"Mercy," said Bran behind my shoulder, surprising me because I'd been paying attention to the expression on Adam's face.
He was carrying a couple of blankets.
"I meant to get here sooner to tell you that Samuel was coming with you," Bran said, handing the blankets to me. "But I had business that took a little longer than I expected."
"Did you know that you were sending him with me when you talked to me last night?" I asked.
He smiled. "I thought it was probable, yes. Though I had another talk with Adam after I left you, and it clarified some things. I'm sending Charles to Chicago with a couple of wolves for backup." He smiled wider, a nasty predatory smile. "He will find out who is out trying to create new wolves without permission and see that it is stopped in such a way that we'll not see a problem like this again."
"Why not send Samuel and give me Charles?"
"Samuel has too weak a stomach to handle Chicago," said Adam, sounding breathless. I glanced at him and saw that he was sitting upright on the short middle bench seat, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
"Samuel is a doctor and dominant enough to keep Adam from eating anyone until he gets better," responded Samuel, climbing back out of the van and snatching the blankets out of my hands.
Bran's smile softened with amusement. "Samuel was gone for a long time," he explained. "Other than Adam, I think that only Darryl, Adam's second, has ever met him. Until we know what is going on, I'd rather not have everyone know I'm investigating matters."
"We think the time is coming when we will no longer be able to hide from the humans," said Samuel, who had finished wrapping Adam in the blankets. "But we'd rather control how that happens than have a group of murdering wolves reveal our existence before we're ready."
I must have looked shocked because Bran laughed.
"It's only a matter of time," he said. "The fae are right. Forensics, satellite surveillance, and digital cameras are making the keeping of our secrets difficult. No matter how many Irish Wolfhounds and English Mastiffs George Brown breeds and crossbreeds, they don't look like werewolves."
Aspen Creek had three or four people breeding very large dogs to explain away odd tracks and sightings--George Brown, a werewolf himself, had won several national titles with his Mastiffs. Dogs, unlike most cats, tended to like werewolves just fine.
"Are you looking for a poster boy like Kieran McBride?" I asked. "Nope," Adam grunted. "There aren't any Kieran McBrides who make it as werewolves. Harmless and cute we are not. But he might be able to find a hero: a police officer or someone in the military."
"You knew about this?" I asked.
"I'd heard rumors."
"What we don't need right now is a murdering bastard running free around the Tri-Cities, using werewolves to kill people," Bran said. He looked over my shoulder at his son. "Find the blackguard and eliminate him before he involves the humans, Samuel." Bran was the only person I knew who could use words like "blackguard" and make them sound like swear words--but then he could have said "bunny rabbit" in that tone of voice and weakened my spine with the same shiver of fear.
But I shivered more from the cold than fear. In the Tri-Cities it was still above freezing most days. It wasn't particularly cold for November in Montana--for instance, my nostrils weren't sticking together when I breathed, so it wasn't ten below zero yet--but it was considerably colder than I was used to.
"Where's your coat?" asked Bran, his attention drawn to my chattering teeth.
"I left it in the room," I said. "It's not mine."
"You are welcome to it."
"I'm out here now," I said.
He shook his head. "You'd better get going then, before you freeze to death." He looked at Samuel. "Keep me apprised."
"Bran," said Adam. "Thank you."
Bran smiled and brushed past me so he could reach in the van and take one of Adam's battered hands in a gentle grip. "Anytime." When he stepped back he shut the sliding door with just the right amount of push so it didn't bounce back open. It had taken me three months to learn how to do it right.
He reached into the pocket of his coat and gave me a card. It was plain white with his name and two phone numbers in simple black lettering. "So you can call me if you want to," he said. "The top number is my cell phone--so you won't have to risk talking to my wife."
"Bran?" I asked him impulsively. "What is it that Gerry is doing that is so important he can't come home to be with Dr. Wallace?"
"Feeling sorry for himself," snapped Samuel.
Bran put a hand on Samuel's arm, but spoke to me. "Carter's case is tragic and unusual. Usually when a wolf lives through the Change but doesn't survive his first year, it is because the human cannot control the instincts of the wolf."
"I thought it was always a matter of control," I told Bran.