Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author

RACHEL VINCENT

“I liked the character and loved the action. I look forward to reading the next book in the series.”

—Charlaine Harris, author of the Sookie Stackhouse novels

“Compelling and edgy, dark and evocative, Stray is a must read! I loved it from beginning to end.”

—New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter

“Vincent’s urban fantasy series features a well-thought-out vision of werecat social structure as well as a heroine who insists on carving her own path, even if it means breaking some of her society’s most sacred taboos.”

—Library Journal

“I had trouble putting this book down. Every time I said I was going to read just one more chapter, I’d find myself three chapters later.”

—Bitten by Books

“Vincent continues to impress with the freshness of her approach and voice. Action and intrigue abound and Faythe is still a delight.”

—RT Book Reviews

Find out more about Rachel Vincent by visiting mirabooks.co.uk/rachelvincent and read Rachel’s blog at urbanfantasy.blogspot.com

Shifters series

STRAY

ROGUE

PRIDE

PREY

SHIFT

Coming soon

ALPHA

Shift
Rachel Vincent

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To No.1, who takes care of everything I forget and makes it possible for me to do what I love. Thank you.

Acknowledgements

Thanks first of all to my critique partner, Rinda Elliott, whose suggestion changed the last third of this book—for the better. Thanks for showing me the forest, in spite of the trees.

Thanks to Elizabeth Mazer and everyone at MIRA for all the behind-the-scenes work it takes to turn a manuscript into a book.

Thanks to my editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, for her patience and dedication.

Thanks to my agent, Miriam Kriss, who makes things happen.

And thank you so much to the readers who have hung in there with Faythe and her Pride. Your words of praise and encouragement—and even the occasional distraught letter of disbelief—keep me writing, determined to make each book better than the last.

One

“You should leave. Now.” My father’s growl of warning resonated in some dark, primal part of me, and suddenly I craved torn flesh and fresh blood glistening in moonlight. Wave after wave of bloodlust crashed over me and I swayed beneath the onslaught, struggling to control it. We would have justice for Ethan. But this was not the time. Not the place.

Though my father’s office practically sizzled with the rage that flowed through me and my fellow enforcers, Paul Blackwell, acting head of the Territorial Council, seemed completely unaffected. I watched him from my place near the closed office door, both arms—my right still in a cast—crossed over my chest.

Blackwell planted his old-fashioned wooden cane firmly on the Oriental rug and leaned on it with both hands. “Now, Greg, calm down…I’m only asking you to consider the greater good, which is exactly what you claim you’ll honor, if you’re reinstated as council chairman.”

Unfortunately, that seemed less likely with each passing day. In the week since we’d buried my brother, Nick Davidson had announced his support of Calvin Malone as council chair, which meant that my father now needed the last remaining vote—from Jerold Pierce, my fellow enforcer Parker’s dad—just to tie everything up.

And a tie wasn’t good enough. We needed a clear victory.

My father sat in his wing chair at the end of the rug, and his refusal to rise was—on the surface—an uncharacteristic show of disrespect toward a fellow Alpha. But I knew him well enough to understand the truth: if he stood, he might lose his temper. “You’re asking me to let my son’s murder go unavenged.” His voice was as low and dangerous as I’d ever heard it, and I swear I felt the rumble deep in my bones. It echoed the ache in my heart.

“I’m asking you not to start a war.” Blackwell stood calm and steady, which must have taken substantial self-control, considering my father’s comparative youth and bulk. And his obvious rage. Even in his late fifties, Greg Sanders, Alpha of the south-central Pride and my father, was a formidable force.

My dad growled again. “Calvin Malone started this, and you damn well know it.”

Blackwell sighed and glanced around the room, and as his tired gaze skirted the three other Alphas grouped near the bar and the scattering of enforcers along the walls, I got the distinct impression that he would much rather have been alone with my father.

The other Alphas and two enforcers apiece had arrived early that morning for one last strategy meeting before the south-central Pride and our allies launched the first full-scale werecat offensive the U.S. had seen in more than six decades. It was Saturday. We planned to attack in three days—just after sundown on Tuesday night. Anticipation hummed in the air around us, buzzing like electricity in my ears, pulsing like passion in my veins.

We could already feel the blows, every last one of us. We could taste the blood, and hear the screams that would soon pierce the still, cold February night. We were living on the promise of violence in answer to violence, and several of the toms around me teetered on the thin edge of bloodlust, riding adrenaline like the crest of a lethal wave.

Surely Blackwell had known his mission was a failure the moment he walked into the house.

Our allies were expected, but Paul Blackwell’s arrival had been a total surprise. Just after lunch, he’d pulled into the driveway in a rental car driven by his grandson, a cane in the old man’s hand, determination in his step. But that wouldn’t be enough, and neither would the authority of the Territorial Council, which he wore like a badge of honor. Or more like a badge of shame, considering that nearly half of the council’s members were present, and not one looked happy to see him.

Blackwell shuffled one foot on the carpet and closed his eyes, as if gathering his thoughts, then his heavy gaze landed on my father again. “Greg, no one is happy about what happened to Ethan, least of all me. Calvin has been formally reprimanded, and the enforcers involved—” the surviving ones, presumably “—have been suspended from duty indefinitely, pending an investigation.”

“Who’s leading this investigation?” My uncle Rick asked from across the room, a half-full glass of brandy held near his chest. “And who will be allowed as witnesses? Do you honestly think the council is capable of justice, or even impartiality, in its current state?”

Blackwell twisted awkwardly toward my uncle—my mother’s older brother. “Frankly, I think the current state of the council is nothing short of a disaster. But abandoning the very order that defines us is no way to repair the cracks that have developed in our foundation.” Then he turned to face my dad again. “Fortunately, I believe you dealt with the actual guilty party yourself.”

In fact, my father had torn out Ethan’s murderer’s throat before my brother had even breathed his last. The offending tom was disposed of in the industrial incinerator behind our barn, his ashes dumped unceremoniously on the ground several feet from the furnace, then stomped into the dirt by everyone who tread over them.

But that small act of revenge did little to ease the blazing wrath consuming all of us.

“Calvin Malone is ultimately responsible for Ethan’s death, and he will pay that price.” My father’s words came out cold, as if he didn’t feel a word he’d said. But on my right, Marc’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Jace went stiff on my left. From the couch, Michael was nodding grimly. We were ready. Vengeance was overdue.

“The council has taken official action on this matter,” Blackwell continued. “I know you’re not satisfied by that action, and that’s understandable, but if you strike at Malone after he’s accepted censure, you’ll be throwing the first punch.”

“Are we children, playing this blame game?” My father finally rose from his chair, and Blackwell had to look up to meet his fury. “Are you so focused on who’s at fault that you can’t see the larger picture? Calvin Malone is out of control, and if the council can’t rein him in, we will.”

On the other side of the room, Uncle Rick, Umberto Di Carlo, and Ed Taylor nodded in solidarity. They’d thrown their support behind my father and pledged their manpower to fight alongside us.

“The larger picture is exactly what I’m looking at.” Blackwell held his ground as my father stalked toward him. “You’re talking about civil war. How does that benefit the greater good?” He glanced down at his cane, but when he looked up, resolve straightened the old man’s thin, hunched spine. “My eyes may be old and weak, but I see this clearly, Greg. The U.S. Prides cannot afford to go to war.”

My father met his gaze steadily. “Neither can they afford to be led by Calvin Malone.” He stepped around the older Alpha and took the glass his brother-in-law held out to him, sipping from it as Blackwell turned slowly, leaning on his cane while he scanned the room.

The council chair’s gaze fell finally on my mother, who sat stiff and straight in a leather wing chair in one corner, half-hidden by the shadows. Long before I was born, she’d sat on the council, but I couldn’t remember her ever taking active part in council business during my lifetime. Yet no one had objected when she’d filed into the room behind our unexpected guest, after showing him into the office.

“Karen…” Blackwell said, and the irony of his appeal to her irritated me like a backward stroke of my fur. The old man’s record on gender equality was solidly con, yet he had the nerve to address my mother in her own home. “Would you really send your sons to die at war, if it could possibly be avoided?”

My mother’s eyes flashed in anger, and my breath caught in my throat. She stood slowly, and every face in the room turned toward her. “In case you haven’t noticed, Paul, I don’t have to send my children to war to watch them die. Less than two weeks ago, Ethan was murdered on our own land, the result of an action you sanctioned.” She stepped forward, arms crossed over her chest, and suddenly the resemblance between me and my mother was downright scary. “Yet you stand here, in my own house, asking me to speak against justice for his death? Asking my support for a council leader who stands for everything I hate? You’re a bigger fool than Malone.”

Blackwell stared, obviously at a loss for words, and the tingle of delight racing up my spine could barely be contained.

And my mother wasn’t done. “Furthermore, if Calvin Malone takes over the council, the status quo will sink to an all-new low. What makes you think I want you, or him, or any other man to tell my daughter when and whom she should marry, and how many children she should bear? Yes, I want to see Faythe married—” my mother glanced at me briefly “—but that’s because I see in her—sometimes deep down in her—the same fierce, protective streak I feel for my own children. And because I want to see her happy. That’s a mother’s right. But it is not your right. And you won’t convince a single soul here that you bear the least bit of concern for her happiness.”

“Karen…” Blackwell started, but my mom shook her head firmly.

I squirmed, in both embarrassment and pride, but my attention never wavered from my mother’s porcelain mask of fury and indignation. “Listen closely—I won’t say this again.” She took another step forward, her index finger pointed at the council’s senior member, and those spine-chills shot up my arms. “Do not mistake my even temper and my contribution to the next generation of our species as either docility or weakness. It is that very maternal instinct you’re appealing to that fuels my need for vengeance on my son’s behalf, and I assure you that need is every bit as great, as driving, as my husband’s.

“Now,” she continued, when Blackwell’s wrinkled jaw actually went slack. “You are welcome here as a guest. But if you ever again insult me or any other member of my household, I will personally show you the exit.”

With that, my mother tucked a chin-length strand of gray hair behind one ear and strode purposefully toward the door, leaving the rest of us to stare after her in astonishment. Except for my father. His expression shone with pride so fierce that if he hadn’t still been mourning the loss of a son, I was sure he would have called for a toast.

Silence reigned in my father’s office, but for the clicking of my mother’s sensibly low heels on the hardwood. Without looking back, or making eye contact with anyone, she pulled open the door—and almost collided with a pint-size tabby cat.

“Kaci, what’s wrong?” My mother took her by the shoulder and guided her away from the office, obviously assuming she’d been about to knock on the door. But I knew better. Kaci wasn’t knocking; she was eavesdropping.

At least, she was trying. But I could have told her from personal experience that she wouldn’t have much luck. The office door was solid oak and beneath the Sheetrock, the walls were cinder block and windowless. While those features didn’t actually soundproof the room, they rendered individual words spoken inside nearly impossible to understand. Even with a werecat’s enhanced hearing.

“I…” Kaci faltered, glancing at me for help. But I only smiled, enjoying seeing someone else in the hot seat for once. “You guys’re talking about me, aren’t you? If you are, I have a right to know.”

My mom smiled. “Your name hasn’t come up.”

Yet. But now that Blackwell had been shot down on the uneasy-peace front, I had no doubt he’d start in about Kaci. Calvin Malone was desperate to place her with a Pride that supported his bid for control of the council. His own Pride, if he could possibly swing it. In fact, Ethan had died defending Kaci from an attempt to forcibly remove her from our east Texas ranch.

And Kaci knew that.

“What’s going on, then? Is this about Ethan?” Her chin quivered as she spoke, her gaze flitting from face to solemn face in search of answers, and my heart broke all over again.

Kaci had been closer to Ethan and Jace than to any of the other toms, and though she’d known him less than three months, she was taking my brother’s death every bit as hard as the rest of us. Maybe worse. At thirteen, Kaci had already been tragically overexposed to death and underexposed to counseling. And in addition to the grief and anger the rest of us suffered, she felt guilty because Ethan had died defending her.

“Come on, Kaci, let’s get you something to eat.” My mother tried to herd her away from the office, but the tabby shrugged out from under her hand.

“I’m not hungry. And I’m tired of being left out. You keep me cooped up on the ranch, but won’t tell me what’s going on in my own home? How is that fair?”

I sighed and glanced around the office, loath to miss the rest of the discussion. But now that Ethan was gone, no one else could deal with Kaci as well as I could except Jace, and I wasn’t going to ask him to leave. The impending war had as much to do with him as it did with me; Calvin Malone was his stepfather, and Ethan was his lifelong best friend.

“Come on, Kace, why don’t we go kick the crap out of some hay bales in the barn?”

She looked at me like I’d just gone over to the dark side, but nodded reluctantly.

Marc took my hand, then let his fingers trail through mine as I stepped past him toward the door. Then I stopped and deliberately brushed a kiss on his rough cheek on the way, inhaling deeply to take in as much of his scent as possible, lingering for Blackwell’s benefit, as well as my own. To reiterate for the old coot that I would choose my own relationships.

But on my way into the hall, my gaze caught on Jace’s, and the tense line of his jaw betrayed his carefully blank expression. As did the flicker of heat in his eyes. We’d agreed not to talk about what happened between us the day Ethan died. There was really no other way to keep peace in the household, and keep everyone’s energy and attention focused on avenging my brother. And I’d sworn to myself that Marc would be the first to know. That I would tell him myself. He deserved that much, as badly as I dreaded it.

And there had been no good time for that yet. Not even an acceptable time. Every time was a rotten time, in fact, and each time Jace looked at me like that—each time I felt myself respond to the connection I wanted to deny—my internal pressure dialed up another notch.

If I didn’t break the tension soon, I was going to explode. Or do something we’d all regret.

I forced myself to walk past Jace with nothing more than a polite, sad nod—exactly what I would have given any of my other fellow enforcers—and closed the door as I stepped into the hall.

My mother was already standing there with my leather jacket and Kaci’s down ski coat. Sometimes I forgot she could move just as fast as the rest of us, if she chose.

Sometimes I forgot she had a mouth on her, too. Guess that’s where I got mine…

“Thanks.” I took the jacket and shrugged into it. “Mom, that was…awesome.” There was just no other way to describe it.

Her lips formed a straight, grim line. “It was the truth.” She pulled Kaci’s long chestnut waves from beneath her collar and forced a smile. “Come in and warm up in half an hour, and I’ll have hot chocolate.”

On the way down the hall, Kaci shoved her bare hands into her jeans pockets and glanced up at me, her frown almost as stern as the one my father typically wore. And in that instant, I wanted nothing more than to see her smile. To see her look—just for a moment—like any other thirteen-year-old. Like a teenager who knew nothing of violent death, and soul-shredding guilt, and spirit-crushing fear.

“What was awesome?” she asked, shoving the front door open.

I grinned, my mood momentarily brightened by the memory of my mother’s bad-ass monologue. “My mom just handed Blackwell his shriveled old balls in front of everyone.”

Kaci’s eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. “Seriously?” I nodded, and for a second, I caught a glimpse of what a happy Kaci could look like. “Cool.”

We stepped onto the porch and I had actually gone two steps before I realized we weren’t alone. Mercedes Carreño—Manx—sat in the wrought-iron love seat with my brother Owen. They both looked up as we approached, but their easy smiles said we hadn’t interrupted anything. No conversation, anyway. They were simply sitting together, enjoying the winter silence. And somehow their easy comfort seemed more intimate than many kisses I’d seen.

“Hey,” Kaci said, oblivious as I raised a curious brow at my brother. “Where’s Des?”

Manx shrugged deeper into her wool coat. “He is sleeping.”

