Could this night get any worse?

I'm glad Sam is safe at work and has no reason to suspect I'm in the woods behind the Old Town Drafthouse Cinema, not far from her Volkswagen. I haven't had any opportunity to defend her virtue, though.

I have to admit, I need that right now, to stay sane and remind myself that there is a noble cause at the root of all this strife. Without it, I'm not just falling apart. I'm tearing myself apart, with teeth and claws and otherworldly strength.

When a wolf, blacker than the darkest night, ambles over and sits on its haunches besides me, the night gets ten-times worse.

Why doesn't anyone think I can handle this? I convey by way of greeting.

Because you can't, Rollin answers.

Our communication isn't exactly "mind-reading." I can't explain how it's done, but there's a difference between thinking and speaking. Usually. We have some privacy, as long as we don't think "too loud." On a typical day, and with regular practice and if we can keep the emotions in check—easier said than done sometimes—we have to want to be heard. But, for any non-wolf, or wolf in human form, the chatter goes dark, so I suppose, in a way, it's a wolf-specific form of telepathy.

Someone needs to protect her from you. Rollin scoots forward, obstructing a piece of my view, the one I've meticulously chosen, something he feels he can just take. No one wants to sully her more than you do. Except me, of course. He shifts another few inches into my space and licks his chops. There are 'loopholes' I wouldn't mind sinking a few things into...

I lurch forward, nudging him with my shoulder. The force of it shakes the branches that are shielding us from the unwitting public. Try anything, and I'll rip your fucking throat out.

His snicker floods my awareness and I growl aloud.

Natural or supernatural, there aren't a whole lot of wolves in these parts, so I should be more careful. Everyone in Virginia has a gun. Bullet wounds can be fatal if blood loss or organ damage outpaces our fast-healing capacity.

I shouldn't let Rollin get to me, either. He pokes and prods, testing me for weaknesses all the damn time. Because he wants what I precariously have—Ivy, seniority, preferential treatment. I'm sure he assumes, if he rides me long and hard enough, I'll make a mistake I can't fix, and he'll be my permanent replacement.

See what I mean? Rollin turns his head away from me, sensing what I sense. We aren't alone, but our hackles don't rise.

Shilo trots in from behind. While I'm a tawny brown, she's a handsome black and gray. Her paws and abdomen are pure white. She's smaller than the two of us and lighter on her feet. Her scent wafted in before she was seen or heard.

She lays down in a ready position beside me, putting me in the middle. In Rollin's company, she's better off with a buffer, too. Why are you about to kill Rollin? This time?

He doesn't like to share, Rollin jumps in before I can cough up something brief and vague. Or admit that I'm right.

Why are you still here? I ask him. I've got this. You can go. And please. Do us both a favor!

Sorry, you're stuck with me. I have orders, Rollin states.

Ishmael?

No. Ivy. Didn't she tell you? Oh, right, you're still in the doghouse.

Yes, I am. And I'm being kept there in chains, with no food or water, and meanwhile, there's a feast on the table that I can see through the window, and there's this delicate hand beckoning me inside...

It irritates me that Rollin is right about more than I'd like to admit. And what's worse, he knows he's right, despite his feeble effort to play dumb for a second. What about you? I turn my attention to Shilo. Is Faolan the only one watching the manor tonight?

Faolan has the strongest senses, but he's the runt of the litter in every other aspect. It's a good thing he's mild-mannered, accident-prone, and gets punished enough. No one has much of a desire to quarrel with him. It's probably why he's lived as long as he has. It counteracts his bad luck—what got him into our mess. Wrong place, wrong time shit. Nothing he could have done. Powerful enemies were made by happenstance.

I'm heading over soon, Shilo informs me. Seeing if you need anything before I go.

Answers, I guess. If you two are here to watch me watching Sam, whether they told you to or not, and Bryony is at the apartment...

