I feel the slow left turn from the trunk.

There's tape wrapped around my paws and legs. My muzzle looks taped shut, but it's not connected on the bottom, and I can pop out the lower part of my jaw if I have to.

I take a moment to practice staying stiff. Shilo even cut her own hand, smearing blood on my fur, to make my "death" look convincing. Brock beat me to within an inch of my life and I succumbed to my injuries on the way over. That's what we're going with. It seems entirely plausible to me. If these guys have even heard of Brock, they may take our word for it, and let us deal with the alleged disposal.

We've apparently reached the designated gas station at a remote spot outside of Elkins WV, a location I'm familiar with. I've lived here before and spent more than half of my life in the region. It's been a while, but last I knew, this gas station is surrounded by farmland and forest. The parking lot is expansive, it isn't well-lit, and it should be fairly deserted at this time of night.

Shilo drives over a bumpy patch, presumably sticking to the periphery, and puts the Integra in park. Both the driver and passenger doors open and shut. We're expecting one shifter from Narcia's pack, maybe two, and they must be here already.

This is supposed to be a business transaction between allies. Whether this relationship is a new development or something well-established, I'm not entirely sure and I can't decide if it makes a difference. It's hopefully strained at best either way, and the plan is, we'll never see any of them, ever again. If they decide to go to war with Ishmael over this, it won't be our problem.

In other words, this is it. All—me, Sam, Shilo, Blaise, Faolan, and some hidden place to call home—or nothing.

Shilo does the talking. I can make out some of the discussion, which, understandably, gets a little heated. Faolan has the tracker and a piece of tape, which is intended for the other car. Inside or outside, it doesn't matter. It just has to stick and remain undiscovered for the length of time it takes for them to drive back to their territory.

I expect Shilo to open the trunk for "proof," and she does. And I'm ready for it—stiff, still, and holding my breath.

"Are you sure he's dead? He doesn't look dead." I know that voice. It's Pavel, the alpha male of Narcia's choosing.

It's not supposed to work like that, but like any hypocrite, she's carved out a life for herself, enforcing the wolf rites that appeal to her and disregarding anything that puts her power into question. The position belongs to me since I'm technically still breathing. And sure, it's my obligation to my kind to keep challenging her until I'm either dead or the job is done. I owe it to anyone who might still be loyal to my bloodline. But I never considered it worth the bloodshed. I'd need a small army willing to fight to the death for me. And this wasn't something I ever asked for or wanted, even after a few years of my grandfather's grooming.

So, I ran and never looked back. And I'll do it again. I never felt all that guilty about any of it, not until this moment, when I'm forced to hear that prick cast his doubt on a plan that needs to work.

Someone checks my pulse at my throat. "I don't feel anything," Shilo says.

"I've already confirmed it. Twice," Faolan insists, his fingers replacing Shilo's. He also shakes my ribcage and puts an ear to my chest.

"Let me try." Pavel apparently pushes between them, and in doing so, jostles the whole car. "We have to be sure. And be that as it may, Narcia will want the body."

This wasn't part of the plan. Only the tracker is supposed to leave with them.

At this point, I've held my breath dangerously long. I try to sneak in some air while the car is still settling, but it must not be the right time.

"His chest just moved!" someone else grunts. It's a deep voice that I don't recognize. Pavel didn't come alone, and from the sound of it, his sidekick is the muscle of this operation.

"What?" Shilo shrieks. "No, that was just the car shaking."

I now have multiple hands all over my body. "I think I feel a pulse!"

In a perfect world, they would have taken Shilo's word for it, no more than a glance inside the trunk. It was a longshot, yes. Especially knowing Narcia and her penchant for mutilation in any state of existence.

There is a Plan B in place, but there's even less of a likelihood for success.

Shilo, at least, jumps right on it, the element of surprise still in her favor. A strong part of her body hits vulnerable flesh. The groan is my cue.

Tape shreds, a roar rips from me, and I'm bounding out of the trunk, launching myself at Pavel's body.

He's got this wavy, golden-blond man-bun, an icy blue eye, and high cheekbones, all of which are kind of freakish in this neck of the woods. He gets mistaken for a vampire or a faerie all the damn time. Yeah, he's got an eyepatch, but he's still too pretty to be taken seriously. Narcia, who isn't anything special, might trust him to do as he's told and perform as he's able in the privacy of her lair, but he's only underworld material in terms of his sharp tongue, the chip on his shoulder, and the vengeance Narcia would unleash if something were to happen to him. She went apeshit over just the eye.

When I make contact, his medium build is no match for my momentum. He goes flying backwards and hits the ground without a hitch. I hold him there by the throat while Shilo and Faolan attempt to wrangle the other guy, much more of a brute, into a similar situation.

Shilo made the first move against the guy by our bumper, and it sounded like a solid one. Hopefully she'll gain the advantage at any moment.

I'd like to kill Pavel, while his throat is between my teeth. For all my pain and suffering...

In Narcia's game, he's her favorite toy and always has been, despite the lies they told and the ruse they subjected me to. But I've moved past it, as much as I can while I'm still at the top of their hit list.