My eyebrow went even higher, and Owen flushed, sliding his cowboy hat back and forth on his head. Manx never left Des. Never. The baby slept in her bed, and she sat with him when he napped. And she wouldn’t even go to the bathroom until she’d found someone she trusted to watch him while she was gone.

Yet here she sat next to my cowboy-gentleman brother, doing nothing, her hands resting easily in her lap, butchered fingernails concealed by stretchy, crocheted gloves.

“Can I play with him when he wakes up?” Kaci asked.

Manx smiled. She’d already realized that playing with the baby—though that amounted to little more than letting the one-month-old grip her finger—set Kaci at ease as little else could. “Of course.”

Kaci’s shoulders relaxed, and I couldn’t help wondering if two babies might mean twice the therapy, for Kaci and for us all. We hadn’t had time to verify it yet, but Ethan’s human girlfriend, Angela, was pregnant, and I had no reason not to believe that the baby was his.

My mother was cautiously optimistic over the news, with occasional, unpredictable bouts of unbridled delight in the moments when she let herself believe it was actually true. Nothing could fill the hole that Ethan’s death had left in all of our hearts. But his son—my mother’s first grandchild—could go a long way toward healing the wound. She couldn’t wait to meet Angela, but we’d all agreed that for the new mother’s safety, introductions would best be done after our troubles with the Territorial Council were over.

Kaci’s gaze roamed the yard in the direction of the barn. Then her eyes narrowed and a frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. I knew what she was looking at without turning.

Ethan’s grave.

We’d buried him beneath the apple tree, halfway between the front yard and the eastern field, and his headstone forever changed the familiar landscape. But that was the plan. We wanted to see him every day. To remember him without fail. To mourn for as long as we saw fit.

“I’m goin’ on ahead,” Kaci mumbled, then jogged down the steps without waiting for a response.

I hadn’t intended to linger with Owen and Manx, hesitant to interrupt…whatever they had going on. But Kaci clearly wanted a moment alone with Ethan, and I had to respect that.

“How are the digits?” I asked, sinking into a wicker chair at the end of the porch.

“Pardon?” Manx frowned until I nodded at her hands, then she held her fingers up, as if to check on them. “Oh. Much better. They only hurt when—” she paused, searching for the right word in English “—bump things.” She pushed her hands forward against nothing to demonstrate.

Nearly two weeks after being declawed, her hands had almost completely healed, but the scar tissue where her fingernails had been was still bright red and puffy. She hated the sight of them, and wore thin gloves whenever possible, only taking them off to care for the baby or herself.

I turned to glance at Kaci—halfway to the apple tree, and loping at her own pace—and idly noticed a pair of hawks circling overhead.

“How is your arm?” Manx asked, recapturing my attention.

I held up my cast, smiling at the doodles Kaci had drawn between the enforcers’ perfunctory signatures. A flower with purple petals and X-shaped eyes in the center. A pink skull and crossbones. I’d sat still for several of her masterpieces. Anything to make her smile. Though, I’d threatened to paint over them with black nail polish if she plastered any more pink on my arm.

Still, I had to admit that thinking of Kaci when I looked at my cast was much better than thinking about how I’d broken it. About the bastards who’d stolen Marc and beaten him to get information out of me—when beating me hadn’t worked.

“It’s fine. Dr. Carver says I can try Shifting in a couple of weeks.” Because broken bones take longer to heal than simple cuts and gashes. I was already itching for the transformation—and from the cast, which somehow made my arm sweat, even in the middle of February.

“She really misses him.” Owen nodded at something over my shoulder, and I twisted to see Kaci on the ground beside Ethan’s headstone, one knee brushing the freshly overturned earth.

“Yeah, she—”

“What the hell?” Owen demanded, and I peered over the porch railing. “Have you ever seen hawks that big? They must have spotted something to eat, from the way they’re circling.…”

I was on my feet in an instant, a sick feeling churning in my stomach. “Those aren’t hawks.…” They were too big, for one thing. And their wings were all wrong. Especially the tips. Even from a distance, the ends looked…weird. The birds must have been really high up before, because now that they’d flown lower, swooping in from over the woods behind the eastern field, they looked huge.

My heartbeat suddenly felt sluggish, as if it couldn’t keep up with my body’s natural rhythm. The birds were too huge. And too low. And too fast…

Oh, shit… “Kaci!” I screamed as the first bird dove toward her. She looked up and screeched, and I was already halfway across the yard.

Kaci leaped to her feet, then ducked as the first bird swooped, huge talons grasping perilously close to her head. She screamed again, and when the bird rose into the air, beating giant wings so hard I could hear the air whoosh from two hundred feet away, she stood and took off toward me.

Kaci raced across the dead grass, screaming at the top of her lungs.

I kept moving toward her, unwilling to waste energy on screams of my own. But in human form, neither of us was fast enough. I was a heartbreaking fifteen feet away when the second bird swooped, his powerful wings displacing so much air I was actually blown back a step. His talons opened wide, then closed around her upper arms.

For a moment, as he regained his balance with his new burden, I had a breathtaking view of the magnificent creature. Smooth, brown wings. Terrible, curved beak. Powerful, horrifying talons. And long, sharp wing-claws, protruding from beneath the feathers on the tips of his wings.

An instant later, the bird was aloft again, and I came to a stop with my fingertips grasping air three feet beneath Kaci’s dangling sneaker.

My heart raced along with my feet as I followed them, knowing my chase was futile. I couldn’t fly, and I couldn’t run fast enough to keep up. Because Kaci hadn’t been picked up by hawks. Our new tabby—my own beloved charge—had just been kidnapped by the first thunderbirds seen by werecats in nearly a quarter of a century.

Two

“Kaci!” I screamed as I ran, adrenaline scorching a path through my body so hot and fast I could feel nothing else. Not the biting February cold, not the ground beneath my feet, and not the bare branches slapping my face and neck when I broke into the woods behind the house.

Overhead, Kaci screamed and thrashed, skimming mere feet from the naked treetops. If it had been summer, I could never have seen her through the foliage.

The thunderbird dipped and wobbled wildly as Kaci threw her legs to one side, then he straightened and pushed off against the air with another powerful stroke of both wings. In seconds, he was ten feet higher up, and still Kaci fought him, shrieking in wordless terror.

“Hold still!” I shouted as loud as I could, hoping she could hear me over the wind and her own screams. If she fell from that height, she’d be seriously injured, even if the limbs broke her fall. And if they didn’t, she’d be dead.

Beyond Kaci and her abductor, the second thunderbird flew in a wide arc, rounding toward us again. I had a moment of panic, assuming he’d dive-bomb me, until I realized he couldn’t while I was shielded by the forest; there wasn’t enough room between the trees to accommodate his impressive wingspan—twelve feet, easy. Maybe more.

Instead of diving, the second bird simply turned a broad circle around his cohort, playing lookout and probably backup.

If the thunderbirds hadn’t been slowed by Kaci’s weight, I would have lost them entirely. Even with their top speed dampened considerably, they flew much, much faster than I could dodge trees and stomp tangles of undergrowth on two human legs. Especially considering that my focus was on the sky, rather than on my earthbound obstacles.

Within minutes, they were a quarter mile ahead, at least, though they never rose more than about forty feet over the skeletal forest canopy.

How long can he carry her? I shoved aside a long, bare branch just in time to avoid a broken nose. But then I glanced up again and tripped over an exposed root, and tumbled forward like a felled tree.

My hands broke my fall, but the impact radiated up both arms, shooting agony through the still-broken one. I barely paused for a breath before shoving myself back to my feet, brushing my scraped and bleeding hands on my jeans. But before I’d made it back to full speed, my tender, broken arm now clutched to my chest, a black blur shot past on my right, leaping easily over a tangled evergreen shrub I would have had to circumvent.

Backup. Thank goodness someone had Shifted. If I’d taken the time, we’d have lost sight of Kaci.

The tom moved too fast for me to identify by sight, but a quick whiff as I dodged a reed-thin sapling and skirted a rotting stump gave me his identity. Owen. And surely more were on the way.

Not that there was anything any of us could do from the ground…

My brother sprinted ahead of me and out of sight, but I could still hear him huffing and lightly breaking twigs, since speed was more important than stealth at the moment. And I pressed on at my infuriatingly human pace, my throat stinging from the cold air, my hands burning with various cuts and scrapes.

After about a mile, I was blindly following both Owen and Kaci, and had completely lost track of what heading we were facing. I was pretty sure we’d changed directions at least once, and I could see no logic in the birds’ flight path, other than trying to lose us. And staying over the trees, presumably so that cars couldn’t follow.

So when the birds—and Kaci—suddenly dipped out of sight, I totally panicked. My heart tripped so fast I thought it would explode, yet I couldn’t urge my feet into motion fast enough. I lunged ahead, slapping aside branches with both arms now, heedless of my cast, barreling through the woods in the direction I’d last seen Kaci. I could no longer hear Owen over the whoosh of my own pulse in my ears.

Until he roared, up ahead and to my right.

I put everything I had left into one more sprint, and seconds later, I burst through the tree line onto the side of a country road less than two miles from the ranch.

And froze, staring at the spectacle laid out before me.

Owen raced down the deserted street, already ten yards ahead, heading straight for a car parked on the shoulder a good three hundred feet in front of him. Over his head, both birds soared swiftly toward the car, descending as they came, Kaci still clutched—now struggling anew—in the talons of the nearest bird.

I ran after Owen as the driver’s side door opened and a man stepped out of the car. Owen huffed with exertion. My quads burned. The man pulled open the car’s rear door. The first thunderbird swooped gracefully toward the earth—and shock slammed into me so hard it almost knocked me off balance.

Three feet from the ground, the bird had feet. Bare, pale human feet, where there had been sharp, hooked talons a moment before. Then his head was human, but for the wicked, curved beak jutting in place of both his mouth and nose.

Surprised to the point of incomprehension, I slowed to a jog, my gaze glued to the most bizarre Shift I’d ever seen in my life. I could perform a very limited partial Shift. A hand, or my eyes, or even most of my face. But this was beyond anything I’d ever even considered. No cat could Shift so quickly, and what the thunderbird had just done was tantamount to a werecat Shifting in midleap!

This scary between-creature thumped gracefully to the ground several feet from the car, naked legs half-formed, torso mostly feathered, wings still completely intact. An instant later, Owen pounced on him.

Powerful wings beat the air—and my brother. Long brown feathers folded around Owen, stealing him from sight for an instant before they spread wide again, and the fight began for real.

Claws slashed. A beak snapped closed. Blood flowed. Owen hissed. The bird squawked, a horrible, screeching sound encompassing both pain and fear, and other things I couldn’t begin to understand. And a set of thin, gruesomely curved wing-claws arched high in the air, then raked across my brother’s flank.

Owen howled, and his own unsheathed paws flew. The car’s driver—a short, bulging man with a sharply hooked nose—stood carefully back from the melee, unwilling to intercede on either side in his current, defenseless state. Then his head shot up, and I followed his gaze to see the second bird swooping for a landing, twenty feet from the car, Kaci dangling from his talons.

I was running again in an instant.

The second bird dove lower and spread his huge wings to coast on a cushion of air. Then he opened his talons and unceremoniously dropped Kaci three feet from the ground.

The tabby landed hard on her left foot, then fell onto her hip with a dull thud. Her mouth snapped shut, cutting off a scream that had already gone hoarse. A heartbeat later, her captor simply stepped out of the air and onto the ground a yard away, on two human feet, his feathers already receding into his body, wings shrinking with eerie speed into long, pale arms.

He lunged for Kaci before his hands were even fully formed, but on the ground, she was faster. The tabby rolled out of reach, then shoved herself to her feet and raced across the road toward me. She had a slight limp in her left leg and her eyes were wide in terror, cheeks still dry. Though she’d been screaming for ten straight minutes, the tears hadn’t come yet. They wouldn’t until the shock faded.

The now fully human—and naked—thunderbird started after the tabby, but I was already there. Kaci collided with me so hard we almost went over sideways. Her forehead slammed into my collarbone, and her shoulder nearly caved in my sternum. I spun her around in my arms, putting my body between her and the would-be kidnapper. He’d have to go through me to get to her, and claws or not—hell, cast or not—I’d go down fighting.

At the car, Owen had the first bird pinned, muzzle clamped around his human-looking throat. At some unintelligible shout from the driver, the naked thunderbird glanced back, then turned and raced toward the car, having evidently given up on Kaci.

The driver slid into his seat and slammed the door, and the car’s engine growled to life. The last thunderbird glanced at his wounded cohort, hesitated, then dove into the backseat through the open door. An instant later, the car lurched onto the gravel road, showering Owen with rocks, and the vehicle raced around a corner and out of sight.

As soon as it was gone, Kaci seemed to melt in my arms, and it took me a moment to realize she’d just eased the death grip she had around my ribs. I stepped back and lifted her chin until I could see her face, then spit out the only coherent thought I could form. “You okay?”

“I think so.” Color was coming to her face, and her teeth started to chatter.

“What about your arms?” I held her coat while she carefully pulled one arm free. Then winced when she pushed up the baggy sleeve. Just below her shoulder were three thick welts, two on the front and one on the back, already darkening into ugly blue bruises. Her other arm no doubt held a matching set. “And your leg? You were limping.”

“I was?” Kaci frowned and took a careful step forward, then winced. “I think I twisted it when I…landed.”

“A quick Shift should fix that.” Kaci nodded, and I led her back across the street slowly, already pulling my cell from my pocket.

“Faythe?”

“Hmm?” I glanced down to find the tabby staring up at me, the shocked glaze in her eyes finally fading.

“I think I’m afraid of heights.”

I laughed. “I would be, too, after a ride like that.” I autodialed Marc while we walked, and he answered on the first ring, as I stepped onto the shoulder a good ten feet from Owen, who still had the bird—now unconscious—pinned to the ground.

“Faythe?”

“We’re on county road three, less than two miles from the ranch,” I said, and he exhaled heavily in relief. “I have Kaci and Owen has a prisoner, unconscious and bleeding. Owen’s bleeding, too.” From several obvious gashes on both flanks and across the left half of his torso.

“We’re on the way. How’s Whiskers?”

“Stunned, but okay. Her arms are bruised and she twisted one ankle, but it’s nothing a Shift and some hot chocolate won’t fix.”

Another relieved sigh, echoed by a satisfied noise from Jace. They were together?

“We’re on the way.”

I hung up and slid my phone into my pocket, then extracted myself from Kaci so I could inspect the prisoner without dragging her any closer to potential danger. “Wow. Good work, Owen.”

My brother huffed in response, and whined as I knelt and ran one hand gently over his flank, angling my body away from the bird, just in case he woke up. Owen’s injuries weren’t life-threatening, but they weren’t comfortable, either. If the bird had gotten near his stomach, he’d have been disemboweled.

“Thunderbirds…” I whispered, standing to inspect the bizarre half-bird at my feet. What the hell did they want with Kaci?

Jace pulled up three minutes later, with Marc in his passenger seat—Marc’s car had been left at his house in Mississippi—and they were both out of the vehicle before the engine even stopped rumbling.

“What the hell happened?” Marc demanded, running his hands along my arms, as if I were the one hurt. Jace paused almost imperceptibly beside me, and his heavy gaze met mine. Then he stepped past us to kneel by Kaci, inspecting her shoulders, gently prodding her ankle, and generally fussing over her as if she were the only tabby on earth. In spite of her shock, pain, and lingering grief, she blushed beneath his innocent attention and held herself straighter than in the moments preceding his arrival.

I almost felt sorry for Owen, all by himself and bleeding, still standing with his front paws on the unconscious bird-monster.

