It would be easier if he didn’t like her as a person.

I

S IT A VAMPYRE THING, SHOVING YOUR POINTY LITTLE FANGS INTO OTHER

people’s business and ruining their plans? Or is it more of a Misery Lark passion project?”

I’ve been nursing my abused soles on the living room couch for less than five minutes, but it’s the third time a variation of this question has been asked of me. So I keep my head bent down and ignore Lowe’s second—the one who looks like a Ken doll—as I pluck an assortment of detritus from my toe. I need tweezers, but I didn’t bring any with me. Do Weres use them? As the original furries, do they find them morally repugnant? Maybe they hold body hair sacred, and any threat to its rightful dwelling on the flesh is considered blasphemous.

Food for thought.

“Let me go,” Max whines. Like me, he’s sitting on a couch. Unlike me, his hands are tied behind his back, and he’s being watched by several guards with the kind of icy treatment one would reserve for someone who tried to kidnap a child.

Which is exactly what Max did.

“You can stop asking,” Cal tells him mildly. “Because it ain’t going to happen.” Out of all the Weres in here, it’s clear that he and Ken Doll are the highest ranking. They also appear to have a bad cop, even worse cop thing going on. Cal is affably scary, Ken is snarkily terrifying. Whatever works for them, I guess.

“I want to see my mother,” Max re-whines.

“Do you, champ? Are you sure? Because your mother is out there,

humiliated by what you just did and the company you’ve been keeping.”

“I dunno, Cal.” Ken fixes his baseball cap. “Maybe we should turn him over to his mother.” He leans forward. “I’d love to see his face when she declaws him.”

Max growls, but it turns into a whimper when his Alpha comes in, Juno and Mick in tow. I mouth a bashful So sorry to Mick, worried that he’ll get in trouble for taking a piss and leaving me alone for a minute. He waves his hand at me, and the entire room drops into silence, everyone focusing on Lowe like his presence is a gravitational pull. Even I cannot look anywhere else, and abandon my toe to its infected destiny. Lowe looks so stone-cold pissed, I shiver. Though it could be the blast of the AC on my blistering flesh.

“Is Ana okay?” Gemma asks.

Lowe nods. “Playing with Misha.” Hands on his hips, he surveys the room. Every pair of eyes is instantly downcast.

Except for mine.

“Who wants to tell me what the fuck just happened?” he asks, staring at me. I expect everyone to explode into rushed explanations, but Were discipline is better than that. A heavy silence stretches, broken only by Lowe coming to stand in front of me. I’m ready to say my final words, but all he does is take off his zip-up hoodie, wrap it around my shuddery shoulders, then admire the result for a beat too long.

Everyone’s eyes are still on the ground.

“Cal,” he says. It’s embarrassing, the sense of relief I feel at not being called on.

“Everything was going according to plan,” Cal starts. “As expected, Max was trying to lure Ana away. We were tailing him to see who he would rendezvous with, when . . .”

He turns to me, and suddenly I am the center of the room. My relief was premature.

“I’m sorry.” I swallow. “I had no idea this was some kind of cahooty ambushy plan. If I see a guy who’s been a total dick to me absconding with a child, it’s only natural for me to . . .” To what? Why did I intervene, again? Now that the adrenaline has dried up, I cannot recall what my reasoning was. I’m no hero, nor do I want to be.

Ken Doll snorts. “Were you watching us from the window?” “I mean . . . yeah?”

“Creepy. You need a hobby.”

“You’re right. I’ve heard amazing things about paragliding, or competitive duck herding. Maybe I could—oh, wait. I forgot that I’m literally stuck in a one-hundred-and-thirty-square-foot bedroom twenty-four seven.”

“Read a book, pointy.”

“Enough.” Lowe stalks across the room to crouch in front of Max, who instantly tries to scramble away. His tone is firm but surprisingly gentle when he asks, “Where were you going to take Ana?” Max doesn’t reply, so he continues, “You are fifteen, and I’m not going to punish you like an adult. I don’t know who you got mixed up with, or how, but I can help you. I will protect you.”

Sweat trickles down Max’s temples. He’s much younger than I thought. “You’re just going to get rid of me. If I tell you, you—”

“I do not hurt my own, especially not children,” Lowe growls. “I am not Roscoe.”

