had spent a long time trying to look less... lethal than someone who moved like a fighter and stood six inches taller than most people could. Charles sympathized-though he had learned to take advantage of the effect he had on people rather than disguise it.

BEFORE she'd quite finished, she noticed there was a big man standing miserably beside the piano, hunching his shoulders and trying not to look scary. She judged him to be only moderately successful.

He had a scar on his chin and a few more on his knuckles and was, she judged, an inch or so taller than Charles. Maybe if she'd still been human, she might have been worried, but she could tell by the way he stood that he was no threat to her. People seldom lie with their bodies.

He obviously was waiting to speak to her, so when she played the last measure of the song, she stopped. For some reason she wasn't in the mood for happy songs, so it was probably just as well.

A few people noticed she'd finished and began clapping. The rest put down their food and followed suit, then went back to their meal.

"Excuse me, miss. My grandpapa wants to know if you'll play 'Mr. Bojangles'-and if you'd mind if he sang with you."

"No problem," she said, smiling at him and keeping her shoulders soft so he'd know she wasn't scared of him.

"Bojangles" had been sung by a lot of people, but the very slight old man, leaning heavily on his cane, who stood up and made his way to the piano, looked a lot like the last pictures she'd seen of Sammy Davis, Jr., who'd recorded her favorite rendition of the song-right down to the maple color of his dark skin.

His voice, when he spoke, was a lot more powerful than his frail body.

"I'm gonna sing something for you," he told their audience-and everyone in the room looked up from their meals. It was that kind of a voice. He paused, milking it. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't dance anymore." She waited until the laughter he'd invited died away before she began.

Usually, when she first played a piece with someone she didn't know, especially if the piece was one she knew well, it was a mad scramble to make her version fit with the other person's perception of how the song should feel. But except for the very beginning, it was magic.

CHARLES worried a bit at first as the old man missed his cue, worried more as the beat came up again, and a third time-and closed his eyes when he started singing at entirely the wrong time.

But Anna worked around it in a more clever bit of playing than anything she'd done up to this point, and he knew she was better on the piano than he'd thought from the pieces of music she'd chosen.

The old man's voice was just right. It, the beaten-up piano, and Anna's sweet self all combined in one of those rare moments when performance and music blended to make something more.

"Bojangles" was a song that took its time to get to where it was going, building pictures of an old man's life. Alcoholism, prison, the death of a beloved comrade-none of those things had defeated Mr. Bojangles, who even in his darkest hour still had laughter and a dance for a fellow prisoner.

He jumped so high...

It was a warrior's song. A song of triumph.

And at the end, despite his early words, the old man did a little soft-shoe. His movements were stiff from sore joints and muscles that were less powerful than they used to be. But graceful still, and full of joy.

He let go a laugh... he let go a laugh...

When Anna finished with a little flourish, the old man took his bows, and she did, too.

"Thank you," she told him. "That was really fun."

He took her hand in his own worn hands and patted it. "Thank you, my dear. You brought back the good old days-I'm ashamed to say just how old. You made this man happy on his birthday. I hope that when you are eighty-six, someone makes you happy on your birthday, too."

And that won him a second round of applause and shouts of "encore." The old man shook his head, talked to Anna a bit, then smiled when she nodded. "We just figgered out that we both have a liking for oldies," he said. " Except for me they're not oldies."

And he started singing "You're Nobody 'til Somebody Loves You," a song Charles hadn't heard for forty years or more. Anna joined in with the piano after a few beats and let the old man's trained voice lead her in the dance.

When they were done, the room burst into applause-and Charles caught a waitress's attention. He handed her his credit card and told her that he'd like to pay for the old man's meal and those of his family-in appreciation for the music. She smiled, took his card, and trotted off.

The old man took Anna's hand and made her take another bow as well. He kissed her hand, then let his grand-son escort him back to his table in triumph. His family rose around him, fussing and loving as they ought, while he sat as a king and took his due.

Anna pulled the protective cover over the keys and looked up and saw Charles. She hesitated, and it made his heart hurt that he'd made her afraid of him. But she lifted her chin, her eyes still full of the music, and strolled up to him.

"Thank you," he told her, before she could say anything. He wasn't sure if he was thanking her for leaving the room when he'd asked, for staying in the restaurant instead of leaving him, or for the music-which had reminded him that this whole thing wasn't just about the werewolves.

It was about the humans they shared the country with, too.

The waitress, who was coming back with his card, overheard what he'd said. "From me, too, Hon," she told Anna. "It was pretty gloomy in here when you started. Like a funeral." To Charles she said, "All taken care of. You wanna be anonymous, right?"

"Yes," he said. "It'll work better that way, don't you think?"

She smiled at him, then at Anna, before hurrying off on her way.

"I'm sorry," he told Anna.

She gave him an odd, wise look. "No worries. Everything okay?"