“They just swooped out of nowhere and snatched her from the front yard.” I gestured toward my brother, and Marc turned with me. “We need to get Owen back to the house.”

Marc followed me to the downed bird, as my brother moved away to give us a better view. “Is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it’s a thunderbird, then, yeah, I think so.”

Marc prodded one feathered half-arm with the toe of his boot and whistled. “Look how big his wings are.”

“They were longer than that in flight,” I said. He started to kneel, but I pulled him up by one arm. “Trust me, if he wakes up, you don’t want to be anywhere near those talons.” I pointed at the curved two-inch claws, the points of which were finer and sharper than any knife I’d ever seen.

“Okay, let’s tie him up and haul him in,” he said as I knelt next to Owen, gently stroking the fur on his good side. He whined again and laid his head on my shoulder as Marc looked over my head. “Jace, get some rope.” Because handcuffs designed for humans would never restrain those narrow bird wrists.

Of course, if the bastard woke up, he could slice right through rope, or even duct tape.

But on the edge of my vision, Jace stiffened and made no move to follow Marc’s order.

Well, shit. That was new.

Technically, Marc hadn’t been accepted back into the Pride or formally reinstated as an enforcer, in large part because we were busy with other things, and Marc’s return to the fold felt normal without official proclamations. None of the other enforcers would have hesitated to follow an order from him. Except maybe me.

Yet there Jace stood, arms stiff at his sides, jaw clenched and bulging. And he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the ground, as if trying to control his temper.

But Jace didn’t have a temper. Marc had a temper.

I stood, shooting Jace a silent warning, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. Kaci stared up at him in confusion, and a moment later Marc noticed that his order had not been followed. He glanced from the bird that had thus far held his fascination and raised a brow at Jace. “What, you don’t have rope?”

And finally, Jace looked up. He glanced briefly, boldly, at Marc, then turned toward his car without a word.

“What’s with him?” Marc brushed a comforting hand over the top of Owen’s head, where my brother stood ready to chew the bird’s throat again, should he wake up.

I shrugged, hoping my casual gesture looked authentic. “He’s probably freaked out by the giant bird attack. What is this, Hitchcock?”

Jace came back with a coil of nylon rope and a pocketknife, and in minutes we had the thunderbird’s human feet bound, and his wing-claws awkwardly tied in front of his half-feathered stomach. Even with his wingspan shortened to less than nine feet in mid-Shift, I didn’t think we’d ever get him wedged into the cargo space without further injuring him or waking him up, but Marc finally got his wings/arms bent toward his face and the hatchback closed. Barely.

Still, since we were far from sure the ropes would hold him if he woke up during the five-minute drive, Kaci rode up front with Jace, and Marc and I took the backseat, with Owen stretched over the floorboard at our feet.

Alphas and enforcers poured out of the house when we pulled into the driveway, and my father actually had to bellow for quiet to be heard. After that, my mother helped Owen into the house, and everyone else watched in silence as Marc and Jace carefully pulled the thunderbird from the back of the Pathfinder and lowered him to the dead grass in the arc of the half-circle drive.

Then the whispers began.

The Alphas made their way to the front of the crowd and my father stepped forward, pausing first to put a broad, gentle hand on Kaci’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked, and she nodded, her eyes huge. “Manx, can you take her inside and get her cleaned up?”

“Of course.” Manx wrapped one arm around Kaci’s shoulders as she escorted the limping tabby toward the front door. For the first time since the allies had descended upon the ranch, Kaci wasn’t the center of attention. And she seemed just fine with that.

Jace closed the hatchback and stepped aside to make room for his Alpha. My father knelt next to the bound, unconscious creature and began a slow, thorough visual examination, no doubt cataloging every detail in his head. If the council weren’t fractured—possibly beyond repair—he would make a formal report of the incident as soon as possible. And though that would almost certainly not happen under the current circumstances, I had no doubt that he would record his observations.

Sightings of thunderbirds were rare enough to be historic, and I’d never heard of a werecat making actual physical contact with one. Much less being snatched and carried off like a giant worm for a nest of monstrous chicks. A kicking, screaming worm.

“What is that?” Ed Taylor, Alpha of the Midwest territory, eased forward slowly, as if his curiosity barely trumped his caution and blatant disgust.

My Alpha stood but didn’t take his gaze from the spectacle. “I believe this is a thunderbird.”

“Greg, it has feet,” Blackwell pointed out evenly, leaning on his cane from several feet away.

“As do you,” my dad said. Several toms chuckled then, and I couldn’t disguise a smile. “He’s obviously partially Shifted.”

“And they’re much better at it than I am. Than we are,” I corrected, glancing around to see several of the toms who had already mastered the partial Shift. “They can Shift in the middle of a landing. Rapidly. That’s why he has feet and wings at the same time. And they have these wicked wing-claws.” I pointed to where his nonhands were tied, and several toms edged closer for a better look. “Owen could tell you all about those.”

“What on earth do they want with Kaci?” Uncle Rick knelt at my father’s side for a closer look. “They aren’t known to attack people. If they were, we’d know more about them. As would humans.”

But no one had an answer to that, so I shrugged as Marc’s arm slid around my waist. “Maybe they didn’t want her in particular. Maybe she was just the first one they saw.” Because the rest of us had been under the porch roof. “Or maybe she’s the only one light enough to carry.”

My father gave me a vague nod. But the truth was that we had no idea.

Marc started to say something, but Jace beat him to the punch, stepping up to my other side. “What do you want us to do with him?”

Marc scowled, but looked to our Alpha for an answer, as did everyone else.

For a moment, we got only thoughtful silence, as my father stroked the slight, graying stubble on his chin. “For now, we’ll put him in the cage, and when he wakes up, we’ll question him. In the meantime, let’s see what we can find out about thunderbirds.”

It took some careful maneuvering, but finally Marc and Jace were able to carry the bird down the narrow concrete steps into the basement, then into the cage. They left him tied, because as easily as he Shifted, we had no doubt he could get out of his bonds as soon as he woke.

On my way to my room to shower after my race through the woods, I passed the room Owen had shared with Ethan. At first I couldn’t make myself go inside. Ethan’s death was still too fresh. His memory too immediate. His room still smelled like him, and entering it felt like walking through his ghost.

But then Kaci beckoned me with a wave, and I steeled my spine and stepped through the doorway, pausing to smile to Mateo Di Carlo, my fellow enforcer Vic’s older brother. Teo hardly noticed me, and he didn’t seem particularly interested in Owen, either. However, he watched Manx tend to her patient as if her every motion fueled a single beat of his own heart.

I sighed and turned to my brother. Owen lay on his bed in human form now, naked but for his green-striped boxers. The gashes across his ribs looked horrible, and the one bisecting his left thigh looked even worse.

“You okay?” I asked, as Manx knelt to gently blot his leg with a sterile cloth.

“I’ve had worse,” he said, and forced his smile. That was the standard enforcer reply, but in his case, it wasn’t true. Owen had seen less action than Ethan or our oldest brother, Michael, or even me. Not because he couldn’t fight, but because he was just as happy tending the farm while the others patrolled and went on assignment. Only Ryan, the second born, had done less fighting, and we all considered that a very good thing; he was still officially on the run after having broken out of the cage two weeks earlier.

But I nodded. Owen had stepped up in Ethan’s absence and likely saved Kaci’s life. He’d earned his scars, and like the rest of us, he would wear them with pride.

When I bowed out of the room several minutes later, I found Jace waiting for me in the hall. Suddenly irritated, I glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Fortunately, most of the toms were in the kitchen devouring leftovers from my mother’s Mexican lunch buffet, and Marc, Vic, and the Alphas had disappeared into the office, already looking for information on thunderbirds. So I grabbed Jace by the arm and hauled him into my room without a word.

“Wow, I haven’t been in here in a while.” He grinned the moment the door closed behind us. “But I feel at home already.”

Anger flooded me, tingling in my nerves as if my whole body was losing circulation. “This isn’t funny!” I hissed. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jace’s flirtatious facade crumbled to reveal the weathered pain, anger, and grief that had fueled his every action since the day Ethan died. “I don’t know.” He pulled out my desk chair and sat backward in it, crossing his arms over the top. “I just…for a minute out there, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bend to him.”

“It’s not bending, Jace. It’s working. Marc gives the orders in Dad’s absence, and we follow them.”

“I know,” he said, and I breathed a silent sigh of relief that he hadn’t called me on Marc’s lack of an official position. I couldn’t have handled that without losing my temper. “But it felt different this time, and I couldn’t do it.”

“Jace…” I sank onto the end of my bed wearily, brushing long black hair from my forehead. I didn’t want to get into this so soon. I wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened between us. Not so soon after Ethan’s death. Not with everything else going on.

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said before I could find a good finish to my hasty start. “I can’t explain it. But I’m over it. I can play my part until you’re ready to tell him.”

But what the hell would I tell him? That I’d slept with Jace? That was true, but incredibly—miserably—that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. I desperately didn’t want to hurt Marc, and I couldn’t stand it if I lost him. I wasn’t sure I could actually force another breath out of my body if I thought I’d ever lost him for good. But I didn’t want to lose Jace, either.

And I wasn’t even sure what that meant.

I didn’t have Jace. But we’d connected after Ethan’s death, and it hadn’t been a simple grief-stricken moment of comfort. Though, it was certainly that, too. But the truth was that grief had crumbled my resistance to a bond we’d formed earlier. One I’d been denying, because of what I had with Marc.

But I wasn’t ready to understand what that meant. And I sure as hell wasn’t ready to try to explain it to Marc. So Jace and I had agreed to stay…apart. Completely hands-off. But if he wasn’t more careful than he’d been today, we’d soon be explaining ourselves to more than just Marc.

“You have to watch yourself,” I whispered, glancing at my hands in my lap.

“I know.” He stood, heading for the door, but I shot up and jogged ahead of him.

“Wait, let me check.” I grabbed the knob, but before I could turn it, Jace was in front of me, so close I could feel the heat of his cheek on mine. But he wasn’t touching me. He held his body so close, a sheet of paper would have wrinkled between us, but he didn’t make contact.

“Jace…”

“I know,” he whispered again, this time against my cheek. “It’s not the time. But that time will come, Faythe. I’m not asking you to choose. You know that. But I am asking you to be honest with yourself. You owe us both that.”

With that, while I stood breathing so hard my vision started to darken, he pulled the door open a crack—pushing me forward a step—and peered around me into the hall. When he was sure it was clear, he stepped out and closed the door.

Leaving me alone in my room, haunted by possibilities too dangerous to even contemplate.

Three

“What did I miss?” I sank onto the couch between Marc and my uncle Rick and glanced around the office full of Alphas. Ed Taylor and Bert Di Carlo sat across the rug from me, on opposite ends of the love seat. Blackwell was in the chair my mother had previously occupied, which someone had moved to the corner of the rug nearest the couch. And my dad sat in his wing chair at the end of the rug and the head of the room, where he could see everyone all at once.

“Very little, unfortunately.” My father sighed and folded his hands over the arms of his chair. “It turns out that we know almost nothing about thunderbirds, other than what you and Owen just learned.”

I shrugged and folded one leg beneath me on the center cushion. “How much is ‘almost nothing’?”

Marc huffed. “They fly, and they’re shy.”

Umberto Di Carlo—Vic and Mateo’s father—leaned forward on the love seat. “Other than today’s incident, we’ve found no record of any thunderbird sighting since your dad saw one, had to be, what?” He glanced at my father. “Thirty years ago?”

My dad nodded, both hands templed beneath his chin. “At least.”

Di Carlo turned back to me and continued. “We don’t know where they live, how many of them there are, or even how their groups are organized. And we don’t know anyone else who knows any of that.”

“None of the other Alphas?”

“Who would you suggest we ask?” Marc turned to half grin at me.

Good point. All the Alphas who weren’t with us at that moment were allied against us. Even if they knew something and were willing to help, how could we trust anything they told us?

“I’ll make some calls,” Blackwell began. “But I’m sure that if anyone else had had recent contact with thunderbirds, we’d all have heard about it.”

Heads all around the room nodded. This was big news. Huge.

“Okay, so what are the facts?” My father glanced around his office like a teacher at the front of his classroom.

“They evidently Shift in motion.” Ed Taylor ran one hand over dark, close-cropped hair. He looked like a retired marine, and maintained the best physical shape of any of the Alphas, most of whom were beyond the enforcing age.

Di Carlo nodded. “They know where we live.”

“They can carry human passengers,” Uncle Rick added.

“Yeah, but they can’t fly very high or fast under the burden. Or very far.” Based on the fact that they’d had a car and driver waiting. I pulled my other leg beneath me and sat yoga-style on the couch, barefoot. “In fact, I’m not sure they could carry anyone much heavier than Kaci. Not without doubling their efforts, anyway.”

“Do you think they’re gone?” Marc glanced around the room for opinions, but only Blackwell seemed to have one.

“I doubt it, considering we have one of theirs.”

“And hopefully we’ll know a lot more about this once he wakes.” Something shuffled on the floor behind me, and my father glanced over my head. “Yes?”

I twisted to see Brian Taylor—Ed Taylor’s youngest son and our newest enforcer—standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. “Sorry to interrupt, but, Dad, have you seen Jake?”

Each of the visiting Alphas had brought a son and one other enforcer, as both bodyguards and requisite entourage, so the house was practically bursting with testosterone. Jake had come with his father; my uncle had brought my cousin Lucas, the largest tom I’d ever personally met; and Di Carlo had brought Mateo, his second born.

“Not lately. Why?” Taylor frowned at his son.

“He went out on patrol about an hour ago and didn’t come back when the whole air raid went down. I kinda got a bad feeling.…”

Taylor’s frown deepened, and my father stood, instantly on alert. “Everyone in the office!”

Toms filed in from the kitchen, and my mother stepped in after the last one, with Kaci peeking around her shoulder.

“You’re going out in pairs,” my father began, as the other Alphas stood. “Spread out, but stay with your partners.”

“We’re looking for Jake?” Jace asked. He hadn’t looked at me since he’d entered the room, and that very fact told me he wanted to. If we hadn’t connected, he wouldn’t go to such obvious trouble to avoid me.

Better decide what to tell Marc soon… Because if Jace couldn’t get it together, someone was going to notice him acting weird around me. And Marc.

“Yes. It doesn’t make much sense to Shift, in case the birds are still in the area. You can’t slash overhead without exposing your underbelly. And hopefully you’ll see them coming from a way off.”

Now that we knew to look for them…

“You’ll hear them, too, once they get close,” I added. “Those wings are strong, but not exactly stealthy.”

My father nodded. “What can we scrounge up in the way of weapons?” Because in human form, even with that swing-overhead advantage, we were pretty defenseless against talons.

“Tools,” Marc said. “Hammers, crowbars, tire irons, a couple of big wrenches.” All of which had gotten plenty of use two weeks before, when we’d fought a huge mob of strays trying to kill Marc in front of us to send a message.

“Knives,” my mother added softly. “I have three sets of butcher knives and several boning knives, all of which should work just as well on live birds as on dead ones.” The only person who looked more surprised than I felt was Paul Blackwell, who surely realized by then that his appeal to my mother as the “gentler sex” had fallen on not only deaf, but grief-hardened ears.

“And a meat mallet.” Jace crossed thick arms over his chest, and that time he did smile at me, while most of the toms chuckled. Even those who hadn’t been present had heard about me taking out a stray with a massive meat mallet in lieu of my claws, during my trial in Montana three months earlier. Apparently that one was going to stick with me.

“Good.” Even my father cracked a small, brief smile. “Karen, will you arm the troops?” Anyone else would have gotten a simple order. My mother got a request.

