"Can I have her first, Uncle Travis?" Benedict asked. "I like the girls better. And her husband hurt me. Can I have her first?"
"That's better, boy," the older man said. "You keep your language polite. Let's go take a look at her before we decide anything. We'll have a while to play before you get to feed on her death. There will be time enough for everything."
He sounded like he was talking about going fishing instead of torturing and killing someone. The door near her cage opened and the old man turned on the light as they all walked in.
Hail, hail, the gang's all here, she thought as she got her first good look at her captors.
Even knowing what she did, Les Heuter still looked sort of all-American, like the kind of guy who helped little old ladies cross the street. The other young man, Benedict Heuter...he was big. Taller than Charles and maybe fifty pounds heavier, and Charles wasn't a beanpole. There was something wrong with his eyes and he smelled like a deer in rut. She found it uncomfortable to meet his eyes - and she could stare down Bran. It had nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with the madness in his face.
The features were different, but Benedict's expression, the thoughts that lurked behind his eyes, were classic Justin, the crazy werewolf who'd Changed her and...done all the other things that no one else had particularly wanted to do to an Omega wolf. Not long after she and Charles met, Charles had killed Justin. But even years later, she had nightmares about Justin's eyes.
Because Benedict made her so uneasy, she turned her attention to the other stranger in the mix. Clearly related by blood to both of the younger two, the old man - Uncle Travis, that was what Heuter had called him - showed her what Heuter would look like in forty years, assuming he didn't die under her fangs as she hoped. Age had not so much bent this man as clarified him. Heuter still looked a little soft around the edges; it was what gave him his wholesome appearance. This man was all rawhide and leather.
Even in his mid-sixties or early seventies, he was good-looking, with bright blue eyes unfaded by the years and sharp, clean features that might have been spectacular when he was young but had been solidified by a sense of strength and determination. If Anna thought that the strength of character in his face was slightly mad - well, she was in a better place than most to make that judgment.
He moved like there was muscle under his skin despite his age. And from the body language of the others, she knew that here was the Alpha wolf. He ruled by fiat, by strength of character, and by their understanding that it was this one who kept them safe and gave them direction - and would kill them if he needed to.
The body language she observed when the older man wasn't looking at his minions also told her that Heuter chafed at his secondary position: he was ready to take over at the first sign of weakness. It had been in his voice, too. The old man should have known, and that he didn't, signaled to Anna that he was weakening and would not rule here much longer.
"Let's have a look at you, darling," the old man crooned as he came up to the cage, seemingly unfazed by her change to wolf. "Black as pitch and ice blue eyes. I've never seen a wolf with blue eyes before."
She had to fight not to back away. Close up, he smelled of pipe tobacco. Charles sometimes smelled like that after he performed one of the ceremonies his grandfather had taught him.
Charles didn't do one often, but she'd learned to see the signs. He'd get restless for a few days. Then he'd head off to the woods on his own - or haul her off with him - to find a place to burn tobacco and sing to the spirits in his mother's tongue.
Sometimes he'd tell her what he was doing; sometimes he wouldn't. She didn't ask him about the rocks he'd bring in or the small bits of cloth he'd set on top of them during certain seasons of the year. He'd told her once that some things were to be shared, and others were not - and that was good enough for her.
But Charles's tobacco scent had come to be comforting. She resented the old man for ruining it.
"Uncle Travis, she's a wolf." Benedict's voice was a whine better suited to a teenager arguing for a later curfew than the grown man he was. Anna was sure by now there was something wrong with him, something more than his being a sociopathic - or was that psychopathic? - serial killer. "She's no good as a wolf. I don't like old men or boys, but I can do them. I won't do a wolf - that's just sick."
"Hush," said the old man. "They can't stay wolves forever. Tomorrow's the full moon; she can stay a wolf through that, but then she'll have to change back when the moon sets."
He was wrong. As long as she didn't mind losing herself to the wolf, she could stay in wolf shape indefinitely, but he sounded very confident. Maybe Cantrip's databases had inaccurate information about more than simply who was and was not fae.
"I can't wait until tomorrow," said Heuter.
"You're not a werewolf," Benedict said. "You don't need the full moon to do anything."
"No, I don't care about the moon." Heuter smiled. "I can't wait to see that smug bastard lose it because we have his wife and he can't find her."
"You aren't going anywhere near him," Uncle Travis snapped irritably. "Don't be stupid. You'll get cocky and he'll smell it on you. Smell her on you, maybe." He didn't take his attention off Anna, so he didn't see the resentment that flashed and disappeared on Heuter's face.
Anna didn't have Charles's memory for information, but she was pretty sure that Heuter was nearly thirty. That was old to be taking orders issued as if he were a child. Werewolves had to follow their Alpha's orders that way, though. They followed them or they were killed. Maybe it was the same kind of thing for Heuter? Maybe his uncle read him better than she did, and the threat of death was enough to keep him in line.
"You look so meek in there," Uncle Travis said - and it took a moment for Anna to process that he was talking to her because he'd switched from talking to Heuter without altering his voice or his body posture. "Are you afraid, princess? You should be. Your kind is trying to take over the world. You don't fool me with the 'we're good guys' spin-doctoring. I know a predator when I see one. It's just like the gays. Just like the gooks and the spics and the dagos. Trying to turn this country into a cesspool."
Gooks were...Vietnamese, right? Score one for her high school history class, because she'd never actually heard that one out loud before. Spics were Hispanic. She had no idea who the dagos were. Her racist vocabulary obviously needed work. What would a racist call werewolves? Wargs? She kind of liked that one, but suspected that racist bastards didn't read Tolkien. Or if they did, she didn't want to know about it.