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that matched the sheen of the wood she claimed under her hands. Territorial rights were important. She had a degree in psychology and another in anthropology, but she’d understood it since Miss Nellie Michaelson had gone puppy-hunting in Mrs. Cullinan’s backyard.
    She’d come early because that was a way to turn neutral territory into hers. It was one of the things that made her a good agent—she paid attention to the details, details like gaining the home-court advantage when dealing with monsters—especially ones with big, sharp teeth.
    She’d done a boatload of studying since Nick dropped this on her yesterday.
    Werewolves were supposed to be poor, downtrodden victims of a disease, people who used the abilities their misfortune granted them to help others. David Christiansen, the first person to admit to being a werewolf, was a specialist in extracting terrorist hostages. She was sure that his being incredibly photogenic had not been an accident. Leslie’s oldest daughter had a poster up on her bedroom door of that famous photo of David holding the child he’d rescued. Other wolves who had admitted what they were tended to be firemen, policemen, and military: the good guys one and all.
    She could have smelled the spin-doctoring from orbit. Spin-doctoring wasn’t lying, not precisely. David Christiansen’s little group of mercenaries had a very good reputation among the people Leslie had talked to. They got the job done with minimal casualties on all sides and they were good at what they did. They didn’t take jobs from the bad guys. Because of that, Leslie was keeping an open mind—but because she was naturally cautious, she also was keeping a pair of silver bullets (hastily purchased) loaded in her carry gun.
    The door opened behind her and she turned to see a young woman enter the room who looked like she should still be going to high school. Leslie felt that way all too often when she met the new recruits fresh from Quantico. The girl’s light reddish brown hair was braided severely in an attempt to make her look older, but the effect wasn’t enough to offset the freckles that burst across her pale cheeks or the innocent honey brown eyes.
    “Oh, hi,” the girl said brightly, her voice touched just a little with a Chicago accent. “I thought I’d be the first one here. It’s a bit early.”
    “I like to get the lay of the land,” said Leslie, and the younger woman laughed.
    “Oh, I get that,” she said, grinning. “Charles is like that.”
    Charles would be her partner, Leslie thought. They must be from Cantrip. This child wouldn’t be a werewolf—there were supposed to be a few female werewolves, Leslie knew, thanks to her Internet crash course, but they were protective of them. They’d never have sent this one out among the feds. Come to think of it, she wouldn’t have left the girl alone, either.
    “So why isn’t your Charles here, then?” He’d abandoned her to the wolves. It made her want to blister his hide—and she hadn’t even met him. What if it had been the werewolf awaiting the girl here rather than an FBI agent?
    Leslie received a slow grin that took in her private censure and found it amusing. “He lost a bet and had to bring coffee for everyone. He’s not happy about it, either. I probably shouldn’t enjoy it so much, but sometimes I take great pleasure in sending a man off in a snit; don’t you?”
    She surprised a laugh out of Leslie. “Don’t I just,” she agreed before taking a wary breath. This one was getting to her—
she
never laughed while she was working. She reassessed the other woman. She looked like a teenager dressed in a tailor-made, gray pin-striped suit-dress that somehow appeared to be a costume she was wearing rather than real clothing.
    “I bet,” Leslie said, testing an idea, “that dangerous men stumble all over themselves to make sure you don’t stub your toe.”
    She knew she was right when, instead of looking flustered, the woman just