She nodded solemnly, then ushered Kaci into the kitchen as Dad turned back to the rest of us. “Pair up, and report to my wife to be armed. Call your Alpha if you find anything. Dismissed.”

Marc and I stood as the others filed out of the office and across the hall. He took my hand, and Jace watched us, forgetting to look away for a moment. To look uninterested. But then Brian stepped into his line of sight, just before Marc looked up, and surely would have noticed.

“You ready?” Brian had been paired with Jace since Ethan’s death, and now that Marc was back, we’d been reunited in the field, even with his unofficial status. Owen and Parker were still partners, but since my brother was temporarily out of commission, Parker would head out with Vic, who was currently partnerless because of the uneven number of enforcers.

Jace nodded and followed Brian across the hall with one more glance at me.

“He’ll be okay.” Marc nodded toward Jace’s back as he slid one arm around my waist. “Ethan’s death hit us all pretty hard, but it changed him.”

My heart nearly burst through my chest and I struggled to get my pulse under control. “What do you mean?”

He hung back to let me through the doorway first, so he didn’t see my eyes close in silent, fervent hope that he hadn’t seen too much difference in Jace. Or in me. “He’s serious all the time now. Morose and angry. It’s creepy.”

“He’s a better enforcer for it,” I said, and Marc nodded without hesitation. I knew what he was thinking: too bad it took my brother’s death to bring out Jace’s true potential.

A line had formed in the kitchen, leading in through the hall and out through the dining room. Kaci and my mom stood behind the bar, handing out an assortment of makeshift weapons that would have made any action-movie bad-ass proud. Toms left in pairs, clutching knives or tools someone had gathered from the basement and from assorted car trunks.

Ed Taylor and my uncle Rick were at the head of the line, and right behind them stood my father and Bert Di Carlo. The Alphas selected weapons, then headed toward the door with the enforcers, and I blinked in surprise. Then nodded in growing respect. Most Alphas were past their physical prime—although a glance at Taylor would undermine that assumption—and while they still had to Shift and exercise to maintain good health, they didn’t often patrol or hunt with their men.

The fact that they were all going to go out in search of our missing man filled me with more pride than I knew how to contain. They knew that every life was valuable, and unlike Calvin Malone, they were willing to put their own tails on the line to prove it.

Jace and Brian accepted their weapons in front of us and headed outside without a backward glance.

“Here.” As I stepped up to the counter, Kaci reached to the side of the dwindling selection and picked up a large hammer with a black rubber grip. “I saved this one for you. Figured you’d need an advantage, working left-handed.” She nodded toward my casted right arm.

My mother watched out of the corner of her eye, sliding a large wrench across the counter toward Marc while I arched one brow at Kaci. The tabby hated violence, which, on the surface, should have made her the ideal young tabby. But Kaci was raised as a human, by human parents who’d had no idea they’d each contributed the recessive gene necessary to transform their youngest daughter into a werecat at the onset of puberty.

Considering what she’d been through—accidentally killing her mother and sister during her first Shift, then wandering through the woods for weeks on her own, stuck in cat form—Kaci’s die-hard pacifist stance was no surprise. But it wasn’t enough to make her into what the opposing half of the council wanted. Because she was raised as a human, Kaci had human expectations from life, none of which included marrying the tom of her Alpha’s choosing and siring the next generation of werecats—as many sons as it took to get a precious daughter.

And Kaci had a mouth, and she was not afraid to use it. Which made certain elements of the council even more determined to get her out from under my questionable influence.

“Thanks.” I forced a smile, and met my mother’s gaze over Kaci’s head.

“Be careful,” she said, and I nodded. Then Marc and I went out the front door after the others.

Several pairs of enforcers had gone into the woods, but Jace and Brian were headed for the west field, so Marc and I started out in the opposite direction, walking several feet apart, and breathing through our noses in spite of the February cold burning my nostrils. We didn’t want to miss a scent.

It was eerily quiet in the field, other than the whisper-crunch of our boots crushing dead grass. Though the temperature had risen dramatically from the ice storm a couple of weeks earlier, it was still hovering in the mid-thirties, and my fingers had gone stiff with the cold. I tried to shove them in my jacket pockets, but my cast stopped my right hand at the first knuckles. My nose was running, and I sniffled as we turned at the edge of the field, eyeing the periwinkle-colored sky in distrust.

Danger had never literally come out of the blue before. Out of tree branches, yes. Overhead beams, second stories, and even porch roofs. But never from the sky, and suddenly I felt unbearably vulnerable standing in a wide-open field, where before, such surroundings had always made me feel free and eager to run.

And my paranoia was not helped by the fact that, though no one had said it out loud, we were obviously looking for a body on our own land.

On our third pass through the field, I dug a tissue from my left pocket and held it awkwardly to blow my nose—yet another simple activity rendered nearly impossible thanks to my cast. Then I froze with the folded tissue halfway to my pocket. My first unobstructed breath had brought with it a familiar scent, and an all-too-familiar jolt of fear.

Blood. Werecat blood.

“Marc,” I said, veering from the path in search of the source of the scent. He followed me, sniffing dramatically, and his pace picked up as he found the scent. Cats can’t hunt using only their noses. Unlike dogs, we just aren’t equipped for that. But we could find the source of a strong scent if it stayed still.

And this scent was horribly, miserably, unmoving.

The scent grew stronger the farther north we went, and after race-walking for less than a minute, glancing around frantically for any sign of the missing tom, I froze in my boots when my gaze snagged on a smear of red on a stalk of grass, half hiding a pale hand lying limp on the ground, fingers half curled into a fist.

I made myself take that next step forward, in spite of the dread and fury pulsing inside me. And when the body came into full view, I gasped, horrified beyond words.

If the whole mess hadn’t been nearly frozen, we would have smelled it sooner.

Jake Taylor lay on his back, so covered in blood that at first I couldn’t make sense of the chaotic, violent images my eyes were sending my brain. There were too many gashes. Too much blood. Too little sense.

“Oh, hell,” Marc said, and I flinched, though he’d spoken in little more than a whisper. He flipped open his phone and autodialed my father with the hand not holding the wrench while he squatted next to the body, careful not to step in the blood.

But I still stared.

I’d seen a good bit of carnage in my seven months as an enforcer, but nothing like this. Nothing so utterly destructive. So senselessly violent. Not even the scratch-fevered stray I’d seen perched in a tree, consuming a human victim. Even that had made a certain mad, gruesome sense compared to Jake’s death. The stray had been hungry, and had only damaged his victim in the process of eating him.

But Jake was damaged beyond all reason. His face was a mass of shredded flesh, eyes ruined, his nostrils and lips almost torn from his face. His arms had fared no better; the sleeves of his jacket were ripped along with his skin, from wrist to elbow, probably in defense of his face.

But the worst was his stomach. Jake had been completely and thoroughly eviscerated from so many lacerations—any one of which would have been fatal—that it was impossible to identify individual wounds.

“East field, near the tree line.” Marc glanced up to see if anyone else was nearby, the phone still pressed to his ear. “But it’s…gruesome. Don’t let the Taylors over here. They shouldn’t have to see this.”

“Thanks. We’ll be right there,” my father said from the other end of the line.

Marc pocketed his phone, and I knelt before he could ask if I was okay. I was fine. An Alpha-in-training was always fine, right? There was no other choice.

“Damn, these bastards are brutal,” Marc said, and I nodded, plucking a brown-and-black chevroned feather from the grass where its tip had landed in blood, like the devil’s quill. It was easily twice the length of my hand.

“But this wasn’t either of the birds who took Kaci. Couldn’t have been. We’d have seen blood on them. Smelled it. We were only a few yards away when they landed.”

“The driver, then?” Marc asked.

“That’s my guess. I didn’t get very close to him, and he was dressed. So it’s certainly possible.” I hesitated, unsure I really wanted the answer. Then I pressed on, because I needed to know. “Have you ever seen damage like this?”

“Never.” And that was saying a lot, coming from my father’s most experienced enforcer. “Cats don’t do this. Not even the crazy ones.”

Footsteps crunched toward us from behind, and we turned to see my father headed across the field, Bert Di Carlo on his heels, both frowning in grim certainty.

My dad came to a stop at my side and his jaw tightened when his gaze found Jake Taylor. Di Carlo’s face went completely blank. Without a word, my father pulled his phone from the pocket of his one casual jacket and pressed and held a single button.

“Hello?” Jace said.

“Take Brian back to the office and pour him a drink.”

For a moment, there was only silence. Then, “I’m on it.”

My dad hung up, then scrolled through his contacts list as Di Carlo reached out for the feather I still held from the puffy, bloodless end. I gave it to him gladly, and he whistled, morbidly impressed with the size.

“Rick?” My father said into his phone when a muffled, scratchy voice answered.

“Yeah?” My uncle came in loud and clear that time.

“We found Jake, and we’re taking him to the barn. Take Ed back to the house, please.”

“Will do.”

The last call my dad made, while Marc rubbed my upper arms to warm me, went to Vic. His order was simple. “Grab a roll of plastic and come to the east field, near the tree line. You’ll see us.” He hung up without a word from Vic.

“Well, Greg,” Di Carlo said, as my father slid his phone into his pocket. “I don’t know what they want, but it looks like they’ve got our number.”

“Kaci…” I whispered, horrified by the possibility of what might have been. But then merciful logic interceded. “But if they’d wanted to hurt her, they could have. They wouldn’t even have bothered with the car. Right?” I needed to hear that she hadn’t come close to a horrible death. A horrible kidnapping was quite enough.

The Alphas nodded, and Marc took my good hand in his. “So why kill Jake, then?”

My father sighed and finally looked up from the dead tom. “My guess is that he saw them coming. Didn’t you say they flew out in that direction?” He pointed toward the trees to the east.

“Yeah. So they killed him to keep him from warning us?” I glanced from face to face in disbelief, but the question was largely rhetorical. We all knew the answer. “Why didn’t he call?”

“Reception’s spotty in the woods, but it looks like he tried.” My father gestured to something in the grass behind me and I turned to see a cell phone lying on the ground, smeared with blood, already flipped open and ready for use.

“They couldn’t have gotten to him in the woods. Their wingspan has to be twelve feet or better. They’d have broken both arms trying to flap in there.”

Marc’s frown deepened. “They waited until he came into the open, then attacked.”

“And they must’ve done it fast to keep us from hearing.” Di Carlo shook his head. “This was planned. They want something.”

“What could thunderbirds want with us?” I wondered aloud, as Vic and Parker appeared from around the barn, one carrying a large black bundle.

“We’ll find out when Big Bird wakes up,” Marc said.

My father shook his head. “We’ll find out now. Wake him up and make him sing.”

Four

Marc and I headed for the house while Vic and Parker took Jake to the barn. On the way to the basement, we passed the silent office, where Ed and Brian Taylor were seated on the couch with their backs to us. Jace met my gaze briefly from the love seat, and I shook my head, confirming what he’d already guessed. What the Taylors surely already knew. That we’d found a body, not an injured tom.

I felt guilty walking by them without a word, but it wasn’t my place to tell an Alpha that his son was dead. Thank goodness.

The kitchen was empty, but I could hear Kaci talking with Manx and Owen in his room as I jogged down the concrete basement stairs after Marc, only pausing to flip the switch by the door.

Two dim bulbs inadequately lit a cinder-block room almost as large as the house overhead. The thick blue training mat was scattered with huge feathers the thunderbird had lost on his way down the stairs, and most of our outdated but well-used weight-lifting equipment had been shoved into the far corner near where the old, heavy punching bag hung. The door to the small half bath stood open, and a weak rectangle of light from within slanted over a folding table holding stacks of cassette tapes and an ancient stereo.

The room was damp, grimy, and one of few places in the house that my mother had attempted to neither clean nor decorate. It was strictly utilitarian, and well used.

It was also a prison.

The corner of the basement nearest the foot of the stairs was taken up by a cage formed by two of the room’s cinder-block walls and two walls of steel bars. The cell held only a cot in one corner, with no sheets or pillows. Just outside the bars stood a water dispenser and a single plastic cup, narrow enough to fit through the bars, if held by the top or bottom. A coffee can—serving as a temporary toilet—sat next to the water dispenser.

They were miserable accommodations. And yes, I knew from personal experience. I once spent an entire month in the cage—most of that time in cat form—when I threatened to run away again, after having been hauled back the first time. What can I say? I was intemperate in my youth. And in much of my early adulthood.

And I have to admit that I prefer the view from outside of the bars.

“He’s still out,” Marc said, and I followed his gaze to the half-bird still unconscious on the concrete floor, just as we’d left him. He lay on his back, weird, elongated wing-arms stretched to either side so that the feathers on one brushed the bars. The end of his opposite arm lay hidden from sight—and likely folded—beneath the cot.

Even half-Shifted, the creature’s arm span was at least ten feet.

“Suggestions?” I asked, my fury and fear muted a bit by sheer amazement as I stared at the bird up close, half-repelled by the thick, curved beak where his human mouth and nose should have been.

Marc never took his gaze from the cage. “Get the hose.”

I pulled open the door beneath the staircase and rummaged in the dark for a minute before my hand found the smooth, textured hose coiled around what could only be a broken weight bar. I slid my good arm through the coil and carried it to the utility sink near the weight rack. When I had the hose hooked up to the huge faucet—moderately encumbered by my cast but determined to do it on my own—I uncoiled it loop by loop until it stretched across the room to Marc.

He raised both brows, finger poised over the trigger of the high-pressure nozzle. “This should be interesting.…” Marc squeezed the trigger, and a long, straight, presumably cold stream of water shot between two bars of the cage, blasting the back concrete wall and lightly splattering the unconscious bird. Marc adjusted his aim, and the jet of water hit the bird squarely on his sparsely feathered chest.

The thunderbird sat up with a jolt, gasping in air—and a little water—through his malformed beak. His right wing-arm shot up an instant faster than his left, too quick to be anything other than instinct, protecting his face and torso, though his feathers were instantly drenched.

The bird made a horrible, pain-filled squawking sound and backed against the wall, where he slid to his knees and wrapped his long, feathered arms around his torso.

Marc released the trigger and the water stopped, but the bird remained huddled and dripping on the floor. In the sudden silence, he gasped for breath and I heard his heart racing with shock. But his pulse slowed quickly as he regained control of himself, and when he lowered his wings, the bird glared at us through small eyes as dark as my own fur, his expression as hard as the concrete blocks at his back.

“Stand up and Shift so you can speak,” I said, desperately hoping he spoke either English or Spanish. Because he could be from Chile, for all we knew. Or Pluto, for that matter.

For a moment, he only stared at us, hostility gleaming in his shiny eyes. Or maybe that was water from his rude awakening. But when Marc re-aimed the hose, the bird stood slowly and spread his arms. His left one was reluctant, and he flinched as he forced it into place, flexing his wing-claws as if to show them off. Then he cocked his head to one side, like he was thinking, and closed both eyes. A very soft, eerie whispering sound seemed to skitter across my spine, and I watched in fascination as his feathers receded into his skin and his arms began to shorten.

It happened in seconds.

Marc and I stood in silent shock.

The fastest Shift I’d ever accomplished was just under a minute, and I was one of the fastest Shifters I’d ever met. Probably because I’m smaller than most toms—thus have less body to change—and more experienced than most teenagers, who have less to change than even I do.

But this bird—every bird, if the sample we’d seen was any indication—had me beat, paws down. Or talons down, as the case may be. And his Shift was weird. The fur that receded in my own was only an inch long, and not much thicker than human hair, but feathers had long, stiff quills. There was no way feathers twelve to fourteen inches long should have slid so quickly and easily into his skin.

