"Or when they don't belong to him," I told her. Then I turned to Black. "So tell me about your werewolves."
"Three years ago, my daughter survived an attack by a rogue werewolf," he said, speaking quickly as if that would make it easier for him to handle. "She was ten."
"Ten?" whispered Honey. "And she survived?"
Like Honey, I'd never heard of someone attacked so young surviving—especially not a girl. Females don't survive the change as well as males. That was why Adam's pack only had three females and nearly ten times that many males.
Lost in his tragic story, Black didn't seem to hear Honey's comment. "There was another werewolf. He killed her attacker before it could finish her off. He brought her back to us and told us what to do for her. He told me to hide her. He said that a young girl might… might have it rough in a pack."
"Yes," said Honey fervently. At my questioning look she said, "Unmated females belong to the Alpha. Your wolf instincts kick in, so it's not terrible"—her eyes said differently—"even if you don't particularly like the Alpha. But a girl so young… I'm not certain that an Alpha would spare her." She took a deep breath and whispered, almost to herself, "I know some of them would even enjoy it."
Black nodded, as if this wasn't news to him—though it was to me. I thought I knew all there was to know about werewolves.
"What about when she first changed?" I asked. Humans are not equipped to deal with a new-made werewolf.
"I built a cage in the basement," he said. "And every full moon I chain her and lock her in."
Every full moon even after three years? I thought. She should have managed to gain control of her wolf by now.
"Two months ago she broke the chain to her collar." Black looked ill. "I got a thicker chain, but this time… My wife told me that she gouged a hole in the cement. I was in Portland covering a trade conference. I called the werewolf. The one who saved her. He told me she was getting stronger, that I had to find a pack for her. He told me our local Alpha would be a poor choice. When he found out I was in Portland, he gave me Hauptman's name—and yours."
I felt sorry for his daughter—and for him. Sorrier still because finding an Alpha who wouldn't abuse her might be the least of his problems if she hadn't managed to control her wolf yet. Wolves who are out of control are killed by their Alpha so they don't hurt anyone else.
I didn't want to give Adam responsibility for a young girl's death.
"There may be someone closer to where you live," I said. "Let me make a phone call."
"No," said Black, taking two steps back. He might not be a werewolf, but he was fast. I never noticed the gun until it was in his hands. "It's loaded with silver," he said, the spike of fear I felt from him made me want to pat him on the back and tell him it would be all right—or it would if he didn't shoot me and Honey didn't kill him.
I don't think he was used to combat situations, because he ignored Honey and kept the gun on me.
"He's not going to shoot anyone, Honey," I told her as she started to move. "It's all right, Mr. Black, I won't mention your name. Has your contact told you anything about the Marrok?"
He shook his head.
Honey waited, her eyes locked on his gun.
"Okay. The Marrok is like, the Alpha of all the Alphas." That there was a head werewolf was kind of an open secret. Everyone knew that there was someone pulling the werewolves' strings, and there was a lot of speculation about who it might be. So I hadn't given away any great secret.
Bran wasn't out to the public—if things went badly, he wanted to make sure that the sanctuary he'd established in Montana remained a safe haven. Even if he had been out, no one would think that he was the Marrok. Being unremarkable was one of Bran's favorite talents and he was good at it.
"He'll know which Alphas will take care of your daughter, and which ones to stay away from better than any lone wolf could. It's his job to take care of the werewolves, Mr. Black, to make sure the ones like your daughter are safe."
And to make sure the ones who were not able to control their wolfish side were killed quickly and painlessly before they started killing people, people like their parents and families.
"All right," he said, at last. "Call him. But if you say something I don't like, I'll kill you."
I believed him; he had the look of a man with his back to the wall. Honey eased closer, close enough that she'd probably be able to stop him before he pulled the trigger. Probably. If she wanted to badly enough.
I took out my cell phone and placed the call.
"Hello?" It was a woman's voice.
Damn. Bran's wife didn't like me. Not like Honey disliked me, but the I'll-kill-you-if-I-get-a-chance kind of not like. She'd tried it a couple of times. She was the reason I always called Bran's cell phone and not his home number.
"This is Mercedes," I said. "I'm calling on official business. I need to talk to your husband." I heard Bran's voice, but he was speaking too low for me to hear anything except the command in his tone. There were a few clicks and unidentifiable noises and then Bran came on the line.
"How can I help you?" he asked sounding calm, though I could hear his mate's bitter voice in the background.
Briefly, I explained the situation to him. I didn't tell him that I was worried about a wolf who couldn't control herself after three years, but he must have heard it in my voice because he interrupted me.
"It's all right, Mercy. A child chained in the basement doesn't learn control because it is not expected of her. With a little help she might be fine. Any child who survives a werewolf attack before adolescence has willpower to spare. Where does he live?"
I relayed Bran's question.
Black shook his head. He still had his gun out, pointed at me.
I gave an exaggerated sigh. "No one intends your daughter harm."
"Fine," said Bran's voice in my ear. "Roughly three years ago? A rogue werewolf killed by a lone wolf. There were two incidents that might fit, but only one of the lone wolves would take it upon himself to help a girl. Tell your gentleman that he's from somewhere near Washington D.C., probably in Virginia, and his werewolf friend is Josef Riddlesback."
"Not a good idea," I told Bran as I looked Black in the eyes. It was hard to blame him for the gun when I could read the fear in his face. "He's worried about his daughter. She's thirteen and he doesn't want her hurt." I had to use the tone of my voice to convey just how worried Black was. Much too worried to amaze him with Bran's powers of deduction.
"I see. A little paranoid is he?"
"Absolutely," I agreed.
There was a short pause, then Bran said, "Do you have a sheet of paper handy?"
"Yes."
"Right. Josef is right, neither of the pack leaders in that area are the sort I'd trust with a child. I'm going to give you the names of the pack leaders who would be safe with a child. Leaders who would not mind a reporter knowing who they are. It is very short, and none of them are anywhere near Virginia. There are others. Do you believe his story?"