“No.” Max’s eyes flick to me. “He’d never have made alliances with the Vampyres or the Humans, would never have taken one in and left her to kill the Weres—”

“You’re right. Roscoe liked to kill the Weres on his own.” Max lowers his eyes. He’s just a boy. “Is an alliance with the Vampyres really worse than more Were deaths at their hands?”

Max seems to grapple with the question, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he remembers his rage, and spurts out, “You’re not the rightful Alpha.”

It’s clearly a big faux pas. Because every other Were in the room takes a step forward to intervene—and then stops at once at Lowe’s lifted hand.

“Who told you that?” he asks. Menacing, ruthless. “Maybe it’s a fair mistake. Maybe they simply weren’t there when Roscoe lost the challenge to me. I sent a message to the Loyals, let them know that I’d gladly accept the challenge from any of them. And yet.” Lowe stands. “Dissent and discussion are welcome. I’m not Roscoe, and I won’t dispose of those who disagree with me. But trying to take a child, sabotage important infrastructure, brutally attack huddles who support me . . . This is violent insurgence. And as long as I’m Alpha of this pack, I’m not going to accept it. Who sent you here, Max?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Did you forget?” Ken Doll comes to stand next to Lowe. Max recoils. “We have ways of making you remember.”

“He’s barely more than a child, though,” Cal points out.

“He chose to work with the Loyals,” Ken says, cracking his knuckles.

Cal, to my shock, shrugs. “I suppose you’re right.” He, too, cracks his knuckles.

I search Lowe’s face for a sign that he’s not going to let his minions . . . I don’t know, waterboard a boy. His expression is detached, happy to delegate. Not what I’d expect from someone who’s planning on deescalating this.

“Wait!” I yell. Today must be a particularly nosy day for me. “Don’t hurt him. I can help you.”

All heads whip around to me, with varying degrees of annoyance. “I think you’ve done enough, leech,” Ken says.

I roll my eyes. “First of all, I grew up among the Humans, and leech, parasite, sanguisuge, bloodsponge, tick, sucker, bat bitch—they’re not the groundbreaking insults you think they are.” Vampyres do drink blood to survive, and we’re not shy about it. “I can find out who sent Max. Without nail pulling or whatever you’re planning.”

“I dunno,” Cal says. “He deserves some harm.”

But Max is shaking like a leaf. And I must not be the sadist I fancied myself. “Please,” I plead to Lowe, tuning out the rest of the room. “I can help.”

“How?” He, for one, seems more curious than irritated.

“It’s easier done than said. Here.” I stand and brush past him to go to Max. He stops me with his fingers on my wrist. When I crane my neck up to him, startled, he’s looking straight ahead. “Why?” he asks, without meeting my eyes. His voice is low, meant only for me.

I’m not quite sure what he wants to know, so I go for what feels right. “Ana has been visiting,” I say, matching his tone. “She keeps me company, and even though she’s terrible at pronouncing my name and clearly doesn’t know whether she’s six or seven . . .” I swallow. “I’d rather she doesn’t get, you know. Kidnapped and trafficked.”

He finally looks down at me. Scans my face for several long moments, and whatever his inspection is about, I must pass muster. He nods and lets go of me. I don’t move.

“Actually, could you help me? I’m not super good at this.” His brows furrow, and I hasten to add, “But good enough.”

I think? I’ve only done this with Serena, who insisted I foster my single useful Vampyre trait and practice on her. She’d have me put her under and use our shared cell phone to film videos of her making out with a cabbage; reciting the Pledge of Allegiance with a German accent; confessing to an entire series of dirty dreams with Mr. Lumiere, our French tutor, as the recurring guest star.

Hopefully, I remember how to.

I kneel in front of Max, ignoring his nauseating, fear-drenched heartbeat, the way he hisses at me to get away. “Dude, I’m trying to help you avoid an iron chair, or however it is that your people extract information, so—”

Something wet lands on the front of my tank top. Because Max spit on me.

“Ew.” I gasp, disgusted, but before I can—I don’t know, spit back?— Lowe’s hand presses against Max’s chest and pins him to the couch.

“What the fuck did you just do?” he grunts. “She’s a Vampyre!”

“She’s my—” Lowe’s hand jerks up to clutch Max’s jaw. “Apologize to my wife.”