Yet there the thunderbird stood, fully human and unabashedly naked, watching us in obvious, wary hatred. He was short—no more than five foot four—and thin, with a disproportionately powerful upper body and spindly legs. He would pass for human if he were clothed, but he would definitely stand out, though most people would be unable to explain exactly why.

While we stared, he ran his right hand over his thick chest and narrow waist, casually touching the gashes Owen had carved into him. His hand came away bright red. The water had washed away dried and crusted blood and had reopened the wounds. He held his left arm stiffly at his side, and when I looked closer, I could see that it was lumpy. Obviously broken, and certainly very painful. But he made no sound, nor any move to cradle his injury.

“What is this?” The thunderbird’s voice was gravelly and screechy, as if he spoke in two tones at once. It was a strange sound, oddly fitting for his unusual build.

“I’m Marc Ramos. This is Faythe Sanders. We ask the questions.” Marc knelt to set the nozzle at his feet, then stood and met my gaze, gesturing with one hand toward the prisoner. He wanted me to take the lead. Just like my father, he was always training me.

My dad had told us to start without him—he wanted to break the news to Ed Taylor personally—so I stepped forward, careful to stay out of reach of the bars. Waaaay out of reach, because of how long his arms could grow and how fast he Shifted. Even injured. “What’s your name?” I crossed both arms over my chest and met the bird’s dark glare.

He only blinked at me and repeated his own question. And when I didn’t answer, he smiled—an expression utterly absent of joy—and cocked his head to the other side in a jerky, birdlike motion. “This is your nest, right? Your home? That ground-level hovel you cats burrow into, for what? Warmth? Safety? You huddle in dens because you cannot soar. I pity you.”

My eyebrows shot up over the disgust dripping from his every syllable. “Maybe you should pity yourself. You’re still bleeding, and it looks like you’ve broken a wing. You’re in good company.” I held up my own graffitied cast. “But mine’s been fixed. If yours doesn’t get set properly, you can’t fly, can you? Ever.”

His narrowed eyes and bulging jaw said I was right. That I’d found his weak spot.

“Our doctor is just a couple of hours away.” Dr. Carver had already been called in to treat Owen. “But you won’t get so much as a Band-Aid until you tell us what we want to know. Starting with your name.”

The thunderbird cradled his crooked arm, but his gaze did not waver. “Then I will never fly again.” He looked simultaneously distraught and resolute—I’d seldom seen a stronger will.

“Seriously?” I took a single step closer to the bars, judging my safety by distance. “You’re going to cripple yourself for life over your name? What good will you be to your…flock, or whatever, if you’re jacked up for the rest of your life?”

Doubt flickered across his expression, chased away almost instantly by an upsurge of stoicism. “The rest of my life? Meaning, the three seconds between the time I spill my guts and you rip them from my body? I’d say a broken arm is the least of my problems.”

I rolled my eyes. “We’re not going to kill you.”

“Right. You’re going to fix me up and toss me out the window with a Popsicle stick taped to one wing.” He shrugged awkwardly with the shoulder of his good arm, leaning against the cinder-block wall for support. “I’ve seen this episode. This is the one where Sylvester eats Tweety.”

“If memory serves, Sylvester never actually swallowed, and while I love a good poultry dinner, we can’t kill you without proof you’ve killed one of ours. And you don’t match this.” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the fourteen-inch feather I’d found next to Jake’s body. I’d stored it shaft-first, to preserve the pattern of the vane.

The difference was subtle but undeniable. Our prisoner’s feathers were dark brown, with three thick, horizontal black stripes. But the one in my hand had two thick stripes and one thin, in the middle.

Marc stepped up when the thunderbird’s forehead furrowed as he stared at the feather. “We can’t kill you, and you’re entitled to water and two meals a day.” At least, that’s what the council said a werecat prisoner was entitled to. We didn’t actually have any precedent for how to treat prisoners of another species. “But we don’t have to tend your injuries or let you go, so you’ll stand there in pain for as long as it takes you to start talking.”

“Then I suppose I should make myself comfortable.” The thunderbird’s gaze openly challenged Marc, who had at least ten inches and thirty pounds on him, without a hint of fear.

Marc’s inner Alpha roared to life; I saw it in the gold specks glittering madly in his eyes. I laid my casted arm across his stomach an instant before he would have rushed the bars. Which would only have convinced the prisoner he was right in refusing to talk.

I’d just realized something that might actually come in handy. The bird was clearly devastated by the thought of never flying again, in spite of his willingness to endure it. He hated our low-lying dwelling and the thought of “huddling” in it.

“Yes, make yourself comfortable.” I extended my good arm to indicate the entire basement. “It stays pretty warm in here, thanks to the natural insulation of earth against cinder block.…”

The bird’s forehead furrowed and his legs twitched, as if he were fighting the impulse to stand. Or to try to flee. His dark gaze roamed the large, dim room and finally settled on one of the only two windows—short, narrow panes of glass near the ceiling, which came out at ground level outside.

“We’re underground?” His odd, raspy voice was even rougher than usual.

“Yup. You’re not only in our ‘ground-level hovel,’ you’re beneath it. Trapped in the earth. Completely buried, if you will.” He flinched at my word choice, but I continued. “You won’t see the sky again until you answer our questions. And I can have those windows blacked out right now, if you want the full effect.”

Panic shone in his eyes like unshed tears. I was right. Our prisoner—and likely most thunderbirds—suffered from a fascinating combination of claustrophobia and taphephobia, the fear of being buried alive. And I was more than willing to exploit that fear, if it made him talk without endangering either of us.

“Or, I can open them and let you see outside.”

The bird’s silent struggle was obvious as he fought to keep his expression blank. To hide the terror building inside him with each breath. But I knew that fear. I’d been locked up more than once, and while I wasn’t afraid of being swallowed by the earth, I did fear the loss of my freedom just as keenly as he feared his current predicament.

But the bird was strong, obviously unaccustomed to giving in, to either his fear or his enemies. He’d need a little shove.…

“Can you feel it?” I scooted just far enough forward to be sure the motion caught his attention. “Those bricks at your back? They’re holding back tons of dirt and clay. Solid earth. There’s nothing but eight inches of concrete standing between you and death by asphyxiation. Or maybe the weight would crush you first. Either way, live interment. Can’t you almost taste the soil…?”

Marc was staring at me like I’d lost my mind. Or like I’d crossed some line he would never even have approached. But I’d seen him work. He’d readily pound the shit out of a prisoner to get the information he needed. How could my calm, psychological manipulation be any worse than that?

The bird had his eyes closed and was breathing slowly, deliberately, through his mouth, trying to calm himself.

“Honestly? I can’t let you out. Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the authority.” I shrugged, lowering my tone to a soothing pitch. “But I can make this much easier for you. We can open those windows, and even the door.” I pointed at the top of the staircase. “In the morning, you’ll see sunlight from the kitchen. That’d be better, right? Might just make this bearable?”

“Open the door,” he demanded, the dual tones of his voice almost united in both pitch and intensity. Feathers sprouted from his arms, and one fluttered to the floor. He flinched and his left arm jerked. Startled, I jumped back and smacked my bad elbow on Marc’s arm. He steadied me with one hand, and I stepped forward again. The thunderbird hadn’t noticed. His focus was riveted on the closed door, as if he were willing it to open on its own. “Open it,” he repeated.

“Give me your name.”

“Open the window.” He forced his gaze from the door and met mine briefly, before his head jerked toward the closed windows and his hair disappeared beneath a crown of shorter, paler brown feathers.

“Your name.”

He groaned, and his legs began to shake against the concrete floor, his knobby knees knocking together over and over. “Kai.”

“Kai what?” I stepped closer to the bars, thrilled by my progress and fascinated by his reaction.

“We don’t have last names. We aren’t human.” He spat the last word as if it were an insult, as if it burned his tongue, in spite of the sweat now dripping steadily from his head feathers.

“Get the window.” I turned to Marc, but he was already halfway across the basement. He flipped the latch on the first pane and tilted the glass forward.

Cold, dry air swirled into the room, almost visible in the damp warmth of the basement. Kai exhaled deeply. His crown feathers receded into his skull and he opened his eyes. He wasn’t all better. It would take more than a fresh breeze for that. But he could cope now.

“Good. Now, let’s get acquainted.” Metal scraped concrete at my back, and I sank into the folding metal chair Marc had set behind me. “Where do you live? Where is your flock?”

“It’s a Flight,” he spat. “And you couldn’t get there if you wanted to. But you don’t want to. Trust me.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’d shred you in about two seconds.”

“Like your friend shredded ours? In the field just past the tree line?”

Kai cocked his head again and raised one brow. “Something like that.”

“Why can’t I get to your home?”

“Because you can’t fly.”

“What does that mean?” Marc set a second chair beside mine. “You live in a tree? ’Cause we can climb.”

But Kai only set his injured arm in his lap and pressed his lips firmly together. He was done talking about his home.

“Fine.” I thought for a moment. “How ’bout a phone number? We need to talk to your Alpha. Or whatever you call him. Or her.”

Kai shook his head and indulged a small smile. “No phone.”

“Not even a land line?” Marc asked, settling into the second chair.

“Especially not a land line.” The bird paused, and after a calming glance at the open window, he let contempt fill his gaze again, then aimed it at both of us like a weapon. “Your species has survived this long by sheer bumbling luck. By constantly mopping up your own messes. We’ve survived this long by staying away from humans and by not making messes in the first place. We don’t have phones, or cable, or cars, or anything that might require regular human maintenance. Other than a few baubles like programs on disk to entertain our young, we have nothing beyond running water and electricity to keep the lights working and the heat going.”

I grinned, surprised. “You need heat? Why don’t you just migrate south for the winter?”

Kai scowled. “We are south for the winter. Our territorial rights don’t extend any farther south than we live now.”

I filed that little nugget of almost-information away for later. “Okay, so you live like the Amish. How can one get in touch with your…Flight?”

Kai almost smirked that time. “In person. But in your case, that would be suicide.”

I couldn’t stop my eyes from rolling. “So you’ve said. Why exactly is your flock of Tweetys ready to peck us to death on sight?”

The thunderbird’s eyes narrowed, as if he wasn’t sure he could trust my ignorance. “Because your people—your Pride—” again he said it like a dirty word “—killed one of our most promising young cocks.”

I blinked for a moment over his phrasing and almost laughed out loud. Then his meaning sank in. Male thunderbirds were called cocks. Seriously. Like chickens.

And he thought we’d killed one of theirs?

“We will attack until our thirst for vengeance is sated, even if we have to pick you off one by one.”

I glanced at Marc in confusion before turning back to the bird. “What the hell are you talking abou—” But my question was aborted for good at the first terrified shout from above.

I glanced up the stairs toward the commotion—deeply pitched cries for help and rapid, heavy footsteps—then back at Kai. The thunderbird was grinning eagerly. His anticipation made my stomach churn.

Then Kaci’s panicked screeching joined the rest, and I raced up the concrete steps with Marc at my heels.

Five

I threw open the door and we burst into the kitchen in time to see my uncle Rick and Ed Taylor tear down the wide central hallway toward the back door, momentarily shocked out of fresh grief by whatever new horror had just ripped its way into our lives.

Marc passed me in the hall, and I was the last one out of the house—other than Owen, who looked frustrated and furious to be confined to his bed. By the time I made it onto the small, crowded back porch, the screaming had stopped, though I could still hear Kaci sobbing softly somewhere ahead. The only other sounds were the quiet murmurs of several Alphas trying to figure out what had happened and someone’s agonized, half-coherent moans.

My heart thumped as I made my way down three steps and onto the pale winter grass, politely nudging and tapping shoulders to make a path for myself. Fifty feet from the porch, the Alphas stood huddled around a masculine form whose face I couldn’t yet see. My mother knelt on the ground by the tom’s head, but she seemed to be talking to him rather than administering first aid.

At the edge of the surrounding crowd, Manx stood with Des cradled in one arm, the other wrapped around Kaci’s shoulders as tears streamed down the young tabby’s face.

A shallow breath slipped from me in relief when I saw that she was okay, if terrified. Until I realized Jace wasn’t with her.

No…

I edged toward the form on the ground, my pulse racing as I tried to remember whether or not he had a pair of brown hiking boots, which was all I could clearly see of the injured tom. But I didn’t know Jace like I knew Marc. I didn’t have his wardrobe memorized, nor could I predict what he would say or do in any given situation. Yet my relief was like aloe on a sunburn when Jace stepped up on my left, miraculously uninjured. His hand brushed mine, but he didn’t take it, well aware that Marc was on my other side. And that we were surrounded by people.

“It’s pretty bad,” Jace whispered.

“Who is it?” I made no move for a closer look.

“Charlie.” Charles Eames was my uncle’s senior enforcer. His older brother was John Eames, the geneticist who’d discovered the truth about how strays were infected, and about Kaci’s “double recessive” heritage. Their father had been an Alpha up north when I was little, but none of his sons married. When he retired, his territory went to his son-in-law, Wes Gardner. Who was now firmly allied with Calvin Malone.

That particular tangle of family ties was just one example of why civil war would devastate the U.S. Prides. There were only ten territories, and everyone I knew had friends and relatives in most of the other Prides. Drawing lines of allegiance was very delicate work, and keeping them in place would be nearly impossible.

Charlie groaned again, and I steeled my spine, then stepped forward for a closer look. Marc came with me, and we knelt opposite my mother beside the downed tom. It took most of my self-control to hold in my gasp of shock and horror at what I saw.

Charles Eames lay with his head turned toward my mother, staring at her as if she were a meditative focal point. Perhaps the only thing keeping him conscious. Both of his arms and one leg were crooked—obviously broken at multiple points—and the bone actually showed through the torn skin of his left arm, where someone had ripped his sleeve open to expose the injury. Blood pooled from his arm, still oozing from the open wound.

“Needed a cigarette,” Charlie whispered to my mom. “Was only a few feet from the porch.” His eyes closed and he flinched as he drew in a deep breath.

My mother frowned and began unbuttoning his shirt. Gently she pulled the material from the waistband of his jeans and laid his shirt open to expose his torso. The left side of his chest was already blue and purple; at the very least, he’d broken several ribs, on the same side as his broken leg and the arm with the open fracture. He’d landed on his left side.

“How many were there?” My father bent to help my mom pull the rest of the shirt loose, and Charlie started shivering.

“Two. From the roof.” He flinched over another short inhalation, as every single head swung toward the house, to make sure we hadn’t just walked into a trap. But the roof was clear now. The birds wouldn’t take on so many of us at once. Hopefully.

I crossed my arms against the cold as Charlie continued, and my father shifted into his line of sight so the injured tom wouldn’t have to strain to see him. “I heard this whoosh, and when I turned around, they were on me.” He coughed, then swallowed, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. “Then I was in the air. One had my arm, one my ankle.”

“I can’t believe they could carry you,” I said, thinking of how the first thunderbird had struggled with Kaci, as little as she weighed.

“Weren’t trying to.” Charlie closed his eyes again, and spoke without opening them. “They took me up about thirty feet, then let me go.”

My own eyes closed in horror. They’d dropped him on purpose. And if he’d weighed any less, they might have dropped him from higher up. They weren’t trying to take him. They were trying to kill him.

When I opened my eyes, I found my father watching me, and I saw the same bitter comprehension behind the bright green of his eyes. Thunderbirds were unlike any foe we’d ever faced. They swooped in out of nowhere, then flew off once they’d inflicted maximum damage. We couldn’t defend ourselves from their talons, nor could we Shift fast enough to truly fight them. And we certainly couldn’t chase them across the sky.