Rollin suddenly darts into the parking lot and disappears behind a dumpster. Maybe he saw something, he's bored with this conversation already, or because he lost an opportunity to talk about himself or torture me. He already knows too much and is making some dangerous accusations. I don't trust him, whatsoever. And it's a sigh of relief when he's out of range.

It's overkill for one girl in a decent town no matter who she is or what she's up to. Shilo finishes the thought for me.

I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks so.

Bryony is the very definition of overkill. She's a vampire with a hearty appetite, little respect for human life, and does as she pleases more often than what's right or what she's told. It's no wonder she's been Ivy's best friend since childhood. Bryony was just a regular, reckless human, until the car accident. With her shiny new driver's license, she drove her equally new Audi into a tree at some obscene speed. While she was choking on blood, Ishmael "saved" her life. He's the hero when the dinner bell rings and they're all breaking bread and sipping blood or wine together. He's her maker, practically her father. Bryony's like a fourth sister and this is their dark fairy-tale ending.

Honestly, though, the world would be a whole lot better off if Bryony had just died in the wreckage.

Why did she suddenly show up on my doorstep? Doing what she can to win Sam's favor? I'm the sullen, odd-man-out, and Bryony's a phenomenal actress. In a matter of days, Sam will probably like her more than me, and may even get Sam's bedroom confession before I do.

Last I knew, Bryony was terrorizing villages in the British Isles somewhere. Apparently, she's back and here to stay for a while, even though she's forced to behave, relatively speaking. In Ishmael's domain, secrecy is a priority. The bodies can't pile up. If they do, if it can't be avoided, they're supposed to be untraceable and disconnected. No one of any worth should ever be trying to find these people.

These are the rules we all live or die by. But for every rule, they tend to make exceptions, especially for Bryony, their guest of honor.

No one warned me. No one ever explained. She was probably called upon to keep me in line now that Ivy can't be bothered. Maybe she's another layer of protection for Sam? Or my replacement?

In all seriousness, I put forward, what the fuck is going on? Has Blaise said anything I should be aware of?

The question hangs there. My cringe deepens with every second of silence.

Shilo doesn't often discuss her personal life. I would never, under normal circumstances, even acknowledge that she and Blaise are in a relationship. All the wolves know, but we act like we don't, not sure how "secret" things are or need to be. As far as I can tell, they're more compatible than Ivy and I ever were, and they're better at keeping their conflict under wraps.

Blaise doesn't likely know everything, by her own choice sometimes, and she's a tough shell to crack.

Would she ever let a few things slip that Shilo might share with me? Yes. Blaise would be the most likely to criticize her family and the least likely to protect them. I think she hates my guts, though, because of Ivy or whatever. The new set of circumstances won't exactly lift me in Blaise's esteem, and Shilo would have to take that into consideration.

It was a longshot, but . . . I thought it was worth a try...

Nothing . . . really, is Shilo's hesitant answer. It's the pause, though, and the emphasis on "really." She doesn't slam the door in my face. For some reason, she leaves it open a crack.

I'd call that a yes, maybe...

She lowers her head and emits a soft whine. I don't know much. Just something about the tension in that house. It's so high lately that Blaise can't stand it.

Is she involved?

Not directly. Shilo turns her head away from me.

I nudge her shoulder with my nose. Could she be, if you asked her?

I'm not going to ask her that! Her statement is accompanied by an audible grunt.

Why not? Sam has more bodyguards than the president. That means we're either putting her in danger or we are the danger.

We have a job to do, and beyond that, it's none of our business. You're only making it your business because you like the girl!

What I like is irrelevant. They're turning us into something we're not. Monsters. And making Sam into something she's not—their property.

Maybe you should have asked Ivy, you know, before the cheating began.

I. Didn't. Cheat. And I've tried to ask. It was her evasiveness that put a wedge between us in the first place!

That's not what I've heard.

If Ivy's your only source, I can't say I'm surprised...

Our muzzles swivel toward Rollin dashing across the parking lot. What kind of truck does that guy, Ted, drive?

A black Ford F-150. VSJ-2467, I recite the license plate number from memory. Why?