“Sorry. Sorry. Please don’t— I’m sorry.” Max starts sobbing. Lowe turns to me. “Do you accept?”

“Accept . . . the spit?” “His apology.”

“Oh.” Oh my God. What is happening? “Sure, why not? It was so . . . sincere and spontaneous. Just, hold his head still, and don’t let him move— yes, hands on the chin. Okay, this will take a second, don’t let him wiggle away.”

I start with my thumb at the base of Max’s nose, and my index and forefingers on his forehead. Then I wait for Max to calm down and meet my eyes.

At the fourth attempt, I get a lock. Max’s brain is soft, and overagitated, and easy to sink into. I stitch his mind to mine and then scramble it a little

—a temporary interference. I don’t stop until I’m extra sure that my hold on him is tight, and when I pull back, his body relaxes at once, pupils suddenly blown wider. Behind me, I hear some murmurs and a soft “What the fuck?” but it’s easy to push it out, just as easy as it is to let my eyes do what they’re supposed to.

For the thrall.

Humans say that we have magical mind-control powers. That our souls can body-snatch theirs and tie them up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Much like everything else, though, it’s simple biology. An additional intraocular muscle that allows us to shift our eyes at high speed and induce a hypnotic state. Vampyres who are talented thrallers, like my father, can do it without touching their victim at all, and much more quickly. But they are rare, and for the mediocre ones like me, who need someone to be restrained to initiate a thrall, it can be an unwieldy practice.

There are some caveats, too. The thrall only works on other species, and not every brain is equally responsive. And, of course, entering people’s minds without consent is an act of violence, and deeply unethical. Just because we can, it doesn’t mean that we should. But Max did try to hurt Ana, and he might do it again. Plus, my morals are just not that solid.

“Okay.” I lean back, vigorously rubbing my eyes. The thrall requires a

lot of energy. “He’s all yours.”

Everyone stares at me open-mouthed. And my mind might be playing tricks, but I’m almost positive that they’ve all taken a step back from me.

Except for Lowe, who’s almost too close.

“You guys might wanna hurry. This will only last ten minutes or so.” I point at Max’s state of unresponsive stupor. “He won’t just word-salad his life story at you. You need to go ahead and ask him questions.” No one speaks. Did I accidentally thrall them, too? “Something like, ‘Why were you trying to take Ana, Max?’ ”

“I was tasked to take her to the Loyals, where she could be used as leverage, to force Lowe to step down as Alpha,” he recites tonelessly.

The room explodes in a flurry of panicky, suspicious mutters that have nothing to do with Max’s answer. In fact, I’m pretty sure I catch a “Microwaved his brain.”

“The thrall,” Lowe murmurs.

“Yup. That’s it. No deep-frying involved.” I stand and grimace at the spit on my shirt. It’s starting to seep through—gross.

“I thought it was a myth,” Cal whispers. “That our elders used to scare us.”

I can relate, since I grew up fairly sure that if I misbehaved, a Were would crawl up the toilet to eat my ass. “It’s not. I’m not really good at this, actually.” It seems best not to disclose what someone like Father could do.

“You look plenty good to me,” Cal says. He actually sounds admiring, while Ken is glaring suspiciously, and Mick frowns, and Gemma shakes her head, and some other Weres exchange looks, and Juno seems, as ever, worried and angry, and Lowe . . .

I’ve given up on understanding Lowe.

“How do we know you’re not planting lies in his head?” Ken asks. I shrug. “Ask him something I wouldn’t know.”

“What happened when you asked Mary Lakes out for a date?” Juno says.

“She said no,” Max drones.

“Why?”

“Because I had a huge blob of snot coming out of my nose.”

It’s funny, but no one laughs. The group seems to have gotten over the initial incredulity, and Cal starts grilling Max. “Did Roscoe’s mate send you to take Ana?”

“I believe so, even though I did not talk to Emery directly.” Cal shakes his head. “Of fucking course.”

“Stop.” Lowe interrupts, and the room falls silent again. He turns to me. My breath catches as his arm reaches inside the hoodie he put on me. His palm briefly fits on my waist, then moves north to brush against my breast, and oh my God, what—

He slides his phone out of the inside pocket and pulls back. My cheeks are on fire.