In the span of a single hour, they’d injured Owen, gravely injured Charlie Eames, and killed Jake Taylor. We were down three men, at the worst possible time.

The lump in my throat was too big to breathe around. How could we fight Malone if we didn’t survive the thunderbirds?

“Greg…” Vic emerged from the crowd and my dad stood to take the phone he held out. “I got him on the line.”

“Thank you.” My Alpha turned to pace as he spoke into the phone, while my mother did what she could for Charlie. “Danny? How close are you?” He paused as Dr. Carver said something I couldn’t quite make out over the static. “Can you get here any faster?”

I squeezed Marc’s hand when it slid into my good one, and we followed my father away from the crowd to listen in on his call. If he hadn’t wanted anyone to hear, he’d have gone inside.

“Depends. Do you want me in one piece?” Carver asked, and my father sighed.

“Just hurry. These damn birds dropped Charlie Eames from thirty feet up. At best guess, I’d say he’s got six or seven broken bones, and he’s not exactly breathing easy.”

“Thirty feet?” I heard astonishment and horror in Carver’s voice, and faintly I registered his blinker beeping, unacknowledged by the distracted driver. “It’s a wonder he survived a fall like that.”

“He wouldn’t have, if he’d landed on his head. Or on anything other than the grass.” Fortunately, last week’s ice storm had melted and dampened the ground so that it squished beneath our feet, no doubt softening Charlie’s landing somewhat. “I think he has a concussion and he’s in a lot of pain. What should we do for him?”

Marc and I headed toward the gathering as my father nodded and “uh-huh’d” the doctor’s directions on how best to get Charlie inside without damaging him further. Kaci caught my attention, still sobbing softly on the edge of the crowd. Manx had taken the baby inside—it was still cold out, and Owen was alone in the house—so Jace had moved in to comfort the poor tabby, but he could do little in that moment to truly calm her.

“You need your coat,” I said, rubbing her arms when she started to shiver. But her problem was more than just the temperature.

“Is that what they were going to do to me?” Kaci stared straight into my eyes, refusing to be derailed by my concern for her health. “Were they going to drop me?” Her eyes filled with tears and her pitch rose into a near-hysterical squeal.

Jace frowned at me over her head, and I glanced to the left, where my mother and several of the enforcers were trying to follow Dr. Carver’s instructions. “Let’s go inside, where it’s—” safer “—warmer,” I said, thinking of Kai’s prediction and his fellow thunderbirds perched on our roof.

“No!” Kaci scowled, and my heart ached to see a younger version of an expression I’d worn time and again. “You can’t just tuck me away in some safe pocket and keep me in the dark.” People were looking now, and my mother frowned at me, warning me silently not to let Kaci upset Charlie any more than his numerous broken bones already had. But the tabby wouldn’t be quieted, and I recognized the determination in her expression—from my own mirror. “That was almost me, so I’m entitled to answers,” she insisted. “What do they want?”

I sighed, well aware that nearly everyone was watching us now, including Charlie. “They want revenge.”

My father’s eyebrows shot up, then his forehead wrinkled in a deep frown. He pushed Vic’s phone into my uncle’s hand without a word and stalked toward me. “I think it’s time I met this thunderbird.”

My father stood just in front of the folding chairs, staring down at the prisoner, who’d made no move to stand, even after my dad introduced himself as an Alpha. “I understand your people—your Flight—” he glanced at me for confirmation, and I nodded “—thinks we’re responsible for the death of one of your own? A young man?”

The thunderbird nodded but remained seated, his broken arm resting carefully in his lap, but not quite cradled, as if showing pain would be admitting weakness. Werecats had similar instincts. Weakness means vulnerability, and admitting such to an enemy could get your head ripped right off.

But his refusal to stand was an outright insult, and his bold eye contact said he damn well knew it.

“Your name is Kai?” my father continued; we’d filled him in upstairs. The thunderbird nodded again. “Do you have some kind of proof I can examine, Kai? Because to my knowledge, none of my men has ever even seen a thunderbird before today. And killing someone of another species is precisely the kind of thing I would hear about.”

Though, there were always surprises. Toms like Kevin Mitchell, whose crimes went unnoticed until it was too late.

Kai sat straighter, though it must have hurt the stilloozing gashes across his stomach. “We accepted evidence in the form of sworn testimony from a respected member of your own community.”

“Wait…” I crossed both arms over my chest and ventured closer to the bars, confident that the bird was now too weak and in too much pain to lunge for me. And that if I was wrong, I could defend myself from one caged bird with a broken wing. “Someone told you we killed your…cock?” I resisted the urge to grin. What was a crude joke to us was serious business to him, and making fun of our prisoner would not convince him to cooperate.

Still, that joke was begging to be told. Later, when we needed a tension breaker. Where Kai wouldn’t hear.

“Who?” I demanded, frowning down at him.

“Even if I wanted to tell you—” and it was clear that he did not “—it’s not my place to say.”

“So you won’t even tell us who’s accusing us?”

“No.” He turned slightly, probably looking for a more comfortable position on the floor, but flinched instead when the movement hurt.

“How is that…just?” I almost said fair, but bit my tongue before someone could remind me that life wasn’t fair. Few enforcers knew that better than I did.

The bird heaved a one-shouldered shrug with his back pressed against the cinder blocks. “We gave our word that we would guard his identity in exchange for the information he offered. We swore on our honor.” He looked so serious—so obviously committed to keeping his promise—that I couldn’t bring myself to argue. Instead, I turned to my father, shuffling one boot against the gritty concrete floor.

“It’s Malone.” To me, it seemed obvious. Of course, in that moment I was just as likely to claim that Calvin Malone was the worldwide source of all evil. So maybe mine wasn’t the most objective of opinions.…

For a minute, I thought he’d argue. But then my Alpha nodded slowly, rubbing the stubble on his chin with one hand. “That’s certainly a possibility.…”

“It’s more than that.” I unfolded my arms to gesture with them, careful not to turn my back to the caged bird. “Who else would try to frame us for killing a thunderbird?”

Marc raised one brow in the deep shadows, silently asking if I were serious. “Milo Mitchell. Wes Gardner. Take your pick.”

“If it was either one of them, he was acting on Malone’s behalf. It’s all the same.”

My father waved me into silence and turned back to the thunderbird. “If we don’t know who’s accusing us, how can we defend ourselves? Or investigate the accusation?”

Kai stared back steadily. “That is not our concern.”

“It’s in the interest of justice,” I insisted. “If you guys value honor so highly, shouldn’t you be interested in justice?”

“For Finn? Yes.” The bird nodded without hesitation, his good hand hovering protectively over the open wounds on his torso. “That is our only motive. For you? Not in the least.”

“But you’re not getting justice for…Finn?” I raised my brows in question, and he nodded. “…if you’re attacking the wrong Pride.” Not that I was trying to pin the tail on another cat. I was just trying to get the name of our accuser. “Right?”

Kai actually seemed to consider that one. “I agree. But that’s not my call.”

“Whose call is it?” My father stepped up to my side. Marc was our backup, a constant, silent threat.

“The Flight’s.”

I frowned, uncomprehending. “So who decides for the Flight?”

Kai scowled at my ignorance. “We do.”

“All of you?” I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. Without a leader—someone to spearhead the decisionmaking process and keep the others in line—how could they function?

My father had gone still, and I couldn’t interpret his silence, or his willingness to let me continue questioning the bird on my own. But I wasn’t going to complain. If I messed up, he’d step in. “What if you disagree? Isn’t there some sort of…pecking order?”

The thunderbird nodded reluctantly. “It is only invoked in extreme cases.”

“Like this one?” I spread both arms to indicate the bird’s assault on our entire Pride.

That time Kai smiled, showing small, straight teeth he hadn’t possessed in bird form. “We were unanimous about this.”

I shook my head as if to clear it, and my hands curled into fists. “You unanimously decided to hold an innocent child responsible for an unfounded allegation of murder that has nothing to do with her? How is that honorable?”

The prisoner’s expression twisted into a mask of contempt. “We would not have hurt the child, even if she is our natural enemy. Nor would we have hurt you, if it could be helped. Finn was killed by a male cat, and in exchange for that information, we also agreed to try to remove the female cats from your encampment before the true melee begins.”

Melee?! Were these ninja birds? Green Berets with feathers?

My father went stiff on the edge of my vision, and Marc growled at my back. And for a moment, I was actually too surprised for words. But then indignation surfaced through my shock, singeing my nerve endings with infant flames of anger. “You agreed to remove us?” I turned to my father before the bird could answer. “I told you it was Malone.” He’d initially tried to get his paws on Kaci through political maneuvering, and when that didn’t work, he’d breached our boundaries to take her by force. My brother Ethan had died defending her, and Kaci’s blossoming sense of security was shattered. As was her confidence in our ability to protect her.

“I think she’s right, Greg.” Marc stepped between us and I could see that he wanted to put an arm around me. But a public display of affection would be unprofessional in front of the prisoner. Even simply comforting me would make me look weak.

My father nodded, convinced. Then he turned toward the bars. “You have no phones? So how can we get in touch with your Flight?”

That cruel smile returned, though this time it seemed less confident. “You can’t. They can only be reached in person, and even if I told you where to go, you couldn’t get there on your own. And in this shape—” he lifted his broken arm, jaw clenched against the pain “—I can’t take you.”

“Then how did Malone do it?” I demanded, stepping close enough to touch the bars. I wanted to wrap my hands on them, shake them in anger. But I knew from experience that they were too strong to rattle, and that gripping them in my current state of desperation would make me look like the prisoner rather than the interrogator. Especially since he currently had the upper hand. And damn well knew it.

“If you mean our informant, he was never in our nest. Our search party found him with Finn’s body.”

“How did you make a deal with him, if you weren’t all there to agree?” Marc asked, and I was relieved to realize I wasn’t the only one who didn’t understand this hive mentality thing the birds evidently had going on.

Kai shrugged again. “We function as a unit. A promise from one of us will be honored by all.”

“So, if we were to convince you of our innocence, you would promise to stop dive-bombing our toms, and the rest of you would honor that promise?” I could work with that. I was good at convincing.…

But Kai shook his head, and his lips tightened beneath another grimace of pain. “I cannot offer my word in contradiction to a standing agreement. Even if I wanted to. It would dishonor my Flight.”

Damn it!

My father turned away from the thunderbird without a word and headed for the stairs, which was our signal to follow. On the third step he paused and glanced at me over his shoulder. “Feed him, then close the door, but leave the window open.” Which would make us look merciful for the moment, and ensure that we’d get maximum effect out of closing it later, if we had to.

I nodded, and as my father left the basement, I turned back to the caged bird. “Do you eat normal food? People food?”

He grinned nastily. “I don’t suppose you have fresh carrion?” None that we were willing to let him eat. My stomach churned at the very thought.

But Marc only smiled coldly. “Personally, I feel more like poultry. Extra tasty crispy.”

Six

“No one leaves the house in groups smaller than three,” my father said, and I groaned on the inside, though I acknowledged the necessity. We’d had similar manpower restrictions in the Montana mountains during my trial, thanks to the psychotic band of strays trying to forcibly recruit Kaci. But at least then we’d been able to fight back.

Unfortunately, we had no idea how to fight the thunderbirds, and no way of knowing when or where they’d strike. And we could neither chase nor track them. We were out of our comfort zone and out of our league, unless we could find a better way to defend ourselves. Or a way to contact Kai’s Flight.

“And if Kaci’s with you, make that four,” my father amended, as his gaze fell on the young tabby pressed so closely against me I felt like I’d grown an extra four limbs.

We’d assembled in the living room this time, because it was bigger than the office and because this was a mandatory briefing for every cat on the ranch. My dad had left the door open, to make it easier for those in our makeshift triage center to hear. They’d carefully lifted Charlie into Ethan’s bed, after stabilizing his neck as the doctor had instructed. Ideally, he’d have been left where he landed until Dr. Carver could examine him, but it was too cold on the ground to leave him there, and none of us were safe outside at the moment. With all the questions still unanswered, that much was clear.

I sat on the couch, smooshed between Kaci and Marc. Jace sat on Kaci’s other side. Around us, the room was full of toms and Alphas, though only Blackwell sat, in the white upholstered armchair. The old mule looked like he was about to collapse, and only sheer stubbornness kept his spine straight. Well, that and outrage over our latest crises.

Rage buzzed throughout the room, and the word shock didn’t begin to describe our bewilderment over the sudden invasion from above.

“Although, Kaci…” my father continued, his voice stern but gentle, “I think it’d be better if you stay inside for a while.”

Kaci nodded mutely. I could only imagine how she must have felt. A few months earlier, she’d been a normal thirteen-year-old, largely ignored by her older sister and crushing on human boys her own age. Now she was priceless, when she’d once been common. Coveted, when she had once been merely accepted. Fragile compared to those around her, in spite of her exponential gain in strength, when she’d once been considered strong and healthy for a girl her age.

Everything had changed for Kaci, and she had yet to find balance in her new life. Peace and acceptance of her past would be difficult to come by when someone was always trying to snatch her from her home.

Especially this most recent attempt.

“Here’s what we know.…” All gazes tracked my father as he began to pace across the center of the room. “The thunderbirds think we killed one of their young men.” He held up one hand for silence when questions were called out from all over the room. “We’ll get to the particulars of that in a moment. But first, the bird Owen captured is named Kai. No last name—they don’t use them.”

“How do they tell one another apart?” my uncle asked, leaning against the far wall next to a morose and silent Ed Taylor. Jake’s family would not have time to truly mourn him until life returned to normal, and no one was willing to hazard a guess on how long that would take.

My dad shrugged. “My theory is that there are too few of them to necessitate repeating names.”

“Or they have a bunch of names,” I suggested. Dad started to frown at me, but I held up a hand to ask for patience. “I’m serious. They keep themselves completely set apart from human society. If we did that, even with our relatively large numbers, including the strays—” Blackwell scowled at that, but I ignored him “—would we need last names? We can tell at a single sniff what family a fellow cat is from, and if we didn’t live and work within the human society, why would we need last names?”

To my surprise, though Blackwell still scowled, everyone else actually seemed to be considering my point. “All I’m saying,” I continued, aiming my closing statement at Blackwell, “is that just because they only have one name apiece doesn’t mean there aren’t bunches of them. If their population was really that small, would they risk picking a fight with us?”

“Okay, that’s a valid point,” my father conceded. “We’ll hold off any assumption about the size of their population until we have further information from Mr.…Kai.”

“Did he give you anything useful?” Blackwell tapped his cane softly on the carpet.

“In fact, Faythe and Marc did get two valuable bits of information from him. Without pulling out a single feather.” I couldn’t help but grin at that. My father would seize any opportunity to emphasize my worth to the other council members. Ditto for Marc. “First of all, thunderbirds have no Alpha.”

Bert Di Carlo spoke up from behind me, and I twisted to see him frowning. “You mean they’re currently without an Alpha, or they never had one?”

“Never had one,” I answered. My father raised one brow but let me continue, so I bobbed my head at him briefly in thanks. “According to Kai, they make decisions as a group.”

“Like a democracy?” Kaci’s bright brown eyes shone with the first glimpse of curiosity I’d seen from her in more than a week—since I’d evaded her questions about my sex life. “So they, like, vote?”

“I don’t think it’s quite that simple. Or maybe it’s not quite that complicated.” I shrugged and altered my focus to address the entire room. “I don’t entirely understand, but the impression I get is that they make decisions as a single unit, but that it’s nothing so formal as an actual vote. And their word is their law. Literally. Kai refuses to break a vow from his Flight, or even contradict it. Even if we convince him that we’re innocent.”

