“That sum will, of course, go up the more time you put in with us and depending on how well you do your job.”

The wolf glanced off across the big parking lot where the flea market had been set up on this Saturday afternoon. He cleared his throat and finally admitted, “Promised my mate I’d settle down.” His voice was low and gravelly and, if Van looked close enough, he could see an old scar right over where the wolf’s vocal chords should be. “Don’t think she’d like me leaving her again for so long.”

“You won’t need to relocate for this job, Mr. Smith. There’s no base for you to live on, no country you’ll need to go to. Although, trips to Alaska and Hawaii may be necessary. Short trips. To be honest, I’ll need you to merely be available when you’re called. But whether you’re working a day a week, every day for three months, or sitting around with nothing to do for six months, you will get paid.

Every other week, like clockwork.”

“And if something happens to me?”

“Your family will be taken care of and your Pack reimbursed for the loss of its Packmate. The Group takes care of its own, Mr. Smith.”

While Van waited for the wolf to say or do something in response to his offer, a young girl walked up. She couldn’t be more than nine or ten, unable to even shift yet. But she had her father’s eyes. Bright yellow and cold. So very cold.

She glanced at Van, seemed to deem him non-threatening, and tugged on her father’s shirt.

“This one,” she said.

Her father looked down at the enormous bowie knife she held in her hand. He took it from her, examined it closely. “Why?” he asked.

“It’s a good weight. The blade is well-made steel and a length that’ll penetrate chest bone. The handle is strong, and when my fingers get longer, I’ll still be able to use it. I thought I’d want one of those folding knives, but I’ll be able to pull this out faster and use it quicker. If I have to use a weapon, I won’t have time to be fumbling around with a folding knife to get it open.” Her father nodded in agreement while Van could do nothing but gawk at the girl. Sure, he’d spent the last few weeks with Ric teaching the kid how to use his knife set to quickly and efficiently butcher deer and wild boar, but that was for cooking purposes only, so he could one day take his place in their Pack’s restaurant business. This little girl, however, was talking about knives going through chest bone—Van didn’t think she meant the chest bone of a zebra.

“How much?” Smith asked her.

“He wanted two hundred for it. I got him down to eighty.”

“How’d ya do that?”

“Stared at him ’til he made it eighty.”

The wolf dug into his pocket and gave her four twenty-dollar bills, thenhanded over the blade.

“Take good care of it, it’ll take good care of you, Sugar Bug.”

“I will, Daddy.” She ambled off to the vendor and Smith faced Van again.

They locked gazes and stayed that way for how long, Van really didn’t know. But it must have been long enough, because Smith finally said, “Don’t much like feelin’ hemmed in.”

“You won’t be. You have my word.”

The wolf snorted. “The word of a Van Holtz. That don’t mean much.”

“To me it does.” Fed up, Van finally asked, “In or out, Mr. Smith?” Smith looked him over one more time and said, “In.”

The little girl returned, her new knife clutched in her hand. “He even gave me a sheath, Daddy.

It’s real leather.”

“Good girl.” He motioned to Van. “This is one of them Van Holtz wolves I’m always warning you about. They all look like him. Kinda skinny and snobby. Smell like him, too. Avoid ’em, if you can. Gut

’em if you can’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

Not exactly the introduction Van expected but . . . whatever. It didn’t matter.

At least it didn’t matter until he realized that his young cousin was no longer on the hood of the car but standing right next to Van, leaning against his side, wide eyes fastened on Smith’s little girl.

She scowled down at Ric, but as he continued to gaze up at her in awe, her scowl faded and she smiled. “What’cha lookin’ at, shorty?” she asked, her young voice teasing.

Ric didn’t answer—Van had the feeling the poor kid couldn’t answer—but he did hold out one of the plain Hershey bars he kept stashed in his bag.

She looked at the candy bar, then up at her father. He nodded and she took the candy from Ric.

After a moment, she said, “Thank ya kindly,” and her smile grew.

Ric let out a sigh and blurted, “Marry—”

Van slapped his hand over Ric’s mouth before he could finish. He might only be a defenseless six-year-old with more brains than sense and caught up in his first childhood infatuation, which he probably wouldn’t remember in another day or two, but something told Van none of that would matter to Egbert Smith when it came to protecting his daughter.

“All right then,” Van said, dragging his struggling cousin over to the car. “Time to go. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Smith.”

Van got the car door open and shoved his cousin inside. He followed, throwing the kid’s pack into the back seat. Once he had the door closed and saw Smith and his daughter walking off, Van let out a breath.

“Kid,” he said, “you have got to learn about timing.”