His wolf didn’t like taking orders—even necessary directions—from her, from someone less dominant than he. Few people were more dominant.
His wolf’s temper was not helped by her being a witch. His wolf did not like witches.
Neither did Asil, but he also believed in being fair. She had not asked to be a witch; witches were born, not made. Her only choice was what kind of witch she would be.
White witches might draw upon only themselves for power—unlike gray witches, who drew upon the willingly offered pain and suffering of others. Or black witches, who did not bother with consent when they tortured and killed their victims. Black witches like Mariposa, who had killed his mate.
Tami had made the more difficult choice. She had chosen to stay a white witch, to remain vulnerable to the witches who were not so nice. Asil had a lot of respect for that.
His wolf, however, felt no need to be fair: a witch was a witch.
The Subaru broke loose on the ice and Asil had to concentrate to bring it back in line. Even with his reflexes and his car—he’d brought the Subaru, which handled better on winter roads than his Porsche—driving on the ice and slush was tricky.
They turned onto a street of Craftsman houses—not mansions, but substantial buildings. Most of them were well tended, a few showed signs of being recently renovated, and one of them was boarded up with scaffolding lining the outer walls.
The house Tami directed him to park in front of had good bones. But its paint was faded, peeling around the windows. The once-white picket fence leaned this way and that and was missing pieces, giving it the look of a jack-o’-lantern’s grin. None of the walkways had been cleared of snow; instead, a narrow track formed by foot traffic disappeared around the side of the house.
As soon as he got out of the car, Asil could smell rotting food, moldering fabrics, and something foul that had him reaching over the back of the seat for the case he kept there for old times’ sake. He slung the strap over his shoulder and followed Tami to the gate.
“No smoke,” she said, her voice quiet. “Let’s head to the back door. It’s closer to the girls’ room. That way we might avoid Joshua’s mom. She doesn’t like strangers—especially strangers who are male and—” She looked for a word, then said, apologetically, “Not white.”
“I am a Moor,” he told her.
He did not expect his words to bring her to a full stop. “ ‘Moor’ is racist,” she told him. “Not to mention antiquated and imprecise.”
He closed his eyes, because the snap to her voice made his wolf—already agitated—want to show her why people didn’t just contradict a dominant wolf. Especially when one was a witch.
She was a defender of the downtrodden. He would not hurt her, would not allow his wolf to hurt her.
“Tami,” he said softly, and when he opened his eyes, she hissed and took a step back. “I am very old and my wolf is generally angry. Arguing makes it—” Violent. Murderous. Hepicked a less alarming but still accurate word. “Obstreperous. I am descended from African Berbers and people from the Arabian Peninsula. I am thus a Spanish Moor, however antiquated the term. Perhaps we should go rescue the children?”
She watched him, like a rabbit who suddenly sees a hawk. He sometimes enjoyed making people look at him like that. But he didn’t enjoy it from her. His wolf did.
“I apologize for scaring you,” he said. “You are not in danger from me—”A promise must be kept, he advised his wolf sternly but was not hopeful of being heeded. “But you will help me greatly if you make suggestions rather than give orders.”
When she didn’t move, he started walking toward the back of the house, following the trail to what was presumably the way in, judging by the recent tracks. A woman who worked with the homeless, where predators and prey mimicked each other, would not stay frightened of him for long, he trusted. And indeed, after he had walked a few steps, she fell in behind him.
“My mother told me that some of the werewolves get really old,” she said. “Centuries.”
“Your mother was right,” he told her.
“The Spanish Moors…”
“I am very old,” he agreed.
“Okay,” she said in a small voice as they came to the back of the house. “Very old. I am sorry, my reaction is a hazard of the job. A lot of my people are minorities of one sort or another.”
We like her, he told his wolf.She’s a good person.
There was a set of wooden steps that rose about three feet to the door at the back of the house. No one had attempted to clear them.
“Don’t walk in the unmarked snow,” he advised, noting that this close to the house, the miasmatic stench was unpleasantly strong. “Joshua said on the phone that his mother barred the window—would it be easier to go through this window he spoke of?”
She shook her head. “I assume you mean you could deal with the bars, but the window in the girls’ room is less than a foot square. We might be able to get the girls out through it, but Joshua is six feet tall and broad-shouldered.”
He could go through the wall. But since he judged that the children were in no immediate danger, there was no reason to destroy the structure.
“Very well,” he said. “Since I am more likely to be unhurt if the floorboards go out beneath our feet, why don’t I lead the way, and you tell me—politely, please—where to go?”