“So, they’re honorable murderers?” Jace shifted on the couch to look at me around Kaci’s head, but my father answered.

“They don’t see it as murder. They’re avenging the death of one of their own, and they’ve been told by one of our own that we’re responsible for that death—a young thunderbird named Finn.”

“Who told them that?” Ed Taylor demanded, pushing off against the wall to stand straight, his still-well-toned arms bulging against the material of a pale blue button-down shirt.

“Is it true?” Blackwell asked softly, before anyone could answer Taylor’s question.

My father sighed and stopped pacing to face the elderly Alpha. “I don’t think so, but we can’t confirm that without more information, which Kai is unwilling to give us at the moment. But as soon as we’re finished here, we’ll begin contacting our Pride members for questioning one at a time. That will take a while, but I don’t see any better course of action right now.”

Blackwell nodded reluctantly, and my dad turned to Taylor.

“As for who’s accusing us…” He glanced at me, then back to his fellow Alpha. “Logic and—frankly, gut instinct—would point to Calvin Malone.”

I was watching Paul Blackwell as my father spoke, and as I’d expected, his face flushed in anger and his chest puffed out dramatically. If he’d had fur in that moment, it would have been standing on end. “You cannot go around accusing Calvin of everything that goes wrong, just because you don’t like him. You have no proof he was involved in tagging those strays, and none to show for this, either!”

No, we had no proof that Malone was responsible for implanting tracking devices in several of the strays we’d fought when Marc was missing, but we did have proof implicating Milo Mitchell—Malone’s strongest ally. Unfortunately, while tagging strays was immoral without a doubt, it wasn’t illegal, technically speaking, and we currently lacked enough votes on the council to remedy that. So our case against Mitchell—and against Malone by extension—was on hold. Indefinitely. Another massive thorn in my already tender side.

My father remained much calmer than I felt, though I was proud of myself for biting my tongue. Literally. “We’re not accusing him, Paul. We’re suspecting him. Strongly.”

“Because he’s opposing your bid for council chair?”

“Because at their informant’s request, the thunderbirds have agreed to try to remove the tabbies from the ranch before the height of their assault. Calvin Malone has publicly stated that he wants Kaci and Manx removed from the Lazy S, and that he’d rather see Faythe set back on the ‘proper’ path for a young woman. Who would you consider a more likely suspect?”

Blackwell faltered, and the flush faded from his cheeks as his gaze dropped to the curve of his cane. “He wouldn’t do this. I know you and Calvin don’t get along—I don’t see eye to eye with him on everything, either—but he would never do this. Conspiring against a fellow Alpha with a hostile third party—one of another species! That’s…treason.”

“Yes.” My father let the quiet gravity of his voice resonate throughout the room. “It is.”

Blackwell stood unsteadily and stared at the ground before finally meeting my dad’s expectant gaze. “You know I can’t act without proof, and I only have a week left as council chair, anyway. But I will launch a formal investigation into this. Today.”

“Why should we trust your investigators?” Bert Di Carlo looked almost as outraged as Blackwell looked suddenly exhausted. And every bit of his seventy-two years.

“Because you just volunteered for the job.” The old man met Di Carlo’s gaze gravely. “I’ll pair you with Nick Davidson, to keep things even.” Two days earlier Davidson had officially thrown his weight behind Malone. “If Calvin is responsible for this, you have one week to bring me proof. After that, the point is moot.”

Di Carlo nodded and Blackwell turned back to my dad. “Where can I make some calls?”

“My office.” My father waved one hand toward the door, gesturing for the older Alpha to help himself. Blackwell made his way to the hall, and my dad turned to the rest of us. “My enforcers, start at the top of your call tree and work your way down. Pass me the phone if you find someone who’s ever seen a thunderbird, or knows anything about them. Even if it’s just a rumor, or an old Dam’s tale. If they know anything more than that thunderbirds can fly, I want to talk to them.”

We’d made out the call lists the week before, after Owen had spent hours calling on south-central Pride toms to help patrol the borders and search for Marc in the Mississippi woods. Now each of us had a roster, and—my idea—every tom in the Pride had a contact at the ranch. A go-to guy for problems or reports, in case my father was out. Or busy with any of one of the myriad disasters currently plaguing our Pride.

For the next hour, I sat at the long dining room table with my fellow enforcers, slowly crossing name after name off my list. The other Alphas had set their ablebodied men to similar tasks, searching for information among their own members. Because regardless of who killed this thunderbird, chances were slim that the murder happened on our land. We’d been patrolling pretty obsessively since Ethan died; the non-enforcer toms had been taking shifts at the borders ever since. We’d insisted, though two had lost their jobs due to excessive absences.

A lost job meant little compared to another lost tom.

I set the phone down after my last call and looked up to find Jace watching me from across the table. In the hall, Marc was in an animated discussion with one of the newly unemployed toms, who was not happy with his current assignment. All the others were still speaking into their own phones, so for a moment, I let Jace look. And I looked back, my heart aching with each labored beat.

After several bittersweet seconds, the rumble of a familiar engine outside pulled my gaze from Jace. Dr. Carver.

My father rushed toward the front door, cell phone pressed to one ear. “Pull as close as you can to the porch. We’ll come out and get you.” Because on his own, Dr. Carver would make just as appealing a target for any nearby thunderbirds as Charlie had. More so, if they knew who he was. “Marc? Vic?” my father called, out of sight now. But I beat the guys into the hall.

“No,” my Alpha said as I reached for the doorknob. He held up my arm by the wrist of my cast. “If you don’t give yourself a chance to heal, you won’t do us any good when we go after Malone.”

“Good point,” I said, and he looked surprised as I reluctantly stepped aside so Vic could open the door. Marc brushed one finger down my cheek and shot me a sympathetic smile before following his Alpha and his former field partner outside.

I watched through the tall, narrow sidelight window while they rushed down the front steps just as Carver swung open his car door. Two birds circled ominously overhead, low enough that their size and wing-claws were obvious. As Carver twisted to grab his bag from the passenger seat, both birds swooped to a sudden, staggeringly graceful landing in the middle of the front yard, Shifting even as their newly formed feet touched the ground. For several long moments, they faced off against Marc and Vic, with nothing but Carver’s car and fifty feet of earth between them.

My father stood firm on the bottom step, and the doc sat frozen in his seat, staring in awe at our unwelcome visitors. Suddenly feathers sprouted across the arms of one bird and he stepped up onto his bare toes, as if to launch himself at the car. Marc slapped his empty palm with the gigantic wrench he carried, growling menacingly. The bird stood down, apparently content to remain a silent threat while they were outnumbered, and a soft sigh of relief slipped from me.

My father waved his men forward and Carver stepped from the car and was ushered inside by both toms. Our Alpha remained on the porch, alone and undefended as a show of strength. In truth, any one of us could have been at his side in less than a second. But sometimes appearance is as important as reality.

“Kai is alive but in a lot of pain,” he called in a strong, steady voice. “If you want him back, put me in touch with your Flight.” With that, he turned his back on the birds—a show of confidence as well as an insult—and walked into the house.

He pulled the door closed, and I turned to find the hall packed with toms. “There’s nothing to see,” my father declared, and as the toms slowly dispersed, he turned to Carver. “Good to see you again, Danny. What’s it been? A week?”

“Sounds about right.” Carver hefted his overnight bag higher on one shoulder. “I have less than a week of vacation left. At this rate, I’ll be looking for a new job soon, Greg.”

My father sighed. “That makes two of us,” he said, referring to his spot on the council, not his career as an architect.

Carver flinched and nodded. “Hey, Faythe,” he said as Marc locked the front door and Vic took our latest guest’s overnight bag. “How’s the arm?”

“Ready to come out of the cast.” I fell into step beside the doc and my dad, and Marc and Vic followed us.

Carver grinned. He was almost always in good spirits, no matter who he was sewing up—or cutting apart. In his day job, Dr. Danny Carver was a medical examiner for the state of Oklahoma. He spent more time with dead people than with live ones. “Give it a couple more weeks, then we’ll cut it off and let you try Shifting.”

“We don’t have a couple of weeks, Doc.” I stopped in the hall, and he had to stop with me to maintain eye contact. “We’re going after Malone in three days.” I whispered the last part, because I wasn’t sure how much of our battle plans Blackwell had overheard. Or whether we could trust him, even with the investigation he was initiating against Malone.

Dr. Carver frowned and glanced at the heavily decorated cast I held up. “You may have to fight in a cast, then. It’ll protect your arm better, anyway.”

“But I can’t Shift in a cast. I’ll be stuck in human form.”

Carver shrugged and tightened his grip on his medical supply bag. “We could cut it off and let you Shift several times, but a broken bone isn’t like a laceration, or even a torn rotator cuff.” Both of which I’d suffered in the line of duty. “They take longer to heal, and if you don’t heal properly, the damage could be permanent. And Shifting before broken bones have at least half healed hurts unlike anything you’ve ever felt. Just ask Marc.”

I glanced at Marc, not surprised to see him nodding. He’d gotten several broken ribs at the same time I broke my arm. A chest couldn’t be casted, so he’d been Shifting twice a day for the past week, and his ribs were only just returning to normal.

“So, what does that mean for Charlie?” I asked as we moved toward Owen’s room.

“Let’s see how bad it is.…”

My dad and Vic followed the doc into our makeshift triage center, but I headed into the kitchen instead, and Marc followed me. “What’s wrong?” he asked as I poured the last of the coffee into my favorite mug. I raised both brows, and his head bobbed in concession. “Okay, everything’s wrong. But specifically?”

“This.” I set my mug on the counter and held up my casted arm. “We’re days away from going full scale against Malone, and in the meantime, we’re under fire from above. And I’m about as useful as a three-legged dog.”

“You’re much more useful than any kind of dog, mi vida.” Marc purred and pressed me into the counter, his hands on my hips. I couldn’t resist a smile. I was a real sucker for Spanish.

Except when he was yelling it at me.

I kissed him, and my arms went around his waist, my good hand splaying against his back. Feeling the restrained power, and loving it.

“Better?” he asked when we came up for air.

“A little.” I sighed. “I just want to fight.”

He grinned. “I love that in a woman.”

“Stupid cast.” I tried to twist and grab my mug, but he held me tight.

“I kind of like it. You broke your arm saving my life.”

I had to smile at that. “And I’d do it again tomorrow. I just wish it wasn’t going to hold me back the next time.”

“I’m sorry.”

I shrugged and grabbed my mug, then followed him into the hall. Marc hung back to keep from crowding Owen’s room, but I pressed my way through the throng and stood against one wall with Kaci. My mother sat in a chair by Ethan’s bed, holding Charlie’s hand because she could do little else for him. Manx sat on the floor beside Owen’s bed, one mangled hand on his arm.

Carver headed straight for Charlie, whose clothes had been cut off but left under him, because lifting him again would have hurt him worse. The doc shook his head when my mother started to give up her chair, then he knelt to dig in his medical bag. Seconds later he pulled out a plastic-wrapped disposable syringe and a small vial of something clear. Carver drew some of the liquid into the syringe, then carefully felt for a vein in Charlie’s arm.

“Let’s give this a chance to help with the pain, then we’ll see what we can do for you,” he said softly as he slid the needle into Charlie’s skin. Charlie didn’t even flinch. What was a shot, compared to being dropped from thirty feet in the air?

My mother took the used syringe, and Dr. Carver crossed the room to Owen, then sank into the desk chair to examine my brother’s stomach. “These stitches look good, Karen.” She murmured her thanks, and the doc turned to Owen’s leg, which my mother hadn’t been confident she could stitch up properly. “These are deeper. They’re going to hurt for a while, but if you Shift a few times tomorrow, you should be good to go in a couple of days. Let’s get you stitched up.”

The doctor talked while he worked, to set his patient at ease, and it helped. I could attest to that personally. “This isn’t so bad,” he said when Owen flinched. “Faythe had similar injuries a couple of months ago, but Brett Malone had it much worse than either of you.…”

But I missed the rest of what he said, because that name echoed in my head. Brett Malone. Jace’s brother, whose life I’d saved with a meat mallet. Brett had insisted he owed me, even after he’d given us the heads-up about my father’s impeachment. I’d tried to brush off his IOU—I was just doing my job—but he was insistent.

And now I knew exactly how he could repay his debt.

I ran one hand over Kaci’s hair and whispered that I’d be right back. “Where are you going?” my father asked as I passed him, and when I gestured, he followed me into the hall, where Jace now stood with Marc and Vic.

“I’m getting evidence for Blackwell.” Before he could press for details, I turned to Jace. “I need your phone.”

Jace dug it from his pocket with neither hesitation nor questions, and I smiled at him gratefully. No one else would have done that. Even Marc would have asked why I wanted it.

I took Jace’s phone and headed toward my room, calling over my shoulder as I ran. “I’ll fill you in after I consult my source.”

Seven

“Hello?” Brett sounded cautious and suspicious—and he didn’t even know who was calling yet. Jace had his half brother on speed dial, as I’d known he would. Other than his mother, Brett was the only family member in his contacts—which I’d also guessed.

“Hey, Brett, it’s me.”

“Faythe?” he whispered, then something scratched against the receiver as he covered it. A few seconds later, he was back, and the background chatter was gone, leaving only the wind—a hollow-sounding echo in my ear. “My dad will kill me if he finds out I’m talking to you!”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the game. He tried to kill me in November.” I was too nervous and upset to sit, so I walked the carpet at the foot of my bed, occasionally running the fingers of my casted hand over the scarred posts.

“It’s not a good time, Faythe. What do you want?”

I took a deep breath and tried to keep in mind how difficult this whole thing must have been for Brett. He knew his father was a lying, ambitious, hypocritical, sexist, bigoted bastard, and there was nothing he could do about that. Unlike Jace, he was Malone’s actual son and couldn’t just walk away from his Pride. Not without leaving his mother and the rest of his family. And not without permission, which Malone would never give.

But the time for easy choices had passed.

I sighed and let a hint of true fear and frustration leak into my tone. “There’s never going to be a good time, Brett. I need a favor. Information.”

For a moment, I heard only the whistling wind and the heavy rustle of evergreen boughs. He was in the woods behind his house, hopefully out of hearing range of the rest of his Pride, because if anyone overheard what I was about to ask for, he could be locked up for the rest of his life. Or worse.

Finally Brett spoke, and each word sounded like it hurt coming out. “I’m all out of favors, Faythe. Things are bad around here. They’re going to notice I’m gone.”

My heart ached for Brett. I knew what it was like to stand in conflict with the rest of my family. The rest of my Pride. But lives weren’t at stake when I argued with my parents. My Alpha wasn’t psychotically ambitious.

However, as strongly as I sympathized with his position, I had to think of my Pride first. Of Kaci and Manx. Of my father’s precarious position on the council. If he lost it, he’d lose the ability to protect us all. So I steeled my spine and forged ahead.

“Are you enjoying life, Brett? Truly treasuring each breath? Because if it weren’t for me, you’d be rotting in the ground right now.”

“I know, but—”

“You owe me. You said, ‘Let me owe you, Faythe.’ So I’m going to let you.”

His sigh seemed to carry the weight of the world. “I already repaid you.”

“Yeah, well, that bit of information didn’t come in very handy.” When he woke from the attack that nearly killed him, Brett had warned me that his father would try to take the council chair. “Your dad jumped the gun and challenged mine before I even had a chance to warn him.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“I know.” I sank into my desk chair and picked up a novelty pen with a fuzzy purple feather sticking up from one end. “Okay, forget the favor. I’m asking you as a friend. We need this, Brett. You know what’s going on with the thunderbirds, don’t you?”

“Thunderbirds? What are you…?”

