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. Unless the Montreal office is completely staffed with incompetents, how has he avoided detection?”
Again, the faintest hint of approval in Sebastian’s eyes, even less than a pat on the schoolboy’s head.
He said, “Only a werewolf can hide from a werewolf—and then only with great difficulty. If these were the actions of an ordinary human, I should think someone would have heard or smelled or seen something long before now.”
“So you’re saying it is one of us, after all.” My tone was flat, devoid of emotion. But what I felt was a slow cold rage, a roiling contempt, a furious sense of shame and betrayal that one of our own could stoop so low. The traitor had to be rooted out, destroyed like a blight on a shrub before it did any more damage. He deserved no mercy.
“It does seem logical. Did you have another thought?” Sebastian asked.
I hesitated, hoping that my next words wouldn’t sound as badly motivated as they felt. I said, very carefully, “When did you last speak with Michael?”
The older man was a master at concealing his thoughts, and he betrayed neither surprise nor outrage. “Last week, I believe. He may no longer be my heir, but he is a dutiful son.” The words whose loyalty to the pack is unquestioned remained unspoken.
But I pursued the issue, “He’s doing well, then?”
“By some standards, I suppose. He’s working with humans, building houses for them.”
I managed a smile. “We’ll be awarding him major industrial contracts before the year is out.”
“Most likely,” agreed Sebastian without a flicker of humor.
“And his wife…”
“The human,” supplied Sebastian. Again, his distaste was carefully disguised.
“Yes. Agatha, isn’t it?”
“They seem to be very happy.”
“They probably have no secrets from each other.”
“Probably not.”
“You might want to check,” I concluded with care and deliberation, “whether either of them has been to Montreal lately.”
And Sebastian replied, with equal deliberation, “I think I’ll let you do that.”
I remained silent, not daring to speculate on what this might mean.
“There has never been a
