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Jeff found Fallon, Gabriel’s younger sister. They’d been on-again, off-again for a time, but considering the warmth of their embrace, I guessed they’d made “on” a little more permanent. Fallon was petite, with a sturdy, athletic body and wavy hair the same sun-kissed color as Gabe’s. She preferred black clothing and tonight wore knee-high motorcycle-style boots, a short skirt, and an NAC leather jacket.
I didn’t know Fallon very well, but I knew Jeff, and there weren’t many I respected as much as him. If he loved her—and the look in his eyes made clear that he did—then she was good people.
“Ready?” Catcher asked.
“Now or never,” Ethan said, taking my hand as we stepped forward into the meadow and into the fray.
Shifters chatted in camp chairs, watching cautiously as we passed. Others hurried around us with steaming food or boxes of gear. Someone nudged my elbow, and I turned to find a squatty woman with freshly bleached hair standing behind me, a foil-wrapped bundle in her hands. It was as large as a newborn baby and smelled of meat and chilies.
She looked me over, shook her head in disappointment, and thrust the package at me.
I nearly grunted under the weight. It was as heavy as a newborn baby, too.
“Hello, Berna,” I said.
Berna was a shifter, a relative of the Keene family, and the bartender at Little Red, the Pack watering hole in Chicago’s Ukrainian Village neighborhood. She was convinced I didn’t eat enough and enjoyed plying me with food. Since I enjoyed eating, we’d managed to stay friends of a sort.
She looked at Ethan and winged up her pencil-drawn eyebrows suggestively. “Hello, man,” she said in her sturdy Eastern European accent.
“Berna,” Ethan said politely, eyeing what I guessed was a baby-sized burrito. “Nothing for me?”
Without even blinking, Berna yanked the package from my hands and offered it to Ethan.
“Is family recipe. You will eat. You”—she looked him over, from blond hair to booted feet—“should remain strong. Handsome.”
I think I just won Berna, he silently said, and nodded gravely at her. “Thank you, Berna. I’m sure this will be delicious.”
She sniffed, as if offended by the mere possibility it wouldn’t be delicious, but her eyelashes stayed batty, and her gaze didn’t stray much from his face.
“I guess we aren’t getting anything,” Catcher muttered behind us.
“So these are the vampires?”
A shifter stepped beside Berna—a woman who was taller and thinner, with a short shock of platinum blond hair. She was muscled and rugged, her features better described as handsome than pretty. And she all but vibrated with irritated magic.
“Twilight,” Berna confirmed, pointing at me and Ethan. “Grumpy,” she said, pointing around me at Catcher.
She looked at Mallory for a few seconds before offering judgment. “Magic,” she finally said with the smallest of smiles, and it was obvious she meant the word as a compliment.
Mallory beamed, but Berna’s friend was not impressed.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, pointing at each of us in turn and flinging magic with each movement. It left a sting like tiny insects. “This isn’t any of your business, and it isn’t for you.” She stuck her nose into the air, slid Berna a narrowed look. “And you shouldn’t carouse with them.”
“We were invited here,” Mallory said. I think she might have put an arm around Berna, except that Berna had already puffed out her chest and was nearly buzzing with irritation.
“Go,” she said, flicking her hands at the woman. “Go elsewhere. Too negative.”
But Berna’s dismissal only seemed to encourage the woman.
“Mark my words,” she said, that finger pointed again. “This is all doomed because we didn’t go home when we could have. We should have left Chicago months ago, and we certainly shouldn’t be here now. The Keene family should have been removed a long time ago. They are leading us right into disaster.” Her eyes flashed with self-righteous anger. That emotion seemed to be in unusually strong supply among shifters lately.
She walked away before Berna could respond to the slight, joining up with two other women who gave us suspicious looks. But Berna’s balled fists made it clear she’d had words in the hopper.
“I see you’ve met Aline.” Gabriel joined us, made a point of putting a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. Aline and her troop of friends didn’t seem impressed.
“She’s a charmer,” Ethan dryly said.
“Where have you been keeping her locked away?” Mallory asked.
“She keeps herself locked away,” Gabriel said. “She and my father butted heads and she’s transferred that hatred onto our generation.”
Berna patted his arm collegially. “You are not popular, but you are doing right.”
“Maybe,” Gabriel said, “but I’d prefer to be both.” He towered over Berna and glanced down at her from his couple of extra feet. “We ready?”
She made a sound that made clear exactly how ridiculous she thought the question. Berna, apparently, was always ready.
Gabriel smiled. “My fanged friends, you’re about to be witness to a very special treat. Tonight, you get to hear us roar.”
He lifted his head and unleashed a howl that sent shivers down my spine—and invoked the rest of the chorus. Not all shifters were wolves, and the Pack’s sounds were just as varied and cacophonous. Howls, screeches, feline roars, and screams that might have been from birds of prey. Together, as the shifters formed a circle around the totem in the middle of the meadow, they lifted their voices and sang into the night, the very sound magic.
Goose bumps lifted on my arms. Ethan slipped his hand into mine as we shared the sight and sound of it. After a moment, the howls quieted, now a backbeat instead of a melody.
Gabriel looked at Mallory appraisingly. “You ready?”
She blew out a breath with pursed lips, then loosened her shoulders and nodded, this time confidently. And although nervousness still fluttered in the air around her, it was a good kind of nervousness. Excited anticipation—not the resigned dread I’d sensed before.
Side by side, they walked forward into the circle and stood in front of the totem. A hush fell over the crowd.
I glanced at Catcher. His expression was blank, but his eyes fixed on Mal and the shifter at her side. If he was nervous for her, he wasn’t showing it.
