He shook his head.
Honey waited, her eyes locked on his gun.
"Okay. The Marrok is like, the Alpha of all the Alphas." That there was a head werewolf was kind of an open secret. Everyone knew that there was someone pulling the werewolves' strings, and there was a lot of speculation about who it might be. So I hadn't given away any great secret.
Bran wasn't out to the public-if things went badly, he wanted to make sure that the sanctuary he'd established in Montana remained a safe haven. Even if he had been out, no one would think that he was the Marrok. Being unremarkable was one of Bran's favorite talents and he was good at it.
"He'll know which Alphas will take care of your daughter, and which ones to stay away from better than any lone wolf could. It's his job to take care of the werewolves, Mr. Black, to make sure the ones like your daughter are safe."
And to make sure the ones who were not able to control their wolfish side were killed quickly and painlessly before they started killing people, people like their parents and families.
"All right," he said, at last. "Call him. But if you say something I don't like, I'll kill you."
I believed him; he had the look of a man with his back to the wall. Honey eased closer, close enough that she'd probably be able to stop him before he pulled the trigger. Probably. If she wanted to badly enough.
I took out my cell phone and placed the call.
"Hello?" It was a woman's voice.
Damn. Bran's wife didn't like me. Not like Honey disliked me, but the I 'll-kill-you-if-I-get-a-chance kind of not like. She'd tried it a couple of times. She was the reason I always called Bran's cell phone and not his home number.
"This is Mercedes," I said. "I'm calling on official business. I need to talk to your husband." I heard Bran's voice, but he was speaking too low for me to hear anything except the command in his tone. There were a few clicks and unidentifiable noises and then Bran came on the line.
"How can I help you?" he asked sounding calm, though I could hear his mate's bitter voice in the background.
Briefly, I explained the situation to him. I didn't tell him that I was worried about a wolf who couldn't control herself after three years, but he must have heard it in my voice because he interrupted me.
"It's all right, Mercy. A child chained in the basement doesn't learn control because it is not expected of her. With a little help she might be fine. Any child who survives a werewolf attack before adolescence has willpower to spare. Where does he live?"
I relayed Bran's question.
Black shook his head. He still had his gun out, pointed at me.
I gave an exaggerated sigh. "No one intends your daughter harm."
"Fine," said Bran's voice in my ear. "Roughly three years ago? A rogue werewolf killed by a lone wolf. There were two incidents that might fit, but only one of the lone wolves would take it upon himself to help a girl. Tell your gentleman that he's from somewhere near Washington D.C., probably in Virginia, and his werewolf friend is Josef Riddlesback."
"Not a good idea," I told Bran as I looked Black in the eyes. It was hard to blame him for the gun when I could read the fear in his face. "He's worried about his daughter. She's thirteen and he doesn't want her hurt." I had to use the tone of my voice to convey just how worried Black was. Much too worried to amaze him with Bran's powers of deduction.
"I see. A little paranoid is he?"
"Absolutely," I agreed.
There was a short pause, then Bran said, "Do you have a sheet of paper handy?"
"Yes."
"Right. Josef is right, neither of the pack leaders in that area are the sort I'd trust with a child. I'm going to give you the names of the pack leaders who would be safe with a child. Leaders who would not mind a reporter knowing who they are. It is very short, and none of them are anywhere near Virginia. There are others. Do you believe his story?"
"Yes," I said.
"Then I'll also give you places where the Alphas have not come out to the public and don't want to do so, but who would take care of a young girl. If he wants to chance it, he could go there and see if the Alpha would meet with him."
I wrote down the names he told me, four men, including Adam, complete with phone numbers. Then I wrote down fifteen towns. Nineteen Alphas out of maybe a hundred and fifty that Bran thought could be trusted to help a child without abusing her.
It made me acknowledge just how lucky I was that the werewolf relative my mother went to for help once she realized I could turn into a coyote belonged to the Marrok and not to some other pack.
"You can send them to me, too," he said, when he was done.
"But-" I bit my tongue. I wasn't going to tell a reporter that the Marrok was one of the wolves who wasn't out yet.
"I trust your judgement, Mercy-and I've raised a few strays before." Like me.
"I know."
He must have heard the gratitude in my voice, because I heard the smile in his. "One or two, anyway, Mercy. Tell your gentleman that he needs to find someone to help as soon as possible. Unless he uses silver, which will hurt her, I doubt he'll be able to keep her in his cage forever. Not to mention that she doesn't need the moon to change. Some day she's going to be hurt or startled into changing and then she'll kill someone." Bran hung up.
I gave Tom Black the list and explained what it meant. Then I gave him Bran's warning. As the words sank in, he lowered his gun, but I don't think it was on purpose. It was more as though he was sunk in despair and nothing mattered anymore.
"Listen," I told him. "There's nothing you can do about her being a werewolf-"
"She tried to commit suicide," he told me, tears welling in his eyes. "The day after the full moon. She's worried she will hurt someone. She used a knife on her wrist, but the cuts kept healing too fast. I'd take her to a damned shrink, but I don't want to risk telling anyone what she is. She already thinks she's a monster, she doesn't need anyone else telling her so."
I saw Honey's eyes widen, when he said that bit about being a monster. From the expression on her face, she thought she was a monster, too.
I frowned at her. I didn't want to have sympathy for Honey-it was so much easier to dislike her. She frowned back.
"Put the gun away," I told Black in the firm voice that sometimes worked on werewolves. I guess it worked on grieving fathers, too, because he slipped the pistol back in his shoulder holster.
"She doesn't need a shrink," I told him. "Every thirteen year old girl wants to kill themselves at some point or other."