"Yes. Gather a couple of more pack members, your witch, and Alan-he'll be here in a moment-and see if you can settle Arthur in for the night at his house."

Charles pulled out his wallet and extracted one of Arthur's cards-he had two, one from his father and one from Arthur. "This is where he's living in Seattle. Someone should take his wife's car back to his house as well. It's the blue Jaguar parked just inside the gate-I don't know what he drove here."

"I do." Tom took the card. "I'll see to it." And within a few minutes he'd extracted Arthur, the body, and a handful of Angus's wolves as skillfully as a surgeon.

And the first victor of the hunt came into the room just as the door closed behind Tom. Charles looked around for his Anna and found her talking to Ric and Isaac, her face solemn.

Better that she talk with them than with him at this moment. He wanted to take her away, fly her home, where the vampires and whoever was behind them would never be able to come. Lock her in his house and bar the door.

Yes, it was better that he not talk to her just yet.

THE wolf who came in was carrying their bag. Anna could recognize the scent of it, of Moira's hands on it, even in human form. The wolf who brought it in paused in front of their group, and she caught his scent. This was the wolf they'd found trussed up in the net early in their hunt.

"Yes, Valentin, dear," said Isaac. "I see that you got it. Congratulations." Under the biting sarcasm, Anna heard Isaac's reluctant amusement. "Get it away from here, it stinks."

The smell of rotten pork was a little overwhelming.

The wolf grinned around his prize and continued to where Dana and Angus awaited him. The bag was taken and tagged with a marker.

"So the talks are doomed," Anna said, continuing the conversation the wolf had interrupted. Charles hadn't told her about today, maybe he hadn't admitted defeat yet-but Isaac seemed pretty certain.

Isaac shrugged. "Anything is possible-except defying Chastel outright. I expect everyone will go home without accepting anything the Marrok has offered." He smiled at her, though there was darkness under the expression. "Then they'll call him and make quiet deals. Nothing as good as what we could accomplish openly-but maybe, just maybe, enough for our survival."

"Why doesn't anyone go after Chastel?"

"Because he's as good as he claims. The fields of Europe are graves for a good many of our dead who have tried to kill the Beast. Maybe the Marrok could take him on-but in Chastel's own territory, I would not bet on the Marrok. Here?" He shrugged. "But the Marrok is not here, and I do not think that Charles is his match."

"He made Chastel back down," she said, "twice."

"When Chastel hunts, you don't get a chance to face him down." Isaac's face was grim. "That's not how he takes his prey unless they are children or human women." He looked at her. "In the first hundred years he lived, he killed three hundred humans that we know of, probably more. Many, many he took in broad daylight in front of their friends and families. They shot him, hit him, and nothing happened.

"Late in the eighteenth century, Chastel concentrated his killing in Gevaudan, France. It was so bad there that the peasants-those who worked the land-would no longer go out into their fields. Frightened, the nobles organized hunting parties, hired wolf-hunters, and killed every wolf in the region-and many werewolves, too. The king of France was bestirring himself, then history tells us a man named Jean Chastel, whose wife had just been killed by the beast, took a silver musket ball made from a melted heirloom cross. He had it blessed three times by the village priest and went out with a small party to hunt the animal down. A great Beast appeared before them, and Chastel shot it once and killed it-and so died the Beast of Gevaudan."

"What really happened to stop him?"

"The Marrok happened," said Ric.

"He wasn't the Marrok yet," Isaac corrected. "The story I think is most likely is that Bran Cornick hunted the Beast down and told him unless he put an end to things, he would see that Chastel ended up in the hands of the witches." He smiled a little. "The witches were more powerful in those days-and would have liked nothing better than a werewolf to torture for blood, meat, and fur for their spells. Chastel was a hundred years old-and Bran was... Bran. It was a very good threat, then. Now Chastel is stronger than he was then, smarter, too-and he hates Bran like any dominant hates the one who humiliates him."

"He's doing this to get back at Bran?"

Isaac shook his head. "Many reasons, I think. That is one. So is what he said about keeping the Marrok out of his territory."

"Does Sunny's death change anything?" She was still trying to figure out a reason for the woman's death, but she couldn't find one.

Another wolf came in, weary and limping-but he had a bag in his mouth. He paid no attention to them, and only Anna seemed to notice his passing.

Isaac shrugged in answer to Anna's question. "If anything, it adds a final straw to the issue. Arthur is perceived as Charles's strongest supporter: the only one of us far enough from the Beast to risk displeasing him. I'm not sure that is true, except in 'the enemy of my enemy' sort of sense. Arthur and Bran... don't see eye to eye about a lot of things. That doesn't matter, though. Arthur won't be any good for weeks after this. Losing your mate is..." His face twisted a little, then, with effort, regained its usual good-natured expression. "He won't be of help to Charles, that is for certain."

The first victorious wolf had already changed back to human and, naked, was searching through the piles for his clothes. Which reminded Anna that she still had her socks in the pockets of her jeans and her feet were uncomfortable. She toed off her shoes and put the socks on her feet where they belonged.

She was kneeling to tie her shoes when the third winner came into the room. She'd never seen his wolf form before, but his scent told her exactly who he was: Chastel.

As soon as he walked into the room, someone set off the alarm and the whole of the warehouse sounded with a low hum for a count of five. Then again for another count of five: the signal that the third bag had been found.

Anna hardly heard it. Chastel was the most humon gous werewolf she'd ever seen. Ric was larger than average; Charles was bigger than he; and Chastel made both of them look like half-grown puppies. He looked like a Saint Bernard in a roomful of German shepherds-the statistical outlier. His coat was mottled in various shades of brown: the perfect color to blend with a forest.