He didn't know. Mostly that depended upon her. But he knew that wasn't what she meant. She was asking about the wolves in the next room, so he shrugged. "Mostly. Chastel was always going to be a problem. Maybe by making him back down right now, he'll be forced to play nice. Sometimes it works that way."

THE music helped. Music usually helped. Making people happy helped even more. When she looked up and saw Charles waiting for her with a small smile on his face, that helped the most. It meant that no one had died, that she hadn't messed things up too badly for him-and that he wasn't upset with her.

He escorted her to the other section, where the wolves awaited them. Chastel was gone. Anna hadn't noticed him leaving, and she should have, even with her back to the outside door and music under her fingers. It was dangerous not to notice things like that.

The tables had been moved again until there was one long table in the middle of the room. There were three big plates of food, one full and two mostly gone.

They weren't suddenly all buddies. Spanish wolves sat on one side of the table, French on the other. The British werewolf took up one end of the table and there were two place settings that hadn't been used at the head.

"It seemed a shame to have come all the way here and not try the food," murmured Charles, one hand light on the small of her back. She couldn't see his face because he was just behind her, but she saw the impact of his gaze as the roomful of Alphas made it clear that they believed he was the biggest, baddest wolf in the place.

Most of them seemed content with that. Wolves don't fuss about things they can't change-the only exception, she thought, might be the British Alpha. Something was making him unhappy, certainly. But he kept his eyes down while Charles was looking at him anyway.

"Gentlemen, my mate and my wife, Anna Latham Cornick, Omega of the Aspen Creek Pack." Charles raised his hand to her shoulder.

"Your pardon, monsieur," one of the Frenchmen said. He had one of those double accents, French with British overtones. "Perhaps we could introduce ourselves and then take our leave. We have taken time to eat, and we cannot linger much longer. Chastel isn't our Marrok, not as Bran is to those wolves here, but he can make our lives exceedingly uncomfortable."

"Of course."

The Frenchman proceeded to introduce his countrymen in hurried tones-and as he introduced them, they bowed their heads. "And I am Michel Girard."

"I look forward to more leisurely conversations later," said Anna.

"I also." He smiled with weary eyes. "Until tomorrow." And they left.

"Anna, this is Arthur Madden, Master of the Isles-the British equivalent of the Marrok."

"Good to meet you, sir," she said. Not an Alpha then, she thought, or not just an Alpha.

"Delighted," Arthur said, as he rose from his place and came forward to kiss her hand. "I am sorry to confess, though Chastel is not waiting to chastise me, we've been here much longer than I intended. My wife awaits me, and I must attend. I would, however, like to issue an invitation before we leave. I've a condo in the University District, and it would be my pleasure to have you two for dinner tomorrow."

Anna looked at Charles. Madden had so clearly excluded the Spaniards that it felt awkward. She didn't know what to say that wouldn't make it worse.

"Thank you," said Charles. "We'll discuss it, and I'll let you know."

Arthur smiled, and she noticed that he was handsome. She hadn't been paying attention until then.

"Good enough." Arthur looked to the Spaniards. "My control is just not good enough, gentlemen, to have more than one dominant in my territory at a time. I am sorry."

"De nada," the dark-skinned man who was the de facto leader said graciously. "We understand, of course."

Arthur excused himself. The whole room fell silent, listening, she thought. When the restaurant door in the other room opened and closed, it felt like the whole world relaxed.

Sergio, the wolf who had faced off with Chastel, tossed a bone on his plate. "Pompous ass," he said.

"Smart, pompous ass," said Charles.

"Deluded, smart, pompous ass," said the dark-skinned man. "Have you decided how you're going to introduce us yet? How about by age?" He looked at Anna. "Charles knows all of us-and probably the Frenchmen, too. Knows everything, your mate."

It was a challenge, less serious, though no less important, Anna understood, than the near fight between Charles and Chastel. Are we important to you? was what the Spaniard meant.

"If I manage it, you'll pick up the tip." Charles was as relaxed as she'd ever seen him.

"Fine."

"Sergio del Fino," said Charles. The man he addressed stood, put a hand over his heart, and bowed.

He went through the others without a misstep until he got to the last two: the dark-skinned man and a redhead. He paused and then indicated the darker man with a tilt of his head. "Hussan Ibn Hussan." Then the other man. "Pedro Herrera."

Hussan smiled. "Wrong. I am older than Pedro."

Pedro smiled wider. "Hijo, I saw you born. I didn't know Charles knew that."

Charles lowered his head without lowering his eyes. "Asil let it slip."

Hussan slapped his leg. "I think I've been set up. Tell me my father didn't tell you to pull this one on me."

Charles just smiled.

"You're Asil's son?" Anna asked. Now that she paid attention, his skin tone was nearly as dark as that of her mentor in all things Omega, and the nose was the same.

"I have that honor," agreed Hussan.

"Ibn Hussan? My Arabic is nearly nonexistent, but shouldn't you then be Ibn Asil?" asked Sergio.

