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"I don't know a lot about paintings," Anna said to excuse herself.
Dana shook her head and gave Anna a rueful smile, the alien predator nowhere to be seen. "No, it's all right. My people are cursed with the love of beautiful things and no ability to create them." She dried her hands. "Not all fae, of course. But many of those of us who are most deeply steeped in magic give up creative abilities of all kinds. Ah well."
"Dragons are like that," Charles said obscurely.
Did he know a dragon? Anna gave him an interested look. He smiled a little, but his attention was on the fae, who had stopped her scrubbing.
"Dragons can't create either?"
He shrugged. "So my da says. Mostly he only says things he knows to be true."
She smiled, and it was as if the sun came out. "To be like dragons is not such a bad thing. I've only seen the one-out exploring, he said, I think. We didn't have much of a conversation, but he was... like the Vermeer. A work of art."
He tilted his head. "Exactly."
Dana tilted her head the same way and looked at Charles, really looked at him. "You are the killing arm of the Marrok. Rude. Dangerous."
"True, enough," Charles said.
Anna found it interesting that the fae thought "rude" more notable than "dangerous."
"I was drawn to that in you," Dana told him. "I would have said that I knew you quite well. But I never knew you could also be kind." She put her hands on his shoulders and, with a grin at Anna, she kissed him on the cheek. Anna could feel the pulse of her magic as she sent it over Charles like a mantle or net. It slid off, but even Anna, who had not been the focus, could feel the fascination and lust she generated.
"There," she told Anna. "A sister could not have been more circumspect. Now didn't you say you brought something for me?"
She didn't lie. Or if she did, Anna couldn't tell-and the fae couldn't lie, could they? The magic could have been involuntary; maybe it happened every time, and the fae didn't even notice anymore.
Charles hadn't seemed affected, but it would have been difficult to tell. His face was doing its usual public thing. Not even the mate bond helped her, because the connection between them told her nothing. But it wasn't possible for a fae with magic like that to kiss him and he not feel anything, was it? Not affection, admiration, or lust? Voluntary or not, the fae's magic had been aimed at him while the merest shadow of it had brushed Anna-who had never in her life been attracted to another woman.
She touched Charles lightly on the arm. He hadn't managed to rebuild his barriers against her because she suddenly knew exactly what he felt toward Dana Shea-wariness. Not desire or fear, but wary respect-one predator to another on neutral territory maybe. And then there was Brother Wolf...
She'd heard werewolves talk as if they and the wolves they shared their skins with were one. Some werewolves had nothing more wolfish about them, even in wolf form, than a nasty temper and a need to kill things that ran from them. Other than fighting to keep her sanity in the first few months after her Change, Anna hadn't thought about it much one way or the other.
Charles sometimes talked about his wolf as if it were a separate being who shared his body: Brother Wolf.
For the first time, perhaps springing from that oddly terrifying moment outside when she'd felt everything he was-too much to be absorbed or witnessed-she could feel the wolf inside of Charles. Two distinct souls. And Brother Wolf felt her, too.
Mate, he told her, not unkindly. Get out of our head so we can deal with She-Who-Is-Not-Kin.
Not-Kin wasn't the only thing she got from that name. Powerful, ruthless, killer. Bound by rules. Overcivilized. Respected enemy. Brother Wolf's voice was clearer in her head than even the Marrok's. And the Marrok spoke in words-Brother Wolf wasn't hampered by anything so human.
Anna pulled her hand away from Charles as if he'd burned her, and stared at her fingers. Charles's shoulder bumped her with silent reassurance, a casual gesture the fae woman probably hadn't noticed. Or was too polite to comment on.
Later, murmured Brother Wolf quietly, then she was alone in her head. Alone with the remnants of jealousy and... hurt at Brother Wolf's rejection. Knowing that she shouldn't feel either didn't help at all.
Charles took the package he'd brought and handed it to Dana.
Dana's eyebrows rose. "Butcher paper and twine?"
He shrugged. "Da gave it to me that way."
The fae shook her head and opened a drawer in a bird's-eye maple desk and pulled out a pair of delicate sterling silver scissors. Setting the package on the desktop, she cut the string and opened it.
And the alien thing Anna had glimpsed earlier was back in full measure. Dana didn't move, didn't so much as blink, but the portent of... something filled the space they were in. Every muscle, every hair on Anna's body warned her to run.
She looked at Charles. His attention was on the fae, but he wasn't alarmed. Did he not feel it? Or was he so confident that Dana's threat was something he could handle? But his calm helped Anna regain hers. She waited to see what had caused such a strong reaction.
Even before Dana had opened the package, it'd been obvious that a painting was inside. It wasn't large. Ten inches by twelve, maybe, framed in oak a couple of shades darker than the desk's maple, a waterscape of some sort.
"Da said to tell you it was what he remembered," Charles said. "That he might have gotten some of the details a little wrong, but he thought not."
"I didn't know the Marrok painted." Dana's voice was... deeper somehow. Rich and hoary with age. Her hands trembled as she touched the painting. The fae's power that Anna had felt so strongly just a few moments ago was gone as if it had never been.
"He doesn't." Charles shook his head. "But we have an artist in our pack, and he has a gift for painting other people's words-and my father is very good with words."
"I didn't know your father was ever there." The fae sounded... lost.
Charles shrugged. "You know how Da is. No one notices him unless he intends it. And he is a bard. He goes everywhere."
Dana lifted her head, and her eyes were puffy, her nose red, though no tears fell down her cheeks. She looked very human. "How did he know?"
Charles lifted both of his hands. "Who knows how my da figures out anything. He thought it would please you."
She looked at it again, and Anna couldn't tell if she was pleased or not-overcome, certainly. Shocked. "My home. It is long gone. Destroyed by magic and geology, the spring dried up centuries ago. The site it occupied is a city street that bears the name of a hundred other streets in a hundred other cities. I thought all memory of it was lost." She touched the painting the way Anna touched Charles: lightly, cautious of pain but unable to resist the draw of it.