Killing Pavel is Plan C. If we go there, we're truly at an end and may as well bleed out beside him.  

I can only see the clash out of the corner of my eye, and from that, I can tell that the struggle veers to a wolfish one. Pavel's "bodyguard," because, let's face it, that's what he's here for, becomes an enormous white wolf, at least double the size of Shilo.

She shifts in response, and dashes between me and him, who's charging right for me. She's quick and bold and doesn't typically give anyone a chance to prove they're bigger than she is. We're on the same page about killing anyone here, but I bet she's wondering right now, like I am, how it could possibly be avoided.

While Shilo is crouched, growling, holding our ground by the car, Faolan, in human form, grabs the duct tape Brock left for us in the trunk, and comes over to relieve me.

It's a wise, self-preserving choice . . . unless, of course, he's the last one standing, and Narcia or Ishmael gets a hold of him. Here and now, Shilo needs more help than he can give. We need some rearranging if this brawl is to end in our favor with no body count, something that'll be harder to do, the more bites, slashes, and snarls that break forth.

Faolan is taping up Pavel's limbs, and surprisingly, Pavel doesn't shift. He just sits there and takes it, maybe thinking that his squeal for help will somehow be heard on a windy night, a spacious parking lot away from any customer or employee, none of whom are outside at this time. There are two parked cars by the small convenience store, neither of which have moved in the last ten minutes. We do need to wrap this up, but there's no overwhelming pressure just yet.

Although we're still at a size disadvantage, Shilo and I have some practice, protecting something. Protecting each other. We weave around Faolan and our prey, like a dance routine. We don't even require eye contact to make it tight and efficient.

The white wolf paces, too, but he doesn't get any closer to us. 

We won't hurt him, Shilo puts forward. We just need five minutes with you elsewhere. Seriously, go in and buy some beer. We'll be gone by the time you get back.

And what if I don't? the white wolf replies.

It's three to two, I remind him. We already have the advantage. And we've done this many times before.

We've presented the option where you both live, Shilo adds. What more could you ask for?

Narcia won't be pleased, he throws back at us.

I almost shudder at the reverence he uses to bolster her name. I get that, but...

She wants you dead.

But she'll want to do it her way, I'm sure. And how are you going to manage that?

He doesn't respond.

See? This is complicated. I strike again, while he's confused and conflicted. No one is going to walk away with the perfect solution. Our one-time offer seems reasonable, doesn't it? It's time to take it or leave it.

After just another moment of deliberation, he responds with, you'll regret this someday, but he darts toward the pasture, the threat just a few words in the wind that no other human or beast could even hear. He slips into the long grass and is no longer seen or heard.

Shilo keeps an eye on him, or the lack of him, while I help Faolan load Pavel into the trunk of his sedan. We make sure the car keys are locked in there with him. Then we locate their phones—one in a cupholder and the other, on the pavement nearby. It must have fallen out of a pocket in the fray.

"Tracker?" I ask Faolan, human again and getting my clothes back on.

"Taped it to the bumper and then decided to move it under a floormat in the back."

"Great," I say, crouching beside our front drivers-side wheel. I tuck one phone beneath the tire and set the other right next to it.

I open the backseat door for Shilo. Once her eyes drop from the field, she bolts toward the car and launches herself inside. I close it up and take the wheel, running over the phones a few times, and then speeding off. 

It all worked out, sort of, but I have to wonder, will it be enough? Is there something we missed? Did we buy ourselves enough time? Will they find a way to get word to Narcia? Will they be stuck in this parking lot for too long?

If that tracker is not moving soon, Ishmael may get suspicious and could easily beat us to Sam's house. As of now, he has more than a two-hour head start.

Shilo tries calling him from the car, meaning to tell him that the exchange went well, we're heading back, an undisclosed amount of money richer than before, and that Narcia's pack seemed to have other business to attend to in the same location. It would explain the delay in the parking lot that Plan B unfortunately provided.

What's strange, though? He doesn't answer. Or call back.

Not five minutes later. Not ten minutes later...

Ishmael is many things, most of which are not good. But when it comes to a high-risk business transaction, he's predictable and reliable, immediately. Even if some other disaster has struck, it would take him no more than a few minutes to get back to us.

He's either dead—very unlikely—or he's ignoring us.

Why he's ignoring us, well . . . unless a search warrant has been issued or a goddamn meteor crashed down upon the house, it's hard to give his brush-off a positive spin.

He doesn't want to hear our lies, not even for his own entertainment...

This has become, simply, a race against time and distance. A clash of strength, wits, endurance, and the dark arts, and we're perpetually and universally at a disadvantage. It's a battle between good—any side Sam is on—and evil—anyone who still aligns themselves with Ivy.

I put the pedal to the metal, earning myself a whole lot of grumbling from my companions, which I pretend not to hear.

Speed is something I can control. Something I'm good at. And one of the few instances where I might be able to chip away at their dominance.

Otherwise, Ishmael has the deck stacked and cards up his sleeve. Our "luck," even on the best day, would be no match for it.

Still, it's our only hope. We need an unexpected win, and a big one at that. Fingers crossed for that meteor!