Wolf In Waiting. Rebecca Flanders

giving me some real authority, an assignment to carry out, a responsibility of my own. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was something that would allow me to act as a second-in-command should, to prove my worth and my usefulness. I would do anything.

      Or at least that was what I thought until Sebastian went on.

      “You know, of course, about the trouble in New Orleans.”

      I nodded. Everyone knew about that. It was the most shameful thing that had happened to our kind in centuries. One of our own had gone renegade and had actually started killing humans, one a month for the past eight months, each killing coinciding with a full moon. Already, human reporters were calling him the “werewolf killer.” What might happen if they knew how close to the truth they really were?

      “He has to be stopped,” Sebastian said matter-of-factly, “and it’s plain the human world will not be able to do so. Little surprise. They can’t even control their own lawbreakers. No, this renegade is our responsibility. We will have to intervene to save both our worlds from further damage…and to preserve the peace we’ve kept with humans for all these thousands of years.”

      My throat went dry as I thought I understood what my assignment was to be. My tracking skills were only fair, but as Sebastian himself had pointed out, I was extremely clever. Could Sebastian mean to send me after this killer? I was not short on courage, but I had no desire to commit suicide. And if someone as unqualified as I should take on such a task, that was exactly what it would be.

      On the other hand, if Sebastian wanted to get rid of me, there could hardly be an easier way.

      And then Sebastian said, “However, that is not your concern, except to know that it’s been dealt with…and not to complain,” added Sebastian with a wryness so subtle that it was almost overlooked, “that the current administration is not keeping you abreast of the situation.”

      I was so surprised at my narrow escape—and so relieved—that it was a moment before I could focus on the next part of Sebastian’s statement.

      “What has not been nearly so well publicized among us,” he went on, “and what you doubtless don’t know, is that there is a far greater threat within our ranks than this renegade human-killer. One which strikes, you might say, a great deal closer to home.”

      He turned from the fire then, hands still clasped behind his back, and addressed me directly. “Over the past four months, Clare de Lune has lost the formulas to three of our newest products—MA471, SR389 and DL400. In addition, we’ve had to pull production on Tango and Cobalt because, quite simply, our competitors beat us to them.”

      I felt the color drain from my face. I was on my feet. “What? Why wasn’t I informed?”

      Sebastian made a small decisive movement with his wrist that gestured me back into my chair. I resumed my seat reluctantly, my hands tight on the arms of the chair.

      Sebastian said, “The truth only came to light a few weeks ago. Since then, we’ve made a concerted effort to keep the knowledge of the fiasco as limited as possible. The more people who know about it, the wider the circle of suspects. However, the details have been uploaded under your access code now.”

      Because of the enhanced sense of hearing we all share, it is difficult to keep a secret in the werewolf community. Matters of security were therefore routinely handled through the written word, or these days, via computer. Not that security itself had ever been much of a concern among us, for pack loyalty is one of the few absolutes we hold sacred. We all work for the same company. We all share the same profits. Clare de Lune Cosmetics—and, by extension, the St. Clare Corporation—was not only our livelihood but our life. Why would anyone betray it? And more important, who?

      As though reading my thoughts, Sebastian said, “We’ve been able to do some eliminating, and we think we have the source of the leak narrowed down to the Montreal office.”

      Some of the tension went out of my shoulders and I thought, Of course. The Montreal office housed the marketing and advertising division of Clare de Lune and it was staffed more heavily by humans than any other department. Although quite a few humans were employed in various capacities by the St. Clare Corporation, only in advertising were they actually able to rise to positions of authority—and confidence. And humans were infinitely corruptible, their loyalties easily purchased.

      Of course, if a human employee had committed this perfidy, some werewolf was still accountable. That disturbed me deeply. How could anyone be so careless?

      Sebastian watched the changing expressions on my face with detached interest, following the line of reasoning as it was reflected in my eyes. Then he said, “There’s more.”

      He crossed to his desk and opened a drawer. He returned in a moment with a crumpled scrap of paper that looked as though it had been torn from a larger sheet. He handed it to me.

      It was—or had once been—a sheet of office stationery. Most of it had been torn away, so that only scraps of words were visible in most places, and no identifying telephone numbers or names remained on the letterhead. Two consecutive sentences remained intact, however, and they were enough:

      What I’ve given you so far is nothing, the real secret is how they do it. There are things about these people—if people is even the right word—that are difficult to believe, even for me.

      I looked up slowly, frowning. “It sounds as though the writer is talking about…”

      “Knowledge of our true nature,” Sebastian supplied. “And he—or she—seems to indicate a willingness to share that knowledge.”

      “But that would be foolish. No human would believe what we are even if they were told. What point would there be in telling such a secret?”

      Sebastian shrugged. “There are those who believe a secret worth keeping is also worth telling—or selling, as the case may be. At any rate, such a thing is simply unacceptable. Whether or not the truth would be believed is immaterial. It will not be allowed to reach that point.”

      I murmured, “No, of course not.” I was examining the paper. “How did this happen to be found? Why wasn’t it mailed?”

      A spark of appreciation glinted briefly in Sebastian’s eyes, and I felt like a schoolboy passing approval on my observational skills.

      “It was in the trash bin of the fax room at the Montreal office,” Sebastian answered. “Apparently, the sender attempted to destroy it after faxing the message, but wasn’t entirely successful. He should have used the shredder.”

      “Doesn’t the machine keep a log we could check?”

      “Of course. But hundreds of faxes go out of that office every day, many of them to competitors. Without knowing exactly when this particular message was received, we have no way of tracing it.”

      “Which one of our competitors, I wonder, has been the lucky recipient of our trade secrets?”

      “An interesting question, actually. Two of our formulas went to two different companies, one we haven’t been able to definitively trace yet, and the other two went to Sanibel Cosmetics. That doesn’t preclude one company’s buying all the formulas and selling off those it doesn’t want. Interestingly enough, Sanibel’s corporate headquarters are in Montreal.”

      I studied the half-torn paper again. It did not necessarily mean what it implied. It didn’t really even mean that the author of this letter was the same person who had been selling secrets to the outside. But it was certainly enough, with all the other circumstantial evidence at hand, to narrow the search to the Montreal office.

      It was then that I realized there was something I had overlooked. I looked up at Sebastian.

      “If it’s a human, if he’s somehow managed to get his hands on these secrets, and if he’s even by some incredible stretch of the imagination managed to piece together enough information to speculate on our true identity, how could he possibly have avoided detection? This human is surrounded by werewolves at least eight hours a day.