Leslie started to ask another question, but Charles shook his head. “He’s not finished answering the first question,” he said. His voice was too rough again, but he couldn’t help it. He looked the wearden in the eyes, and the creature took a step back and his magic sputtered and died. “And don’t ask about High Court fae. I know of their kind and can answer any questions you have about them.”

The wearden sneered at him. Charles just watched him back coolly.

The fae’s expression gradually grew sulky again and finally he continued. “The humans in Scotland a century ago broke into one of his lairs. They called him the Doll Collector because the girls were dressed up like dolls. The one who was still alive would not talk. She died a few weeks later. But it became impossible for that fae to live in Scotland anymore. Like many of us, though later than some, he hopped aboard a steamer and came to the New World.”

They waited. When Leslie would have said something, Charles shook his head.

Finally the wearden spoke again. “He lived here—” The fae gave an address that Leslie jotted down. “For a long time. But when the Gray Lords decided that it was necessary for the fae to reveal themselves…”

He rubbed his hands down the front of his shirt and looked around nervously. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“I understand that bad things happen to fae who break their word,” said Charles silkily. “The powers that be don’t approve of lying.”

The fae gave him a nasty look. “The Gray Lords went to the less publicity-friendly fae and forced them to behave. They went to the Doll Collector and took away his power. They froze his need, and his ability, to take the children and left him to his own devices. I did not hear of him again until the Gray Lords released some of the monsters they hold, and that one came back here hungry.” He flashed Charles a look of intense dislike. “That is all I know about the Doll Collector, except for the information you have given me.”

“What can stop him?” asked Leslie.

The fae grinned at her. Only his mouth moved, which looked odd. Either he was trying to freak out the humans, or this fae really had little experience trying to look human. “Death stops everything.”

It dropped the appearance of humanity and stepped back among the trees in the corner of the garden and became a small, scraggly tree in the shade of the big fruit tree.

“Sorry,” Leslie told Charles. “I guess I was hoping for Kryptonite, you know?”

Charles shook his head. “Your first question was good. It told us everything it knew.” He glanced at Leeds, who had been writing as the fae spoke. “You have that address, right?”

“I have it. I’ve texted it to our research division. They’ll have the ownership records and whatever else they can find, like house plans, back to us as soon as they can.”

“Excuse me.” The woman he didn’t know, presumably the owner of the house, spoke to Leslie. “Do you think I might get a photograph of the werewolf? Photography is a hobby of mine and she is beautiful.”

Leslie raised her eyebrows and looked at Charles. “What do you think?”

He was inclined to refuse. “Anna?”

She hopped on the big granite boulder and posed, looking graceful. And cute. Which was pretty amazing, because werewolves could be beautiful, but they were predators. Cute was not, usually, in the picture. But then, his Anna was amazing.

We have some time because we need to wait until we have a little more information on the address, right? Her voice inside him still felt new and wondrous. He was so grateful not to be alone. We need to know if we’re breaking into a fae’s prison or the home of some poor slob who happened to buy the house in the last fifty years. And we owe Ms. Jamison. How much damage did you do to her house?

He smiled at her. “Yes,” he said to Anna, forgetting that everyone couldn’t hear her. “I’ll pay for the damage, of course, but a little PR repair might be in order.”

CHAPTER

11

Charles left a business card, one with only an e-mail address and a PO box, for Ms. Jamison to send the estimates for repairs. She wanted him to sign a release for the photographs, but he shook his head.

“I’m not the one you photographed,” he said.

“Photos showing people’s faces need release forms or I can’t use them,” Ms. Jamison complained sharply.

“Werewolves are in a gray area,” he told her. “Use them. If someone gives you trouble about it, write to the address on the card and we’ll take care of it.”

Leeds’s phone rang, and whoever was on the other end had news. The house at the address the wearden had given them was owned by the estate of a woman who’d died twenty years ago. It was cared for by a property management company for the past fifty years until, in fact, a few months ago when the renters had been asked to leave.

“Keep looking for the owner,” Leeds told them. “We’re headed over to that address. Three federal agents with two werewolves for backup. We’ll be okay.” He put his phone away. “Let’s go check this out.”

“Good luck,” said Ms. Jamison. “I hope you find her.”

Charles rode with Leslie, who followed Marsden and Leeds since they were local and knew the area. Anna stretched out in the backseat of Leslie’s car. She grumbled because there just wasn’t room in the backseat for a two-hundred-pound werewolf to be both comfortable and secure.

“Not designed for wolves,” he told Anna sympathetically.

Riding with Leslie was less troublesome than riding with the Cantrip agents. He liked them well enough, but Brother Wolf approved of Leslie, and she drove better.

They followed Marsden’s dark sedan for a few more miles, away from upscale houses and into neighborhoods a few notches further down on the economic scale, before Leslie spoke again. “Her change was very slow compared to yours.”

“We’re all different,” he said after a moment’s thought. “But I’m more different than most. And yes, there is a more detailed explanation for it that I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

She laughed unexpectedly. “My security clearance isn’t high enough?”

“You aren’t a werewolf,” he said, half apologetically.

“Yes, Mr. Smith,” she said. “Just remember, as many politicians can attest personally, secrets tend to come out at the worst possible time and blow up in your face.”