They say keep your friends close and your enemies closer. They don’t know what they’re talking about.

S

PORADIC BOUTS OF TEENAGE IDIOCY NOTWITHSTANDING, I DOUBT A

Vampyre has been in Were territory for centuries.

I felt it in my bones last night, as my driver sank farther past the river. Serena’s damn cat fidgeted in the carrier next to me, and I knew that I was really, truly alone. Being with the Humans was like living in a different country, but here? Another galaxy. Deep space exploration.

The house I was brought to is built on a lake, surrounded by thick, gnarly trees on three sides and placid water on the remaining one. Nothing cave-like or underground, despite what I’d have imagined from a wolf- related species, and yet odd nonetheless, with its warm materials and large windows. Like the Weres teamed up with the landscape and decided to build something beautiful together. It’s a bit jarring, especially after spending the last six weeks shuttling between the sterility of Vampyre territory and the crowded bustle of the Humans. Avoiding the sunlight is going to be an issue, and so is the fact that the temperature is kept considerably lower than is comfortable for Vampyres. I can deal with that, though. What I was really bracing myself for was . . .

In my third year as the Collateral, at a diplomatic dinner, I was introduced to an elderly matron. She was wearing a sequined dress, and when she lifted her hand to pinch my cheeks, I noticed that her antique bracelet was made of very unusually shaped, very pretty pearls.

They were fangs. Pulled from the corpses of Vampyres—or live ones, for all I know.

I didn’t scream, or cry, or attack that old hag. I was paralyzed, unable to function properly for the rest of the night, and only started processing what had happened when I got home and told Serena, who was furious on my behalf and demanded a promise from the caregiver on shift: that I would never be forced to attend a similar function again.

I was, of course. Many, many times, and I encountered many, many people who acted like that sparkly bitch. Because the bracelets, the necklaces, the vials of blood, were nothing but messages. Displays of discontentment for an alliance that, while long established, in many pockets of the population was still controversial.

I expected something even worse from the Weres. I wouldn’t have been shocked to see five of us impaled in the yard, slowly bleeding to death. No such thing, though. Just a bunch of sycamores, and the flutter of my new friend Alex’s rabbity heartbeat.

Oh, Alex.

“I know I said this is Lowe’s house, but he’s the Alpha, which means that lots of pack members come and go, and his seconds who live in the area are, um, pretty much always here,” he says, walking me through the kitchen. He’s young, and cute, and wears khaki pants with an improbable number of pockets. When I met Juno earlier today, she clearly wanted to shove me under a giant magnifying glass and burn me alive, but Alex is just terrified at the idea of showing a Vampyre around her new accommodations. And yet, he’s rising to the occasion: running a hand through his mop of light hair to let me know that “There have been, um, suggestions, that you might want to store your, um . . . things in the other fridge over there. So if you please could . . . If it were possible . . . If it isn’t a bother . . .”

I end his suffering. “Don’t keep my gory blood bags next to the mayo jar. Got it.”

“Yes, thank you.” He nearly slumps in relief. “And, um, there are no blood banks that cater to Vampyres in the area, because, well—”

“Any Vamps in the area would be swiftly exterminated?” “Precisely. Wait, no. No, that’s not what I—”

“I was kidding.”

“Oh.” He pulls back from the verge of a heart attack. “So, there are no banks, and you’re obviously not at liberty to just walk in and out of our territory—”

“I’m not?” I gasp, and instantly feel guilty when he takes a step back and fingers his collar. “Sorry. Another joke.” I wish I could smile reassuringly at him. Without looking like I’m about to butcher everything that he holds dear, that is.

“Do you, um, have . . . preferences?” “Preferences?”

“Like . . . AB, or O negative, or . . .”

“Ah.” I shake my head. Common misconception, but cold blood is nearly flavorless, and the only things that would influence its taste would disqualify people from donating in the first place. Illnesses, mostly.

“And when do you . . . ?”

“Feed? Once a day. More when it gets really warm—heat makes us hungry.” He looks queasy at the mention of blood, more so than I’d have expected from someone who turns into a wolf and mauls rabbits by the litterful. So I wander away to give him a minute to recover, taking in the stone accent wall and the fireplace. Despite the chill, there’s something just right about this house. As though its place was meant to be here, carved between the trees and the waterfront.

It’s probably the nicest home I’ve ever lived in. Not bad, since there’s a nonzero chance that I’ll also croak in it.

