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nylon strap—better than handcuffs, he thought, but not much. The boy didn’t look up as they came in.
    Maybe it was the name, or maybe the image that “foster kid” brought to mind, but he’d expected Devonte to be black. Instead, the boy looked as if someone had taken half a dozen races and shook them up—Eurasian races, though, not from the Dark Continent. There was Native American or Oriental in the corners of his eyes—and he supposed that nose could be Jewish or Italian. His skin looked as if he had a deep suntan, but this time of year it was more likely the color was his own: Mexican, Greek or even Indian.
    Not that it mattered. He’d found that the years were slowly completing the job that Vietnam had begun—race or religion mattered very little to him anymore. But even if it had mattered . . . Stella had asked him for help.

    Stella glanced at her father. She didn’t know him, didn’t know if he’d see through Devonte’s defiant sullenness to the fear underneath. His expressionless face and upright military bearing gave her no clue. She could read people, but she didn’t know her father anymore, hadn’t seen him since . . . that night. Watching him made her uncomfortable, so she turned her attention to the other person in the room.
    â€œHey, kid.”
    Devonte kept his gaze on the wall.
    â€œI brought someone to see you.”
    Her father, after a keen look at the boy, lifted his head and sucked in air through his nose hard enough she could hear it.
    â€œWhere are the clothes he was wearing when they brought him in?” he asked.
    That drew Devonte’s attention and satisfaction at his reaction slowed her answer. Her father’s eye fell on the locker and he stalked to it and opened the door. He took out the clear plastic bag of clothes and said, with studied casualness, “Linnford was here asking about you today.”
    Devonte went still as a mouse.
    Stella didn’t know where this was going, but pitched in to help. “The police informed me that Linnford’s decided not press assault charges. They should move you to a room with a view soon. I’m scheduled for a meeting tomorrow morning to decide what happens to you when you get out of here.”
    Devonte opened his mouth, but then closed it resolutely.
    Her father sniffed at the bag, then said softly, “Why do your clothes smell like vampire, boy?”
    Devonte jumped, the whites of his eyes showing all the way round his irises. His mouth opened and this time Stella thought it might really be an inability to speak that kept him quiet. She was choking a bit on “vampire” herself. But she wouldn’t have believed in werewolves either, she supposed, if her father weren’t one.
    â€œI didn’t introduce you,” she murmured. “Devonte, this is my father, I called him when I saw the crime scene photos. He’s a werewolf.” If he was having vampire problems, maybe a werewolf would look good.
    The sad blue-gray chair with the ripped naughahyde seat that had been sitting next to Devonte’s bed zipped past her and flung itself at her father—who caught it and gave the boy a curious halfsmile. “Oh I bet you surprised it, didn’t you? Wizards aren’t exactly common.”
    â€œWizard?” Stella squeaked regrettably.
    Her father’s smile widened just a little—a smile she remembered from her childhood when she or one of her brothers had done something particularly clever. This one was aimed at Devonte.
    He moved the chair gently between his hands. “A witch’s power centers on bodies and minds, flesh and blood. A wizard has power over the physical—” The empty bed slammed into the wall with the open locker, bending the door and cracking the drywall. Her father was safely in front of it and belatedly she realized he must have jumped over it.
    He still had the chair and his smile had grown to a