"My granddad, he was a tough old bird. I'd guess he was tough even when he was five years old and faced down a haunt no one else could see." Isaac grinned. The sun was down now and his teeth gleamed in the light of the waxing moon. It was two days until full moon. "Tough like me."

Tough and stupid, thought Charles with a sigh. "You are sleeping with the witch?"

Isaac smiled whitely. "Yessir. And she makes me breakfast in bed, too."

Charles liked this young, tough Alpha, so he wanted to warn him. "Black witches are untrustworthy lovers."

"I get that," Isaac said. He shook his shoulders to loosen them. "I'm a werewolf; I can't afford to be delicate - but I could never fall for a woman who tortures kittens to make love potions, even if she doesn't do it around me. She's just scratching an itch and I'm enjoying it while it lasts - and I'm clear with her that's all it is."

"Women hear what men say," Anna said without turning around. "That doesn't mean they believe them. A witch isn't anyone to screw with, Isaac, and they get as possessive as any other woman. You're beautiful, strong, and powerful - she's not going to let that go easily."

"Are you trying to steal my man?" Hally didn't seem to have any of the trouble the rest of them did moving about the bouncing boat. And she was good at sneaking around because Charles hadn't noticed that she'd gotten up from her seat to round the opposite side of the console. She still had her satchel - and was holding the Baggie next to her face as if it held a rose instead of a piece of dead boy's skin.

Anna kept a hand on the railing and rolled to sit with only one hip on the ledge at the bow so she could face the witch. His mate smiled one of her big, generous smiles. "No. Just warning him about sleeping with dangerous things. Tigers are rare treasures - and they will eat you and not give it a second thought."

The witch preened, her ire sliding away. His Anna was so good at managing people - him included. It was a good thing that the witch was looking at Anna and not Isaac, because Isaac had clearly heard what Anna had said, too. And when an Omega talked, the wolf listened no matter what the man thought. Isaac looked like he'd been slapped.

"Tigers need to be wary around wolves," Charles said, to keep her from looking Isaac's way.

Hally narrowed her eyes. She reminded him more of a snake than a tiger - they were beautiful, too, beautiful and cold survivors, killing with poison rather than fang or claw.

"You are sticking your nose into places they don't belong, wolf," she said, as if she thought he ought to be worried about her.

Hally had overstepped, and so Brother Wolf met her eyes and let her see that they had killed more powerful witches than she was - and that it wouldn't bother them to do it again.

She swallowed and stepped back, stumbling when a wave threw her off balance.

"You scratch whatever itches you choose," Charles told her, his voice cold and quiet. "Enjoy yourself. But at the end of the day, you remember that Isaac belongs to my father - and to me. He is necessary to us as you are not. You will leave him unharmed or I will hunt you down and destroy you."

She hissed at him like a cat. When he just stared at her, Hally scrambled ungracefully around the far side of the console, out of his line of sight.

Isaac was watching him, his eyes bright gold. And then he tilted his jaw, exposing his throat. Charles lunged forward and nipped him lightly before releasing him.

From the back of the boat Beauclaire watched them with inhuman eyes, and Brother Wolf wanted to teach the fae man respect the way he'd just put the witch in her place. The moon urged, the ghosts in his head howled...and Charles took a half step away from the gunwale railing.

"You made yourself an enemy," Isaac said, his voice quiet and soft, distracting Brother Wolf. Beauclaire dropped his eyes at last and the moment was gone.

"She is a black witch," Charles said, equally quietly. "We have always been enemies. For right now, we are aimed at the same target; that is all. If your target is pleasure and you're sure that's what hers is, too, that's fine. Just remember - a black witch doesn't love anything but power."

Isaac swallowed and looked away. "White witches are just food for the rest. Hally had a sister who died when she was sixteen because she refused to take the black route to power. A big, bad wicked witch ate her down."

Charles nodded. "You can admire the survivor - but Hally did survive. She'll make sure she always survives. You better make sure that the same is true of you."

The little boat slowed; the engines quieted. The sky was inky except for the silver moon and the thin ribbon of cloud that crossed between them and her.

"Here," said Malcolm unnecessarily.

The witch took her satchel and the Baggie Goldstein had given her and climbed up the aluminum ladder to the fishing platform above the console. It was the best place to do it - a flat open surface on a crowded boat - but Charles was sure that the witch knew and enjoyed the fact that the height put her onstage and made the rest of them her audience.

Standing on the top of the ladder, Hally took a small rug out of her pack and laid it out flat. While she was snapping it into place, Charles caught a glimpse of circles and symbols and realized that she'd woven into the rug the protections that a witch would normally have used chalk for. It was a clever thing, something that would save her time and trouble - and also work admirably well on a boat in the rain.

Kneeling on the rug, she took out four or five small pottery jars and set them up as if their placement was important. She did the same with eight silver candlesticks holding dark-colored candles - probably black candles, but some witches worked with red. She adjusted and moved things around for a while. At last she set a tall candle in the center of her work.

"Light," the witch said, in an ordinary voice a half beat before the candles lit themselves despite the salt-sea air. The flames on the wicks burned steady and true though the wind whipped the strands of hair that had worked their way out of his braid. Magic. Her voice hadn't been the trigger, just a distraction or embellishment. The smoke told his nose what Charles already surmised - there was human blood worked into the candles she burned.

The way witches cast spells differed from one witch to the next depending upon a lot of things: their family background, who their teachers had been - and a little of their own personalities. This one was a wiggler and moaner, but she did it with all the grace of a talented belly dancer, and her moans were both musical and mesmerizing. Charles felt her magic rain down upon their little boat and found himself agreeing with Isaac's assessment: she was a power.