“Take her to her room, then come back,” he orders Mick. To Juno: “Check on Ana, please.”

I’m escorted out. I must really be at my most busybody, because I’m tempted to ask if I can stay. Figure out what this strange war within the Weres could be about. Instead I meekly follow Mick up the stairs.

“I hope I didn’t get you in trouble,” I tell him, “but I saw Max take Ana, and I know you guys don’t believe me, but he’d attacked me, so—”

“No one doubted you,” he says kindly. I look at him. “Lowe sure did.”

“Lowe knew Max had attacked you first. He is very good at smelling lies.”

“Oh. As in . . . literally smelling?”

Mick nods but doesn’t elaborate. “He knew Max was up to something, knew it had to do with Ana, and wanted to get as much information as he could out of him. It’s a tightrope to walk, for Lowe. He won’t go about interrogating every person he doesn’t like, or he’ll be the same as Roscoe was toward the end. But the Loyals have been hurting their own, and they must be stopped.”

“He sure seemed ready to let the others torture Max.”

“That was a show, meant to scare Max. And it would have worked, we could all smell it. But you did make it easier with your . . .” He smiles and gestures at my eyes. “Just promise you won’t do it to me, okay? You were scary in there.”

“I would never. You’re my most beloved jailer.” I smile, close-lipped and fangless. “Besides, I’m the one who should be scared.”

“Why?”

I point to the scar on his neck. The row of teeth marking his collarbone. “You’re the one rolling in here with that, like your favorite pastime is getting into fights.” I cock my head. “Is that how you turned into a Were?”

His eyebrow quirks. “We’re a legitimate species, not an infectious disease.”

“Just making sure that if someone bites me I won’t turn into you.” “If you bit someone, would it turn them into a Vampyre?”

I think about it for a moment. “Touché.”

He laughs softly and shakes his head, suddenly wistful. “This is my mate’s bite.”

Mate. The word, again.

“Do they have one, too? Your mate.” “Yes, of course.”

“Have I met them?”

He looks away. “She’s not with us anymore.”

“Oh.” I swallow, unsure what to say. I hope it wasn’t one of my people who did it. “I’m sorry. It sounds like mates are a big deal.”

He nods. “Mating bonds are the core of every pack. But I don’t think it’s wise for me to discuss Were customs with you.” He gives me a look that manages to be chiding and soft all at once. “Especially if you’re chatting with your brother in a language no one else speaks.”

Oh, shit. “It’s not . . . I just missed home. Wanted to hear something familiar.”

“Did you?” We come to a halt in front of my door. Mick opens it, and gestures for me to step inside. “How curious. You don’t strike me as the type who ever had a home.”

I let his words churn around me for several minutes after he leaves, wondering whether he’s right. When they grind to a stop, I know he isn’t: I did have a home, and her name was Serena.

I change my top into one less smeared with Max’s DNA and silently slip out of my room. With everyone distracted by the commotion, breaking into Lowe’s office is almost suspiciously easy. There are plenty of ways to hack into a computer, few of which are at my disposal. Fortunately, I have enough experience with brute-force techniques to be optimistic.

The sun is setting, but I don’t turn on the lights. Lowe’s desk is given away by Ana’s grinning picture. I tiptoe there, kneel in front of the keyboard, and start messing around.

This is not my bread and butter, but it’s relatively simple and not too time-consuming. It’s clear that the Weres don’t expect intrusions from within, and the machine is mostly unprotected. It only takes me a few minutes to force my way into their database, and a handful more to set up three parallel searches: Serena Paris, the date she disappeared, and The Herald, in case my suspicions are right, and Lowe was part of some story she meant to cover. It’s just a start, but I hope that if she was mentioned on any communication device that’s automatically backed up on—

Something soft rubs against my calf.

“Not now,” I murmur, distractedly swatting Serena’s damn fucking cat away. The terminal starts to populate with hits. I stroke a few keys to maximize. So far, not too promising.

The cat’s wet nose presses against my thigh. “I’m busy, Sparkles or whatever. Go play with Ana.”

He starts purring. No, growling. Frankly, it’s a level of entitlement that pisses me off. “I told you to—” I glance down and instantly scramble back, nearly falling on my ass.

In the dim light of dusk, the yellow eyes of a gray wolf stare angrily at me.