That's what I thought. It's parked on the street out front.

Do you know where he is?

I think I picked out his stench. It's all over the place, though.

Don't panic, Shilo says to me. There could be some other reason he's here.

It could be for an errand or a social call. Most of the bars and restaurants are still open, but I have trouble believing his presence is a coincidence. He'd know where Sam works, her likely schedule, where her car would be parked. If this turns out to be anything like our last run-in, he's already drunk.

I'll check on Sam. Shilo trots into the woods and returns in her human form wearing frayed jeans, a black button-up, and a baseball cap.

I'd rather go inside. It's the most likely place Ted will end up. Shilo's right, though. She's the only one of us who Sam hasn't met yet. If Rollin and I get a chance to intervene beforehand, Sam won't ever have to know we're in the neighborhood. If Ted's already in the theater somewhere, Shilo can hold her own, even against a linebacker twice her size. If she can't, she'll call us or whistle the signal.

Rollin and I fork away from each other to make the switch and get dressed. I brought dark, lightweight trackpants and a black, long sleeve T-shirt with a hood—my typical human attire on a mission like this. I sometimes loop them into something I can wear over my wolf shoulder and under the other. Tonight, I brought a backpack and hid it in the brush a few yards back. I knew I'd be arriving as a human, staying put for a while, and then leaving as one, too.

We reconvene by Sam's car. I pull up my hood. Rollin covers his wild, overly gelled hair with a black winter hat.

On opposite sides, we round the building and meet up again on the street. Rollin has no real attachment to Sam, but there's no question whose side he's on. And I have no doubt he'll enjoy grinding Ted to a bloody pulp as much as I will. And it's not personal to him. It's business and he's a workaholic. It's war and he's a loyal grunt and there's no gray area between "enemy" and "friend."

After crossing by Ted's empty truck, we pick up and follow his sweaty, cheap-whiskey scent to the nearest bar and glare into the faces of everyone over two-hundred pounds.

The husky bastards don't appreciate the scrutiny. They're rude or obstructive, but we shove through to the back anyway, and no one lifts a finger to stop us.

We pop inside the men's room, do a quick walkthrough, and then head out the back door. Ted was here, but I'm pretty sure he left. The guy doesn't blend in. He has a voice that carries and a crooked nose that just begs for a few more hits. I'd recognize him no matter what he was wearing or sporting. A beard, a hat, it doesn't matter. He's appalling, through and through.

It makes my skin crawl wondering what she saw in him. His truck is in shit condition, he has a beer-belly, and probably looks a little too much like all his relatives.

Rollin and I sweep through two other bars and get the same results. Pausing at an intersection, I call Shilo for an update. Rollin wanders across the street when the light changes. I linger back, scanning both sides of the street on the ground we covered.

Shilo lets me know that Sam is in sight and seems unfazed. The bathrooms are clear, and there's no one loitering in the lobby that fits Ted's description.

"I gotta go," I tell her. "Try to keep her there." I end the call before she has a chance to answer.

Someone is teetering toward Ted's F-150. It's him, and he pulls something from the bed of the truck. I could be mistaken, but it looks like a baseball bat.

At my whistle, Rollin hustles back. Ted j-walks toward the movie theater. Rollin and I meet up about fifteen paces behind Ted and follow him into the parking lot. I'm not sure what he's capable of right now, but at least he doesn't enter the lobby and start swinging. There's still hope we can handle this crisis quietly, without an audience or collateral damage.

I round the corner of the building with my phone still in hand. Knowing what Ted will probably do, I start recording a video. In the glare of the parking lot lights, I get a decent shot of him busting one of Sam's taillights.

"I'd drop the bat if I were you. You're on video." As hard as it may be, I push out the voice of a concerned citizen, and nothing more. I'm not sure I succeed, but he's probably too drunk to make the distinction.

No police, regardless of what we see, do, don't do, or endure. No exceptions.

