has been attacked.”
Chapter Five
“Attacked?” Bishop repeated.
“Joe didn’t have any details,” Father said. “He answered an anonymous call about an attack on Stonehill, Connecticut. The caller said the aggressors were fast, deadly, and that at least two dozen people had been killed already.”
Rook pressed his lips closed against a sudden wave of nausea, followed by rage that their people had been attacked. Father’s words had burst through the cotton wadding wrapped around his brain with devastating clarity. Loup garou did not shift into their beast forms often, because the change was extremely painful and it took up to a full minute to complete. A trick of their biology also required what they called a “cooling-down period”—for however many hours the loup spent as beast, twice as many were required in skin before they could shift again. If Rook took a half-hour beast run through the woods, he couldn’t shift again for at least an hour. His body simply wouldn’t allow it.
Most loup spent the majority of their lives in skin form, choosing to shift only during their quarterly. Every one hundred and one days, from sunset to sunrise, a loup was forced into his or her beast for eight to twelve hours, depending on the time of year. The quarterly had been a huge inconvenience while Rook was in college, and was responsible for the end of his musical career.
Because of the time it took to shift into beast, once an alarm was sounded, backup would take time to arrive. Even in skin, though, a loup garou was a formidable opponent and it took quite a lot of effort to kill one. For twenty-four people to have died before someone could call for outside assistance was unthinkable, unless—
“Guns?” Bishop asked.
“I don’t know,” Father replied. “Joe couldn’t tell me anything, because he only knew what the anonymous caller told him. That two dozen are dead, and that they’re under attack. After he got the anonymous call, Joe tried calling Andrew Butler, Springwell’s Alpha, but he didn’t answer, so Joe called me. Joe’s sending a squad of enforcers up to investigate, and I agreed to do the same.”
Rook jerked in his chair. This was exactly the kind of assignment he needed to prove to his father that he could handle himself and lead others. Only going today was impossible, and it was his own fault. With the ketamine in his system making higher thought a challenge, he’d be useless in Connecticut. And when his father looked directly at him, obviously waiting for Rook to volunteer, he didn’t meet his eyes.
The silence lasted only a split second, but it was enough. Father didn’t comment. He had another crisis to deal with before he focused on his youngest son.
“Bishop, take four people with you,” their Alpha said. “I want you ready to leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll give you the contact information for Joe’s squad leader.”
“On it,” Bishop replied. “Dev?”
“I’m in,” Devlin replied.
The pair left as quickly as they came, back into the bustle of the auction that was continuing as usual without them. Father moved fast—one moment behind the desk, the next standing in front of Rook.
“What’s wrong with you?” Father asked.
“Long story.” Rook felt five years old again, confronted by his father after stumbling home a bloody mess. He’d tried to climb a tree he’d been forbidden to touch, because it was rotting, and he’d gone up anyway. When a branch gave out halfway up, he’d hit a lot of other branches on the way to the ground. Sharing that shame with his father had been excruciating at age five. As an adult, it was far more embarrassing.
“Knight?” Father said. “A summary, please?”
Knight explained everything as Brynn had explained it to him, presenting the evidence as it was needed: the cup holding the ring, the syringe box. Brynn didn’t move from her corner, but the sour tang of fear coming off her increased, as did the ragged sound of her
Chapter Five
“Attacked?” Bishop repeated.
“Joe didn’t have any details,” Father said. “He answered an anonymous call about an attack on Stonehill, Connecticut. The caller said the aggressors were fast, deadly, and that at least two dozen people had been killed already.”
Rook pressed his lips closed against a sudden wave of nausea, followed by rage that their people had been attacked. Father’s words had burst through the cotton wadding wrapped around his brain with devastating clarity. Loup garou did not shift into their beast forms often, because the change was extremely painful and it took up to a full minute to complete. A trick of their biology also required what they called a “cooling-down period”—for however many hours the loup spent as beast, twice as many were required in skin before they could shift again. If Rook took a half-hour beast run through the woods, he couldn’t shift again for at least an hour. His body simply wouldn’t allow it.
Most loup spent the majority of their lives in skin form, choosing to shift only during their quarterly. Every one hundred and one days, from sunset to sunrise, a loup was forced into his or her beast for eight to twelve hours, depending on the time of year. The quarterly had been a huge inconvenience while Rook was in college, and was responsible for the end of his musical career.
Because of the time it took to shift into beast, once an alarm was sounded, backup would take time to arrive. Even in skin, though, a loup garou was a formidable opponent and it took quite a lot of effort to kill one. For twenty-four people to have died before someone could call for outside assistance was unthinkable, unless—
“Guns?” Bishop asked.
“I don’t know,” Father replied. “Joe couldn’t tell me anything, because he only knew what the anonymous caller told him. That two dozen are dead, and that they’re under attack. After he got the anonymous call, Joe tried calling Andrew Butler, Springwell’s Alpha, but he didn’t answer, so Joe called me. Joe’s sending a squad of enforcers up to investigate, and I agreed to do the same.”
Rook jerked in his chair. This was exactly the kind of assignment he needed to prove to his father that he could handle himself and lead others. Only going today was impossible, and it was his own fault. With the ketamine in his system making higher thought a challenge, he’d be useless in Connecticut. And when his father looked directly at him, obviously waiting for Rook to volunteer, he didn’t meet his eyes.
The silence lasted only a split second, but it was enough. Father didn’t comment. He had another crisis to deal with before he focused on his youngest son.
“Bishop, take four people with you,” their Alpha said. “I want you ready to leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll give you the contact information for Joe’s squad leader.”
“On it,” Bishop replied. “Dev?”
“I’m in,” Devlin replied.
The pair left as quickly as they came, back into the bustle of the auction that was continuing as usual without them. Father moved fast—one moment behind the desk, the next standing in front of Rook.
“What’s wrong with you?” Father asked.
“Long story.” Rook felt five years old again, confronted by his father after stumbling home a bloody mess. He’d tried to climb a tree he’d been forbidden to touch, because it was rotting, and he’d gone up anyway. When a branch gave out halfway up, he’d hit a lot of other branches on the way to the ground. Sharing that shame with his father had been excruciating at age five. As an adult, it was far more embarrassing.
“Knight?” Father said. “A summary, please?”
Knight explained everything as Brynn had explained it to him, presenting the evidence as it was needed: the cup holding the ring, the syringe box. Brynn didn’t move from her corner, but the sour tang of fear coming off her increased, as did the ragged sound of her
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