“Are you one of his seconds?” I ask Alex, turning away from the waves lapping at the pier. “More— Lowe’s, I mean.”

“No.” He’s younger, softer than Juno. Not as defensive and buttoned up, but more jittery. I’ve caught him squinting at the points of my ears three times already. “Ludwig is . . . The second from my huddle is someone else.”

His what? “How many seconds does Lowe have?”

“Twelve.” He pauses to stare at his feet. “Eleven, actually, now that Gabrielle was sent to the . . .”

Gabrielle, I file away for future perusal. God, is that the mate? Was she his wife and his second?

Alex clears his throat. “Gabrielle will be replaced.” “By you?”

“No, I wouldn’t . . . And I’m not from her huddle; it’ll have to be someone who . . .” He scratches his neck and falls silent. Oh, well.

“Are there any close neighbors?” I ask.

“Yeah. But ‘close’ is different for us. Because we can . . .” “Transform into wolves?”

“No. Well, yeah, but . . .” His cheeks have an olive tinge. God, I think he’s blushing. Because of course they’d flush green. “Shift. We call it shifting. We don’t become something else. We just kind of toggle between two settings.”

This time I do smile, keeping my lips sealed. “Love the coding references.”

“You like tech?”

“I like what tech can do.” I lean against the counter. Years with the Humans, and I’m still freaked out that houses contain entire huge-ass rooms dedicated to the preparation of food. “So, when you guys shift into wolves, do you still think the same way? Does your brain shift with you, too?”

Alex mulls it. “Yes and no. There are some instincts that take over in that form, more than they otherwise would. The impulse to hunt, for instance, is very powerful. To chase a scent, track down an enemy. That’s why you maybe shouldn’t venture out alone to . . .”

“Skinny-dip at midnight?”

He looks away. He’s kind of adorable, in an I want to tie his shoelaces and blow on his skinned knee kind of way. “Do you . . . It’s probably bullshit, but I just wanted to make sure . . . Vampyres don’t, right?”

I tilt my head. “Don’t what?”

“Shift into animals. Not that I believe the bat rumor, but just in case you’re going to fly away and . . .”

I bet Alex gets along great with Ana. “Nope, I do not turn into a bat.

Would be lovely, though.”

“Okay, good.” He seems incredibly relieved. I decide to take advantage of that, broadcasting a mix of casualness and very mild interest in my surroundings, then say offhandedly:

“Can you shift into a wolf whenever you want? Or is the full moon thing just a rumor?”

“It depends, I guess.” “On what?”

“How powerful a Were is. Being able to shift at will, it’s a sign of dominance. Being able to avoid shifting during the full moon, too.”

I don’t know what possesses me to ask, “What about Lowe? Is he powerful?”

Alex lets out a startled laugh. “He is the most powerful Were I’ve ever seen. And that my grandfather has ever seen—and he’s seen many Alphas.”

“Oh.” I pick up a ladle. Or a spatula. I forgot which one is which. “Is he powerful because he can shift whenever he wants?”

Alex frowns. “No. That’s just part of who he is, but—everyone knew that he had the making of an Alpha.” His eyes are starting to shine. A Moreland stan, clearly. “He was the fastest runner, and the best tracker, and even his scent was right. That’s why Roscoe sent him away.”

“Not a dumb move, since in the end Lowe killed Roscoe.”

Alex blinks at me. “He didn’t kill him. He challenged him, and Roscoe died through that process.”

There must be cultural nuances that I’m not grasping here, not to mention that Roscoe was, by all accounts, a bloodthirsty sadist. Doesn’t seem like a huge loss, so I don’t press it. “Is my roomie Lowe usually gone during the day?” It’s about six p.m., but I can’t hear anyone moving about the place. Maybe Moreland is avoiding home because I stank it up? I took a bath when I woke up, and soaked for a long time. Not quite an olive branch, but . . . an olive. “What about Ana?”

“Ana is with Juno.” Alex shrugs. “Lowe is off to deal with the sabotage that happened this morning, and . . .”

I cock my head, and it’s a mistake—too much broadcasted interest. Alex takes a step back, clearing his throat. “Actually, they’re out on a run,” he says, and he must be the worst liar I’ve ever seen. I’m tempted to pat his back, let him know that he’s doing great and won’t go to hell for making stuff up.

Instead, I push harder. “Have you ever seen Humans in this house?” “Humans?” His brow furrows. “Like who?”