I'd only share the recording as an absolute last resort, but he doesn't know that. Since he acted out first, Rollin and I have some leeway before he goes sobbing to anyone who might care, and I intend to make good use of every inch of his life that I get.

"Erase it." Ted lumbers toward us, the bat up with an athlete's aptitude but a drunk guy's balance.

Rollin's shorter but rock solid. He crosses his arms and widens his stance. "Bad idea, my friend."

Ted teeters to a stop, giving himself a moment to size Rollin up. "You're not my friend," he decides. Ted's arms slacken. The bat wobbles and drops a bit. His gaze then wanders over to me. "Hey, don't I know you?" he exclaims without much of a pause for thought.

Shit.

He's not braindead, yet, and I find that unfortunate and rather disappointing. I may get a visit from the police after all. Or from his posse of frat boys. I can't decide which is worse. I'm not worried about me, but bloodshed warrants attention, and unwanted attention can exacerbate the bloodshed. Sam would be at the center of it all and might get hurt in the crossfire.

"Does it matter?" I make a point to zoom in on his face with the camera. "You're the one in trouble."

"Does Sam know you're here, stalking her?" Ted's big head overwhelms my screen as he trudges closer.

I take a step back for a wider camera angle. "Isn't that what you're doing?" He takes the bait and matches my motion. I'm bringing him closer to the tree line. And he's too full of himself to figure out why.

The parking lot has been dormant for the most part, but we lose our lucky streak. A cluster of people round the building. A car starts up on the other end. It turns down the main aisle, lighting up the whole area.

We shield our faces. As the two human groups converge, the three points of our unfriendly triangle scrunch together, heading deeper into the shadow between a van and the woods.

"Why don't you cough up some cash for the taillight and get lost? Sam will never have to know." Rollin. The voice of reason and restraint. A secret keeper. An advocate for mercy.

It's been a weird fucking night.

"Nope," Ted pops off. "Your whore, your problem." He must be one of those functional alcoholics. A mean sonofabitch, too. He knows exactly what he's doing and sneers at me when my fists clench. "How does your little arrangement work, anyway?" There's clearly no line he won't cross. "If there are two of you at a time, do you get half price? Does she get a discount on food or rent, or what? For the life of me, I can't figure out how else she'd secure your . . . services. It's not like she has any money..."

That's it. He's dead.

I pocket my phone and duck when Ted swings at me first. With the baseball bat. I was ready for it, though. It just grazes my hood.

While his torso is still turned, I ram a shoulder into his ribcage. With his weight and experience, it doesn't have the desired effect. Ted takes no more than a step back. His bat-arm flails back around. He whacks me across the shoulder. The bat knocks the wind out of me, but that's fine. Whatever. My rage is all the fuel I need.

I dig my toes into the ground and keep pushing. It doesn't bring Ted to the ground by itself, but it gives Rollin the opportunity to swing at him. He lands a punch to Ted's eye socket. The bat bobbles in Ted's hand and Rollin wrests it from his grip. When Rollin gains control of it, he takes a swing, and he doesn't miss.

Rollin gives Ted a direct, cautiously calculated crack to the shin.

I've seen Rollin kill, like a machine, brutal and swift. Passionless. Remorseless. He's clearly following a do not kill order and has the discipline to abide by that.

Fuck that. And fuck him. Fuck them both!

While Ted's swearing and hollering, I wrestle him to the ground and keep pounding him with my fists. Until—one hit, two hits, three hits later?—the bat is pressing against my windpipe. "All right! I'm done!" I yield to Rollin and he releases me.

My inhale is sharp and then my lungs begin heaving. I struggle to stand, and trip on my way up. My limbs are still twitching from the burst of adrenaline.

I'm glad Ted is still conscious. I'm not actually done with him, and I want him to feel that with every pain receptor he has available.

"If you come anywhere near Sam again..." I stomp down on his injured leg, and he squeals like a dying sow. He doesn't deserve the success or glory or social standing that football brings him, or any decent girl he might attract as a result. "I'll know. And trust me. You'll wish you were dead."