I stared at her, completely flummoxed.

“I’ve been watching you slowly throttle your Were for months and I’m tired of it. We need you to be you again. Be that girl who had the courage to take over a wolf pack.”

“I am that girl.”

“No,” she said sadly. “You’re not anymore.”

The guy on the BMW pulled up near the Were in Black. Motorcycle guy pulled off his helmet. He was tall, like the Creemore Weres, but broad, with a gut that spoke of beer and bratwurst—not lean like one of Trowbridge’s people. According to my book, Weres smelled like forests and were uniformly lean muscled. They didn’t smell rank as a fox’s lair and look like they spoke in double negatives.

Barely moving her lips, Cordelia whispered one final instruction. I gave her a quick frown.

The afternoon sun glinted off Harry’s silver hair as he got out of the car. A second later Biggs got out from the passenger side. They stood with their backs to us—uneven bookends, the older man head and shoulders taller than the younger—both eyeing the guy in the lawn chair.

Harry scratched the back of his neck, and then turned his head toward our window. He winked at me. His sleeve was torn. There was blood on his faded denim shirt and at the corner of his mouth.

I could barely smell the copper of it over the stink of Biggs’s fear.

“Cordelia, what’s—” She shushed me, and motioned for me to hide Ralph. I slid out of the banquette and tucked him inside my shirt all in one fairly smooth motion. She nodded to me—like she had before we slid Bridge through the portal. We are in serious trouble, I thought, as she took a steadying breath and opened the door.

Then she stood aside, in a deferential manner I’d only seen her use once before.

My stomach gave a squeeze. Are you listening, Hedi? Danger. I reached for the Cherry Blossom on the counter before I sidled through the door.

The Were in Black waited until everyone’s eyes were on him and then got up from his lawn chair. He strolled over to the bottom of my steps, passing Biggs and Harry without even acknowledging them. “I’ve come for an audience with Robson Trowbridge,” he said.

I could scent the tension radiating from Cordelia. Glibly, I pulled out our stock answer. “He doesn’t take private meetings.”

“Now why’s that?” Mr. Snoopy had parentheses beside his wide mouth.

“He’s recuperating.”

“Still?” His brown eyes examined me through his glasses. “It’s been six months.”

“He was badly injured during—”

“Silver, wasn’t it?” He gestured to his belly. “In the stomach, I heard. That would take some recuperating.”

“Who told you that?”

“It’s occurred to me, Ms. Peacock … it is Ms. Peacock?” At my numb nod, he pointed to the trailer. “I’m not going to find him inside, am I? Here or in his home.” He held up a hand. “Don’t bother lying. I’ve checked. He’s not in the Alpha’s home. The only thing left of him in that house is a whole lot of blood. Old blood. He hasn’t returned to that house or that room since the night of his alleged ascension.” His face got hard. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Behind him, Harry gave me an imperceptible shake of his head.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I was sent here under the authority of the Council of the North American Weres to investigate the death of Mannus Trowbridge and the subsequent Alpha ascension of his nephew, Robson Trowbridge, and to verify whether or not the Treaty of Brelland was willfully broken by one Hedi Peacock, nee Helen Stronghold. This morning I discussed the results of my preliminary investigations with the Council, and I have been since authorized to place you under arrest until your trial at sunset, in approximately one hour. Your jury will be me and the members of your pack.”

“You can’t do that. We have done nothing—”

“At that time, Hedi Peacock, you will answer to the following charges.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “Your involvement in the murders of Mannus Trowbridge, Stuart Scawens, and Dawn Danvers. Your fraudulent representation as cherished mate of the deceased Robson Trowbridge as well as your assumption of his title.”

“I don’t want Trowbridge’s title. I’m just trying to hold the pack together until—”

“And finally,” he said, talking over me once again. “The most serious charge. Conspiracy and treason.”

“Conspiracy?” I squeaked.

“That’s generally what they call it when you pretend to play for one team, but really play for another. Did you really think you could send an Alpha into the Fae world without us finding out about it?”

Oh … My brain froze, stuck between “oh” and “crap.” For the life of me, I couldn’t come up with a single glib lie. The spot where I should have inserted a plausible rebuttal stretched, and stretched, and then it was gone. Bye-bye. Behind me now. Opportunity had presented itself, taken a bow, and left.

Cordelia cleared her throat. “Do something!” her icy blue eyes insisted.

Okay, I thought somewhat slowly. I’ll use my flare like I did last night and that will buy us some time, and … That’s what you do, right? When the thinking part of you stutters to a halt, and you can’t brainstorm your way out of a problem? You head for your automatic defense weapons. I’ll hit them with my magic!

I gave Cordelia a faint nod.

Then the NAW’s man chose to do that thing—that wordless, incredibly insulting thing.

In front of everyone, he blew out a short burst of air through his nose. Derision streamed out of his nostrils, twin fingers of contempt flicked insolently at me. My reaction was all wolf. I felt his mockery as if it were a missile aimed at me. Bullet shaped, fin tailed. Coming straight for me.

It hit, right there, mid-chest.

For a very quick count of three, I gazed at the approximate point of impact.

When I looked up again, my defense had flipped to offense. Oh yeah, go ahead and smile, you smug bastard. I’m going to give it to you—the full dominant light of an awesomely pissed-off fairy—and you, my friend, are going to drop to your knees.

I gave my opponent a slow smile, knowing that I had plenty of rage to fuel the fire of a truly awesome flare—six months of suppressed anger, half a year of growing disillusionment, 185 days of tamping down the Fae inside me.

Puppy, we’re going to make you piddle your pants.

I looked within, ready to tap into my magic.

And within.

And, oh sweet stars in heaven—within. My paw tightened over my Cherry Blossom, as sudden comprehension rolled over me. That’s what mortal-me had been ignoring all day. Sunrise should have found me sitting at the dinette—hand submerged in a bowl of ice water— listening to the chatter of grackles as I willed my wounds to heal. But that hadn’t happened, had it? The ball of magic inside my gut should have been rigid, swollen with aggression, ready to take on any Were who dared to doubt her malevolence, but instead the essence of my Fae felt curiously soft, and frighteningly empty.

I wasn’t hungry, I was void.

Where was all my magic? Why hadn’t she come back to me? What remained of my handy ball of magic felt as soft as a month-old helium balloon. I gave it a squeeze. I was down to residue. The rest—that big sphere of green fire that I’d walked away from with such disdain—had not returned to me in the night.

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” growled my Were. “We’re not right! We’re…”

Running on empty. Not good. I squeezed what was left of my Fae talent, hopeful of wringing out a little juice for the much-needed flare.

It obliged, kind of.

A brief burn in my eyes, a buildup of expectation, and then … three, tiny, inconsequential spits of green fire; the type of impotent spark one might expect from a used-up lighter.

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