Serena’s face flashes through my head. She’s rolling her eyes because I’m wearing a galaxy T-shirt I got for free when I bought a lava lamp. Who wears this, Misery? No—who buys a lava lamp?

“Any Human.” I shrug artfully. “Just curious.”

I don’t think he buys it. “I’ve never seen a Human in Were territory.” He gives me a suspicious look. I’ve played my hand too heavily. “And this is the Alpha’s home. A place for Weres to feel safe.”

“Except, now I live here.” I play with my silver wedding band—a habit I’ve picked up in less than twenty-four hours. I’ve never been much for jewelry, but maybe I’ll keep it when I find Serena and this is over. Or buy one of those mood rings that think Vampyres are always sad because our body temperature is low. “Why?”

“Um, what do you mean?”

“I’m just surprised Lowe would want me around.” “You’re married.”

“Not for real, though. Lowe and I didn’t meet on a Caribbean vacation and fall in love while getting our scuba diving certificates.”

“It’s not a matter of love.” I lift my eyebrow.

“Having you live with him—it’s about protection. Making a commitment. Sending a message. They know you’re not his true wife or his mate or anything.”

Ah, yes, the famed mate. Who probably used to live in his house. I nod, not quite understanding. Then again, I don’t understand Humans or Vampyres, either. I’m sure the Weres have their reasons to do what they do.

Just like I have mine.

“So, I shouldn’t head out on my own, but inside the house I can be wherever I want?”

Alex’s shoulders relax at the change of topic. “Sure. Maybe stay out of Lowe’s and Ana’s rooms. And his office.”

“Of course.” I smile just a little. Fangless. “And where’s the office?” He points at the hallway behind me. “Left, then right.”

“Perfect. I just hope I don’t get lost.” I shrug airily, and plant my first lie: “My orientation skills are pretty bad.”

THE FIRST TIME I SEARCHED ONLINE FOR L. E. MORELAND, I FOUND TWO

things: a semi-defunct GeoCities website promoting a wholly defunct real estate agent, and the infinite vastness of nothing.

So I searched again, the way penetration testers do: with some disregard for doors. I jumped a fence or two, slithered between gates’ pickets, took advantage of windows left half open by their owners.

That’s when I discovered that the late Leopold Eric Moreland, who died peacefully in his bed in 1999, had previously settled out of court on a lawsuit for negligence in his fiduciary duties, and was obsessed with Yorkies.

And nothing else.

So I took off my white hat. And when I started searching next, there was less stealthing around ajar doors, and more knocking over entire walls. In hindsight, I got a little reckless. But I was getting frustrated, because—no offense to my animal-lover-but-sloppy- worker friend Leopold—no decent records of L. E. Moreland could be found.

With one exception.

Deep in a Human server with ties to the governor’s office, hidden in a memo locked behind a bewildering number of passwords, I discovered a communication regarding a summit that had occurred a couple of weeks earlier. Around the time Serena hadn’t shown up for laundry night.

Lowe Moreland and M. Garcia are expected to be present, it said.

Security will be increased.

I like data, and numbers, and thinking things through with logic and pivot tables. I’ve never been instinctive, but in that moment, I knew—I just knew—that I was on the right track. That Lowe Moreland had to be involved in Serena’s disappearance.

So I started searching for him twenty-four seven. I took time off work. Called in favors. Stared at security camera footage. Went deep into the dark web, which is even less fun than it sounds. After weeks, I discovered one thing about Lowe Moreland: whoever took care of erasing his digital footprint was nearly as good as I am.

And I’m pretty fucking good.

Once I found out from Father that Lowe was a Were, the secrecy finally made sense. Their firewalls have always been exceptional, their networks hack-proof. I’d love to meet the person who keeps it up so I can either fangirl or deck them. But wandering around Lowe’s beautiful home, which is even larger than I thought, I know that it’s not going to be a problem anymore. Because while there might be several things I can’t do remotely, if I’m physically in front of a computer? It’s happening, baby. And once I’m in, I’m going to scour every single document and piece of communication the Weres have, and I’m going to find Serena, and then . . .

Then.

“What’s the plan?” Serena would ask if she were here, even though the little schemes she hatched never worked out. She liked the vibe of organizing more than the actual job of it, and my usually impervious heart clenches a little at the thought that I cannot call her out on it.

