Poor Mercy, poor Samuel. Charles ran a finger over Anna's arm. Thank God, thank all the spirits his father had never tried matchmaking for him. He looked down at Anna, and thought, thank goodness his father had sent him, and not Samuel, to Chicago.

The spirits responded to his impulsive prayer by interfering a bit further.

"Samuel's tough," he said, picking through the warning images that were thrusting themselves at him. "But he's a healer-and I don't think that's what this situation needs. I'll go. It'll have to wait a couple of days, but I'll go." The unease that had held him since his father contacted him settled down. His decision felt right.

His father didn't think so. "You took three silver bullets yesterday-or am I forgetting something? And lost control this morning."

"Two bullets and a scratch," Charles corrected. "So I'll limp a little on the trail. My control is fine now."

"You let Samuel take a look at you, then we'll talk." His father hung up abruptly. But his voice continued in Charles's head, I don't want to lose both of my children.

Charles replaced the handset, and said to Anna, "Ask."

"Bran, the Marrok, is going to bring the werewolves out to the public?" Her voice was hushed as if she could never imagine such a thing.

"He thinks that too many of the wrong people already know," he told her. "Science and computers have made it harder and harder for to hide. Da hopes that he can control it better if he initiates the flow of information rather than waiting until our enemies or some innocent idiot decides to do it for us."

She relaxed against him, thinking about it. "That will make life interesting."

He laughed, tucked her against him, and fell, blissfully, into sleep at last.

Chapter THREE

There was actually a town. Not much of a town, but it had a gas station, a hotel, and a two-story brick-and-stone building with a sign in front that proclaimed it the Aspen Creek School. Beyond the school, tucked back in the trees and barely visible from anywhere but the parking lot, was an old stone church. If not for Charles's directions, she might have missed it.

Anna eased his big green truck through the church parking lot into a spot designed for a much smaller rig. It was the only place left. She hadn't seen any houses, but there were a lot of trucks and other four-wheel-drive vehicles in the lot.

Charles's truck was older than she was, but looked as if it were brand-new. It had been driven less than fifty thousand miles, if she wanted to believe the odometer-about two thousand miles a year. Charles had told her he didn't like driving.

She turned off the engine and watched anxiously as Charles opened his door and slid to the ground. The drop didn't seem to bother him. The stain on his pink bandage had been no bigger this morning than it had been last night. But he still looked worn, and there was a flush under his skin that she worried about.

If they'd been in Chicago, attending a meeting with her old pack, she wouldn't have let him come. Too many of the wolves there would have taken advantage of his weakness. Or at least she'd have tried to stop him a lot harder than she'd tried this morning.

She had expressed her concern, eyes carefully trained on the floor. In her experience, dominant wolves didn't like their prowess questioned and sometimes reacted badly. Not that she really thought he'd hurt her.

He'd merely said, "No one would dare try me. My father would kill them if I didn't manage it first. I'm hardly helpless."

She hadn't had the courage to question his judgment again. All she could do was hope that he was right.

She had to admit he looked anything but helpless, the folds of bandages hidden by the dark suit jacket he wore. The contrast between formal suit and his waist-length beaded-and-braided hair was oddly compelling. Of course his face, beautiful and exotic, and his big, tautly muscled body meant that he would be gorgeous in whatever he wore.

He looked a lot classier than she did. She'd had to wear jeans and a yellow button-up shirt because the only other thing she had was a couple of T-shirts. She hadn't expected she'd be going to a funeral when she'd packed.

She sighed and eased her door open so she wouldn't scratch the Subaru parked next to her. Charles waited for her in front of the truck and held out his arm in what was beginning to be a familiar gesture, however old-fashioned it might be. She tucked her arm into his and let him pick his own pace into the church.

In public he didn't limp, but she knew that sharp eyes would be watching the stiffness of his gait. She glanced up at him as they started up the steps, but she couldn't read anything in his face at all: he already had his public face on, expressionless.

Inside, the church sounded like a beehive, with a hundred voices intermingling so that she got a word here or there but nothing made any sense. She could smell the wolves, but there were humans here, too. The whole congregation bore the distinctive scent of sorrow, overlaid with anger and resentment.

When they walked into the chapel itself, every pew was tightly packed, and a few people even stood around the back. They turned when she and Charles walked in, all of them staring at her-an outsider, the only person in the whole freaking church wearing jeans. Or yellow.

She tightened her grip on Charles's arm. He glanced down at her face, then just looked around. In less time than it took to walk past three pews, everyone seemed to have found something urgent that pulled their attention elsewhere.

She clutched his forearm a little harder in gratitude and looked at the church itself. It reminded her a little of the Congregational church she'd grown up in with its dark woods, high ceiling, and cross-shaped interior. The pulpit was directly in front of the aisle they walked up, raised above the main floor by about two feet. Behind it were several rows of seats facing the congregation.

As they neared the front of the church, she realized she'd been wrong about its being completely packed. The first pew on the left was entirely empty except for Bran.

He sat looking for all the world as if he was waiting for a bus rather than a funeral, despite the designer charcoal suit he wore. His arms were spread to either side of him, elbows hanging over the back of the pew; his legs were stretched out and crossed at the ankle, eyes focused either on the railing in front of him, or on infinity. His face revealed no more than Charles's usual expression, which was wrong. She hadn't known him long, but the Marrok's face was a mobile one, not designed to be so still.