"You find those bastards" - it came out in a low growl from Isaac's belly, a command by one who was used to giving orders - "who killed Otten..." He sucked in his breath and looked abruptly away and down. Anna glanced at Charles but she couldn't see the expression on his face that Isaac had responded to; it was already gone.
When the Boston Alpha spoke again, the command was gone from his voice. "You find them, and I would take it as a personal favor if you called me for backup."
He handed Anna a card. It had only a phone number below his name, so she put out her empty hand demandingly. He lowered his lids and stared at her as she met his gaze unflinchingly - then wiggled her fingers. "Gimme."
He laughed, wiped the tears from his face with both hands, and looked at Charles. "What is she?" But without waiting for a reply - that wasn't forthcoming anyway - he handed Anna a pair of cards that had The Irish Wolfhound embossed on them. "Don't bend 'em all up. We reuse them."
Anna snorted as he popped up to his feet and jumped on top of the wagon he'd been on before in an easy leap. With a half wave of his hand, he took off, moving fast without giving the appearance of fleeing. He lightly hopped from one kiosk to the next, rocking them but not enough that anything fell off the shelves.
Charles rose unhurriedly, but without any wasted motions, either, and gathered the debris of their meal. "Let's go while he's still distracting everyone."
THEY WALKED BY the Old State House on their way to the condo. It was sitting right in the middle of a bunch of skyscrapers, looking like a bright gold and white anachronism in the middle of all the dark glass and chrome of its near neighbors. Boston...Anna'd been expecting something like Seattle, since so many people compared the two. And there were some things that reminded her quite strongly of the Emerald City - the ocean, for instance - and the whole educated-and-liberal feel to the place. But Boston was different, at least the part of it that she had seen.
It wasn't just older; it felt older - and somehow still fresh and brash and still moving on. New World - ish, maybe. Built by people unsatisfied with their lives who crossed an ocean, risking and giving their lives for a new start, right here.
There was the architecture, too. So many buildings here had historic import; they'd been left where they were, no matter how inconvenient. Barricaded on the left and right by busy roads and huge modern buildings, the Old State House was polished and painted and cared for in a way it probably hadn't been back in the colonial days when Crispus Attucks and four other men were shot on the street next to it in the Boston Massacre.
Little narrow colonial roads had mostly disappeared into the wide modern streets, but still popped up here and there - holding such treasures as antique stores and old bookshops. The end effect of massive steel and glass buildings standing guard over their smaller and more delicately built forerunners was eclectic and charming.
"Do you think the killers are werewolves?" Anna asked as they briskly walked back to their condo.
"Werewolves?" Charles considered it and shook his head. "No. Isaac would have known if Otten had been hunted down by werewolves."
They walked about half a block in silence; then Charles shook his head again. "Maybe...maybe Isaac wouldn't have picked up on it if the killers had been werewolves. He's young. But the hunt is wrong for werewolves. No one is eating these victims. A werewolf who is hunting like that...Other werewolves could smell the sickness of spirit on them." He paused. "I could smell it on them. There is no wolf in the country who was alive forty years ago that I have not met since the time the killings began. But it could be vampires - or witches."
"Five thirty this time of year is pretty light for a vampire," Anna said. "But if he's been hunting this long, successfully killing fae and werewolves alike, he's got to be some kind of supernatural, doesn't he? I can't imagine that a vampire wouldn't also drink from the victims - and if that was the case, no one is telling us."
Charles shrugged, dodging around a small tour being led by a man in a powdered wig wearing Revolutionary fashion and carrying an unlit lantern on a stick. Anna dodged the other way and caught a bit of the tour guide's spiel.
"Revere did not ride alone that night, nor was he, in his own time, famous for the act. Paul Revere is famous because his name is the one Longfellow, nearly a hundred years later, chose to use in his famous poem instead of my good friend William Dawes, who was the other rider out warning of the British invasion." Before his voice was drowned in the sounds of a busy city at midday, Anna noted that he had a fruity British accent pasted over a Southern drawl: not a Boston native.
Charles continued their conversation as if he'd never paused at all. "It could be an organization of people who hate the fae and werewolves - like Bright Future or the John Lauren Society. Or a bunch of hunters who see us as a challenge."
"Or a group of black witches, if there was more than one killer."
"Right," agreed Charles. "I don't know enough yet. The FBI were pretty careful about what information they gave us."
"I noticed none of the later victims' crime scene photos show their faces," Anna said thoughtfully. "We saw enough of them that the oversight couldn't have been an accident."
"No faces, no uncovered front torsos or backs, either. Also no means of murder. Were they strangled? Stabbed? I should have asked Isaac."
"You think the FBI will call us in to help?" She thought so, but was afraid to trust her judgment when she wanted in as badly as she did. The eyes of the victims stayed with her.
Charles shrugged. "Yes. Fisher looked at us like we were candy. But it doesn't matter. If they don't, we'll involve ourselves. It'll be easier if they ask."
They walked awhile in silence. Well, Charles was silent. Anna's shoes made a brisk click-click-click on the sidewalk. She could have walked more quietly, but she liked the way the noise she made blended with the sounds of the city, almost like music.
She bumped Charles as a pretty woman in a business suit and torturously high heels walked past them. "Did you see that? Look at her legs. Look at all the women who are wearing dresses - and look at their legs. Their calves are all bigger around than their thighs."
"They call Boston 'the walking city' for a reason." Charles rumbled as he opened the door to the building of their condo. As soon as he was inside, the faint aura of danger he emitted eased down. Evidently Charles had been in this building often enough that he didn't view it as enemy territory.