"Hussan is my father's given name. But for a long time he has used Asil," explained Hussan with a shrug. "He is old. He can do as he chooses." He gave a sour smile. "And he usually does. How is my father? He is still annoyed with me for refusing to kill him when he asked. He will not answer my phone calls or my letters. So I have stopped calling and writing."

"He's fine," said Anna. "Better."

Charles smiled a little. "He'll probably take your phone calls now."

Hussan tilted his head. "Something happened?"

"Yes." Charles pulled out a chair before a clean place setting and indicated that Anna should take a seat. "If we don't start eating, these devils will have it all gone, and we'll have to wait for the next round."

Anna sat, and he pushed in her chair before taking his own. He might sound casual, but he was still acting formal. Maybe it was because these were mostly older wolves, who would expect Charles to treat her this way. She wasn't sure she liked it, but she was willing to play along. Mostly. She used the tongs and dumped a double handful of ribs on her plate: it had been a long time since she'd eaten.

"Asil will be fine," she said. "Unless he annoys Bran too much."

She glanced up and noticed that Hussan was staring at her.

"It is you," he said. "Omega. You saved him."

She shook her head. "Ask him."

"He'll tell you it was her," Charles predicted. "She'll tell you it was not. Still, he will be fine for another century or so-as fine as he ever is."

THEY walked back to their hotel. It was still pouring, but water had never bothered Anna-and Charles seemed to be of a like mind. They walked side by side, not touching.

"Are we going to accept the invitation to Arthur Madden's dinner?" she asked him.

"If you would like. Angus has scheduled some entertainment the next night, but tomorrow is open."

"Is it going to present some diplomatic problem if we go?"

He made an impatient gesture. "As I keep telling them-this is not a negotiation. We've agreed to hear their concerns, and I will address them. But my father is adamant. The first chance my father sees to present ourselves in a favorable light, we are coming out to the public. It doesn't matter if some are offended or feel we are playing favorites. We are not courting them."

Anna kept quiet.

Finally, he said, "Arthur can be charming-and he's interesting." He glanced at her face and then back at the street. "He tells everyone he's Arthur. The king returned."

"What?"

"He's serious. He honestly believes he is that Arthur."

"Really?"

"Really. Before his Change, he was an amateur archaeologist-his family isn't royal, but noble and still wealthy enough back then that he didn't have to find real work. It also meant that he didn't have to have any training to pursue his hobby. He claims that shortly after his Change, he found Excalibur in a dig, and when he took hold of her, he was possessed by the spirit of Arthur."

He shrugged. "Afterward, he began taking over all the packs in Great Britain. First he killed the Alphas-but combining packs creates its own set of problems. So he modeled his rule after my da's." He smiled at her. "Da's pretty convinced that it was his decision to use Marrok as a title that sent Arthur to declare himself as the Arthur. After all, Sir Marrok was only a knight of King Arthur's."

"So your father thinks he's faking it? How can he do that without everyone smelling a lie?"

"My da can lie so well that no one but Samuel or I can tell," said Charles. He gave her a look-the first time he'd looked her in the face since they'd left the restaurant. "Don't tell anyone-it's supposed to be a secret."

"How old is Arthur?"

Charles smiled. "You mean this time around? I think he was Changed just after the First World War. You think he's not old enough to pull the same tricks an old lobo like my father can get away with? Da says the secret is to convince yourself you aren't lying."

"So he might just be believing his own press as hard as he can?"

"He probably brought Excalibur with him," Charles said. "He usually keeps it close. He might show you if you ask."

"Really?"

"Really."

She tucked her hand in his arm. "That might be fun."

"I'll give him a call, then." They walked another half a block in companionable silence. "I scared you," he said.

"I almost got you killed," Anna returned flatly. "Thank you for stopping me before I ruined everything."

He stopped suddenly, jerking her to a halt. "You understood."

"Not then," she admitted. "I reacted first-which really sucked. Every time I think I might not be a flaming coward, I find myself running away."

He started walking again. "You aren't a coward. A coward would never have survived what you did." But he said it absently, as if he were thinking about something else. "You know I wouldn't hurt you."

He didn't say it as if he believed it. She tightened her hold on his arm. "I do. My instincts sometimes are screwy, but I know you would never hurt me."

He looked at her, a long thoughtful look.

She raised her chin. "I said I know you would never hurt me." Then she had to modify it, so he would sense the utter truth of it. "On purpose." That wasn't strong enough. "And everything you do is on purpose." That wasn't quite right. "You are always careful of what you do. Of me."

"Stop." His shoulders were shaking and his eyes dancing. "Please. I believe you. But in a minute, you're going to talk yourself around to distrusting me again."

After they'd walked a bit farther, he said, "It is beautiful tonight."

Anna glanced up at the rain and the city streets, still noisy with traffic. She liked the way the lights sparkled in the storm. The noises of the city were as familiar and welcome as her childhood home. Somehow, though, she didn't think that Charles would normally think it beautiful. She smiled at the night.