“Save it.” I dropped the pen on my desk. “Don’t insult me with lies. You’re better than that. You’re better than Calvin.”

Brett’s next exhalation was ragged, and twigs crunched beneath his boots. He was walking. Hopefully moving farther from the house. “I only have a minute. What do you want?”

“The truth. Is your dad doing this? Did he sic the birds on us?”

“Faythe, I can’t…He’ll kill me.”

“Jake Taylor’s dead, Brett. And Charlie Eames may never walk again, if he survives.” I shouldn’t have disclosed our damages to the enemy; that was on page one of the don’t-screw-your-own-Pride handbook. But you don’t make gains without taking risks, and I believed in Brett.

Of course, I’d believed in Dan Painter, too, but then his double agent act had nearly gotten me killed. But Brett would come through for us. He had to.…

“I’m sorry. I—”

“Apologies aren’t good enough, Brett. They almost got Kaci. You know what your father will do if he gets his paws on her.”

“He would never hurt her.”

“No, he’d just whore her out to one of your brothers the day she turns eighteen. Earlier, if he can pass it off as in the best interest of the species. Are you going to let him do that? Are you going to let him sell her in marriage just so he can get his sticky hands on our territory? Or the Di Carlos’?” Because Umberto Di Carlo had no heir, thanks to his daughter’s murder, and once he retired—or was forced into retirement—someone would have to take over his territory.

And in our world, he who has the tabbies has the power.

“Is that what you want for Kaci?” I asked when Brett didn’t answer. “Hell, is that what you want for Mel?” Melody Malone was only fourteen, and already being courted by several toms handpicked by her father. By all accounts she’d bought into his propaganda and believed that her decision had the power to make or break her Pride. She took the responsibility very seriously and would have done anything to please her father.

Poor, warped kid.

“Of course not,” Brett said at last, and his next pause was long. “But if I do this, I can’t stay here.” If his father found out he’d betrayed his Pride, Malone would take his claws and his canines and throw him in their cage so fast he’d still be reeling from the first blow. And he’d never get out. I had no doubt of that.

My toes curled in the thick carpet, as if they alone anchored me to the floor. Was he saying what I thought he was saying? “What can I do?”

“I need sanctuary. If your dad gives his word, I swear I’ll tell you everything I know.”

I exhaled in relief and actually felt the beginnings of a smile coming on. This was what Blackwell needed. With proof, he would have to revoke his allegiance to Malone and begin prosecuting him instead. The pendulum of power would shift back to my father. Or at least away from Malone.

“Let me see what I can do.”

“Hurry…”

I threw open my bedroom door and tapped and shoved my way through the crowd to Owen’s room, the tile cold against my bare feet. Dr. Carver sat in the chair by Charlie Eames’s bed, drawing more clear liquid into a syringe from a small, inverted glass bottle.

I glanced briefly at Charlie and noticed that his skin was paler than I’d ever seen it. And that his stomach looked…puffy. But then my gaze caught my father’s, and I waved for him to follow me. Dr. Carver only looked up briefly, but both Marc and Jace followed us into the hall.

Once we’d escaped the crowd, I held up Jace’s phone, blocking the sound, already heading toward the living room since Blackwell still occupied the office. If Brett came through like I hoped he would, we could let him speak directly to the old man who would then have no choice but to believe Malone’s involvement. “I have Brett Malone on the line, and he’s willing to tell us what he knows, in exchange for sanctuary.”

Marc’s brows rose; he was obviously impressed. Jace beamed. “I wish I’d thought of that.” But even if he had, half brother or not, Brett might not have talked to Jace. Not like he would talk to me. I’d saved his life. Plus, I was a girl, and like it or not, most toms weren’t threatened by me. At least, not until I’d had reason to prove they should be.

My father frowned and sank wearily into an armchair angled in front of the picture window. “What makes you think we should trust him?”

I perched on the arm of the overstuffed couch, facing him. “He told us his dad was going to challenge you. For what little good that did us.”

“Exactly.” He templed his hands beneath his chin, a sure sign that he was considering my proposal, even if he sounded skeptical. “That made him look loyal and grateful, but the information came too late to be of any use. It sounds to me like he’s been studying his father’s playbook.”

“He didn’t know Cal was going to move so quickly,” Jace insisted, sitting on the edge of another chair pulled near the window.

My father thought, and I bit my lip to keep from rushing him. “What does he know?”

I could only shrug, still holding the phone up with my hand covering the mouthpiece. “He’s waiting for your word that you’ll take him in.”

“Then how do you know he knows anything?”

Jace frowned. “If Calvin’s involved, Brett knows.”

Marc nodded solemnly. “And he’s probably risking a lot, just talking to Faythe.”

“He is. And he doesn’t have a lot of time.” Too nervous to sit, I stood, watching my father anxiously. My heartbeat ticked off each endless second of silence. Then, finally, he opened his eyes and held one hand out.

“Give me the phone.”

I handed Jace’s cell over and my father held it up to his ear, then stood to walk as he spoke. “Brett? My daughter tells me you have information about your father’s involvement with a Flight of thunderbirds? Are you willing to volunteer that information?”

“I am—in exchange for sanctuary.” Brett’s voice actually shook, and I took Marc’s hand where he still stood, squeezing it to offer him the comfort I couldn’t offer Brett. “I can’t go back after this, Councilman Sanders.”

“I’ll go one better than that. If you can bring us proof of your Alpha’s involvement, you’ll have a job here as an enforcer.”

Brett exhaled, and I could hear his simultaneous relief and unease, all in that one breath. “Are you serious? Sir?”

“Completely.” My father smiled, amused by the young tom’s nervous doubt. “Anyone willing to stand against his own father in the name of justice belongs here with us.”

“Thank you, sir. I accept.”

My grin was so big it threatened to split my face.

“I’m in the middle of something, so I’m going to let you give Faythe the details. Then I want you to get your proof and come straight here. And be careful. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

My father was almost truly smiling when he handed me the phone, but his worried frown was back by the time he made it to the hallway. He was concerned about Charlie. And probably about the rest of us. “Take notes,” he instructed, then disappeared down the hall.

I leaned back on the couch, already digging in the nearest end-table drawer for a notepad and pen. Fortunately, my mother stashed them everywhere. “Thank you, Faythe,” Brett whispered into my ear, and I had to blink back tears in order to speak clearly.

“You can thank my dad when you get here. For now, just tell us what you know.”

Marc settled onto the cushion next to me, and Jace leaned forward in his chair, listening carefully as his brother began to speak. “Two days ago, one of our guys took down a deer, then went to ring the proverbial dinner bell. Before he was fifty feet away, this huge bird swooped down on his meal. Our man killed the thunderbird in a dispute over the kill. When we reported it, my dad went nuts. Said the last thing we needed was to piss off the thunderbirds. It took him a day or so to get there.…”

I glanced at Marc to see if he’d caught that, and he nodded. How far out had they been, if it took their Alpha a full day to get to them? Of course, if they were expecting our attack, broad patrols made sense, but the Appalachian territory wasn’t that big.

“…and by the time he did, he was almost…excited.” And anything that excited Malone would be bad news for us. “He didn’t want to bury the body. He said they’d come looking for their lost bird, so we had to sit still and wait.”

“How did he know they’d come for it?” Marc asked.

Brett started to answer, but Jace beat him to it. “When I was little, there was a flock that migrated through our territory every year. Cal claimed he’d actually talked to one once, but I never believed him. Guess he was telling the truth for once.”

“Yeah,” Brett said over the line. “So we waited. Six hours later they showed up. Three of them. I have no idea how they found us. They can’t smell for shit with those beaks.”

“But they can see for miles from the air.” Marc ran one hand slowly up and down my back. “At least, natural birds can.”

“I always hated that phrase,” Jace said. “It makes Shifters sound unnatural.”

“Anyway…” Brett ignored them both. “They landed, and it was totally bizarre. They Shifted in midmotion, with their feet first, so fast it looked like movie special effects.”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. “I know. We’ve seen the show.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Brett cleared his throat and continued. “Anyway, they landed and saw their boy dead, surrounded by, like, five of us. Three of us in cat form. They started to go feral. But before they could lunge, my dad said he knew who’d killed their man and wanted to make a deal.”

“Then he set us up,” I guessed, my eyes closed in frustration.

“Yeah. He told them that one of your cats had to have done it, because yours was the closest territory.”

Marc growled. “Where the hell were you?”

Brett exhaled heavily. “Four miles from your western border in the free zone. I’m sure you know why.”

Yeah. Sounds like they were just as ready to invade us as we were to invade them. So much for Malone’s promise to Blackwell that he wouldn’t start the war.

But then something even more infuriating occurred to me. They’d put five toms on our western border—the opposite direction we’d expect them to come from, because Malone was headquartered east of us, in Kentucky. But five wasn’t enough for a large-scale offense. Which obviously wasn’t what they were planning.

They were counting on us to start the war. Expecting us to take most of our men northeast, into Appalachian territory, leaving Manx, Kaci and my mother largely undefended. At which point those five or so toms would sneak in the back way and plunder our most valuable resources. Our most treasured, vulnerable members.

Fury crept up my spine in a white-hot blaze, but I forced it down. Their plans had obviously changed, and I needed to focus.

“So, the thunderbirds promised your dad they’d get the tabbies out, then they’d rip us to shreds, one by one?”

“That’s the gist of it, yeah.” Brett sounded miserable.

“And you have proof?” Marc prodded.

“My testimony, and the dead bird’s feathers, stained with his killer’s blood. Dad told us to clean up the mess, and I kept a couple of the feathers. I had a feeling this would go downhill. But I’m not sure how much good they’ll do. These birds can’t distinguish one cat’s scent from another’s.”

“At least it’ll help with the council,” Jace said, voicing my exact thought. “But we’ll have to come up with some other way to prove it to the birds.”

“If we can even find them.” I frowned, suddenly overwhelmed by the new burden, when we could least afford it. Kai was going to have to talk—that’s all there was to it.

“I have to go. They’ve probably already noticed me missing,” Brett said, and twigs snapped as he made his way back toward the house from the woods.

“Wait, Paul Blackwell is here. You have to tell him what you told us.”

“I don’t have time now, but I’ll speak to him when I get there. But there’s one more thing. Our tom? The one who killed the thunderbird?”

“Yeah?” I stood, eager to report to my father.

“It was Lance Pierce.”

Parker’s brother.

Well, shit.

Eight

“Son of a bitch!” Jace pounded the arm of the couch and I jumped, his phone bouncing in my open palm. “To clear our name, we have to sell out Parker’s little brother. How’s that for a rock and a hard place?”

“We can’t just turn him over…” I started, but my words faded into silence as soft sobs and footsteps sounded down the hall. I made it to the doorway just as Kaci flung herself into my arms. “What’s wrong?” Though, really, the sheer number of ways she could have answered that question was staggering.

“He died. Charlie’s dead.”

“Oh, no…” I wrapped both arms around her as my father stepped out of the somber crowd of toms still gathered around Owen’s room, now staring at their feet as if they were afraid that eye contact might trigger tears.

Kaci was crying freely. She’d only met Charlie Eames that morning, but at her age, with all the tragedy she’d already witnessed, any death would have been traumatic. Murder, even more so.

My father’s gaze was heavy as Dr. Carver followed him into the hall, both of them headed our way. “What happened?” I asked, pulling Kaci into the room with me so they could come in.

“Internal bleeding.” Dr. Carver laid a hand on Kaci’s shoulder briefly, then sank wearily onto the couch next to Marc.

“Did we make it worse by moving him?” I had to ask. Not that the answer would change anything.

“Probably.” Carver twisted on his cushion to face me. “But we had no other choice, and the truth is that with such major, full-body trauma, his chances were never very good in the first place.”

Kaci whimpered in my arms, and I squeezed her tighter. Physical contact was the only comfort I had to offer.

My father sat stiffly near the front window, where crimson, late afternoon sunlight slanted across his white dress shirt like translucent streaks of blood. He leaned forward with his elbows propped on his knees, staring at his shiny shoes. He’d shed his suit jacket—the house was warm from all the extra bodies running on accelerated Shifter metabolism—but his shirt was still buttoned to his neck, his gray striped tie still neatly knotted.

I glanced at the hallway, where toms were now gravitating toward the kitchen, then at Kaci in indecision. Then I sighed and closed the door, gesturing for her to take a seat next to Jace. Keeping her in the dark wouldn’t comfort or calm her, but being with those she trusted most just might.

She curled up on Jace’s lap, resting her head on his shoulder as he wrapped both arms around her, cocooning her as if she were his little sister. Though, he and Kaci were already closer than he and Melody had ever been.

The living room wasn’t soundproof, and anyone who really wanted to hear what was said would have little trouble. But in a house full of werecats, a closed door was a formal request for privacy, and our present company could be counted on to honor it. Including Blackwell, should he emerge from the office before we finished. He and my father might not agree on everything, but Blackwell would never intentionally do something he considered dishonorable.

My dad looked up when I closed the door. “That’s two murdered toms, one attempted kidnapping, and one mauling, all in under three hours.” The Alpha’s voice was grave, with a strong undercurrent of anger and bitter frustration. And his expression was tense beneath the strain of what he wasn’t saying: that we could ill afford the deaths of two allied toms less than two weeks after we’d lost Ethan. Not that there was ever a convenient time for so much death.

“Yes, but they both went out alone, right?” Dr. Carver glanced around for confirmation. “We know to avoid that now.”

My father’s eyes flashed in fury. “We shouldn’t have to! This is our territory. My property. We will not cower in our own home while vigilantes pick us off one by one.”

“We can’t fight them,” Marc said as I sank onto the couch between him and the doctor. “Not on their terms.”

“I know.” My father looked my way, obviously hoping for some good news. “What did Brett say?”

“He has blood-soaked feathers proving we didn’t kill Finn. Unfortunately, while birds have great eyesight, they have little sense of smell, and we’re pretty sure they can’t differentiate between two cats’ scents. The feathers will hopefully convince the council that Malone is pulling the birds’ strings, but they won’t do us much good with the thunderbirds themselves. Even if we do find a way to contact their…nest.”

“Wonderful.” My father’s scowl deepened.

“It gets worse,” Marc began, but Jace interrupted, gently stroking Kaci’s long brown hair down her back, petting her like a kitten.

“The blood on the feathers belongs to Lance Pierce. He killed Finn in a squabble over a fresh kill.”

Marc glowered at Jace, and my frown echoed his. But with more urgency. Was he trying to show Marc up? In front of our Alpha?

Fortunately, my dad was too distracted by the new information to spare the toms more than a brief glance. “Well, that’s just wonderful.” He stood and started across the floor, then stopped and glanced around as if surprised to find himself in the living room rather than the office. “That puts Jerold Pierce in a nice bind, doesn’t it? Not to mention us.”

“Why?” Kaci lifted her head from Jace’s shoulder.

“Because now Councilman Pierce will have to choose between two of his sons,” Marc explained.

Lance Pierce had been with Malone almost as long as Parker had been with us, and their father was the only North American Alpha who had yet to officially pick a side in the council chair debate.

Kaci still looked confused, so I elaborated. “We know Malone set the thunderbirds on us to weaken us before we could attack him, but Parker’s dad is just as likely to see Malone as a hero for saving Lance’s life.” I shrugged miserably. “And if we give Lance up to get the birds off our backs, his father won’t be very happy with us.” Understatement of the century. “Or very likely to support Dad as the council chair.”

My father needed Jerold Pierce on his side just to bring him even with Malone. Then, if Blackwell withdrew his support from Malone in response to Brett’s evidence, we’d be one up on Malone in the vote.

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