I have no plan—just the only person I ever cared about, displaced from my life. And maybe it’s a little amateur sleuth of me, all this skulking around through semi-dark hallways in the hope of finding a whiteboard with “List of people Lowe disappeared” written on it. I’m begging for something, anything, while being aware that this entire endeavor melting into nothing is a distinct possibility.

A slightly nauseating one.

“And there she is.”

I jump, startled. The good news is, Lowe didn’t come home early from something that definitely wasn’t a run to find his reeking Vampyre bride pretending she mixed up his office with the linen closet.

The bad is . . .

“You are very beautiful, aren’t you?” the Were says.

He’s younger than me, maybe around eighteen. When he comes closer, I try to place him, wondering if I remember his short, wiry frame and aquiline nose from the ceremony. But he wasn’t there. And I believe he’s seeing me for the first time, too.

“I didn’t think Vampyres could be beautiful.” There’s nothing complimentary about his words. He’s neither hitting on me, nor attempting to creep me out. Just stating a simple fact, followed by another step toward me, and I’m suddenly very conscious that I’m at the end of a hallway. He stands between me and the exit.

“Who are you?”

“Max,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate. There is something absentminded, almost empty about him. Disoriented. Like he was going to take a swim in the lake but found himself here without planning on it. “I wonder if Lowe likes seeing you around. Because you’re so pretty,” he muses numbly.

“I doubt it.” I want to put a door between myself and Max, but the only one I can reach is Lowe’s office—locked. I glance around for another escape route, but all I find is a giraffe painting of questionable quality.

I might be overreacting.

“Or maybe he hates you, because you force him to remember.” “Remember what?” This is unsettling. “I don’t want to startle you, but

would you mind if I walked past—”

“Remember what your people have taken from him. It’s almost as much as they’ve taken from me. And yet he’s making alliances with them like a common traitor. He married you, and said that you’re not to be harmed.” Max runs a hand over his dark hair, and then shakes his head in what looks like disbelief. He looks so deeply lost, I forget my unease and ask:

“Are you okay?”

His eyes sharpen. “How could I be okay?” He takes a step farther, nearly cornering me against the wall. The smell of his blood sweeps over me, hot, unpleasant. His heartbeat punches in my ears, booming, impossibly fast. “How could I be okay, when you’re here, in my Alpha’s home, after your people have hunted my relatives and mounted their embalmed heads to their walls.”

The part of me who was once fourteen years old and almost stabbed by an anti-Vampyre activist posing as a gas inspector kicks in. “Then maybe we’re even, since your people have made wine out of the blood of mine and then mixed it with livestock feed.” I slide a hand into the pocket of my jeans, hoping for any weapon. A key, a toothpick, even some lint—nothing.

Shit.

“Tell me.” He moves closer. I force myself to stand my ground. “Your father is alive?”

“As far as I know.”

“Mine isn’t. Nor my older sister.” His green eyes are bright and glossy. “She was murdered when I was nine, while patrolling a border in the Northeast that the Vampyres sometimes cross just for fun. She died to protect me and other Were children, and . . .” The words stick in his throat. I feel a surge of compassion. My heart drops, heavy with certainty that he’s going to burst into tears.

But I’m dead wrong, and I realize it too late.

He races toward me in a sudden explosion of vicious energy. The impact of his body against mine briefly knocks the breath out of me—briefly. He’s a male Were, much stronger, but I’m used to people wanting to assassinate me, and when his hand clutches my wrist, hours of training spring into muscle memory. My knee hits his groin and he wails. I use the distraction to push him away, and it’s not easy, it hurts, but by the time I can breathe again, my forearm is pinning his throat to the wall, and our faces are only inches apart.

I don’t want to hurt him. I’m not going to hurt him, even if he’s screaming abuse at me—“I will end you” and “Murderer” and “You leech.”

So I peel back my lips, and show him my fangs.

The rumble in his throat instantly dulls into a whimper. His eyes lower to the ground, and the tension in his muscles loosens. I take a deep breath, making sure that he’s not faking this, that he’s really calmed down and he won’t attack me the second I pull back, and—

A pair of hands a million times stronger than Max’s yanks me away. What happens next is too blurry to parse, but a moment later, I’m the one sandwiched against the opposing wall. My back digs into the frame of the giraffe painting, and my front presses against something just as unyielding, but warm.

What the fuck, I think, or maybe I say it out loud.

I’m just not sure. Because when I open my eyes, all I can focus on is the way Lowe Moreland is staring down at me.