I’d never seen a bunch of apex predators look so nervous.
          “It’s fine,” I told the nearest, who was getting help with his bow tie from another predator, only this one looked like it.
          The first was named Jace, a young Were with milk chocolate skin, a buzz cut, and a strong preference for baggy jeans and tank tops, except for today, when he’d donned a tux. It had been tailored to fit him, yet somehow didn’t. Or maybe it was his nervousness that was communicating itself through the clothes.
          Anyway, he looked rumpled but sweet.
          The tie tier was named Ulmer, who was not now and likely never had been sweet, having probably come out of the womb snarling.
          He hadn’t bothered with a tux because even the best tailor in the world would have run screaming at the very idea. Ulmer looked like a cross between a disaster and a nightmare, and that was in human form—or as close to it as he ever got. Which wasn’t all that close.
          Tonight, though, he had made some effort, with a long flowing caftan of the type Weres used when they thought they might have to Change suddenly. That could have been taken as an insult by the assembled throng, who were among the glitterati of the Were world, and might even have raised questions of a challenge in some minds had it been anyone else. But no one would take offense at Ulmer.
          Not because he wasn’t offensive, deliberately so, and on a regular basis, but because he was a force of nature and everyone knew it. Did it make sense to rail at a hurricane? At an earthquake? An avalanche?
          It was equally a waste of time with Ulmer, not to mention dangerous. As a Were, he was a shaggy, scarred, monster of a creature that put the fear of God, or at least of Ulmer, in even the most hardened of fighters. In human guise… well, not much changed.
          He had wolf eyes in a human face, with long, shaggy gray hair that would have looked better on a lion, a matching beard, and a body that appeared to defy the laws of physics, because how could mere bones support that much muscle? They had to be made out of solid steel, I thought, as I watched his surprisingly deft fingers form a halfway respectable bow tie. It was a little lopsided, but not too bad, and anyway, it matched the rest of the suit.
          I took over brushing down Jace’s coat and tried to pull it into some kind of shape.
          “I don’t think I can do this,” he whispered to me, while Ulmer went on to inspect the other young men in the small room, like a drill sergeant checking out a new batch of recruits.
          He was barking orders because tonight was important and they were representing two clans—their new one and the sponsoring one of Arnou, to which he belonged. Ulmer on a tear was scary, but for once, nobody looked worried. They were too busy worrying about something else.
          “It’ll be over quick,” I told Jace, while straightening his lapels. “And you’ve met Sebastian before, right?”
          He nodded but didn’t speak.
          “He’s a lot like Cyrus,” I said, talking about my fiancé and the boy’s clan leader. Sebastian, the current bardric, the title for the leader of the Were world, was Cyrus’s brother, and the two even looked a lot alike. I hoped that fact would settle Jace’s nerves when he got into the audience hall, but I doubted it.
          It was a tough transition, from street kid and vargulf, the latter a term for the outcasts in Were society, to a founding member of an entirely new clan in barely a month. Of course, it was a tiny clan, composed mainly of former vargulfs, and didn’t even have a name yet, but it was a clan nonetheless. And new clans were traditionally presented to the current bardric at the yearly meeting of clan leaders.
          It was as intimidating as all hell, but it was also non-negotiable. Weres were all about tradition, and we couldn’t be a clan until we got through it. And this was the last chance, as it was the final day of a very contentious meeting that had dragged on far longer than normal as people wrangled with the changes the current war was bringing to our world. And even more with the progressive policies Sebastian was trying to enact.
Since we were a result of one of those policies, we had to brave this out.
          “It’ll be fine,” Jen said. She was not a Were, being one of the students I was teaching as part of my job in the War Mage Corps, the police branch of the world’s leading magical organization, the Silver Circle.
          She and my other students were not being presented, even though the boys of our clan had had no trouble adopting them. That might have been because my latest crop of students had more in common with vargulfs than with mages. Their special, unwanted abilities made them persona non grata in the magical world, and the two groups of outcasts had quickly bonded.
          “Right!” Sophie, another of my students, grinned encouragingly. “We’re gonna be right there with you, all the way!”
Jace brightened, which made it a bitch for me to rain on his parade. “They have to stay here,” I told him. “I’m sorry, but it’s protocol.”
          “But I got all dressed up!” Jen said, while Sophie’s eyes narrowed.
          “Screw protocol,” she said. “You told us we’re part of the family—”
          “And you are, but—”
          “But what? We’re part of it as long as you don’t have to show us off? As long as we don’t make you look bad?”
          I sighed. Sophie was the leader of the little group of magical throwbacks I had been called upon to make into soldiers, and if she wasn’t happy, none of them would be. And she wasn’t happy. The Barbie-esque makeup she currently had on, complete with a fan of pink rhinestones by either eye, didn’t hide that.
          “It isn’t up to me,” I told her. “The Clan Council has a lot of rules—”
          “Stupid rules!”
          “—and one of them is that only clan can walk.” I didn’t point out that our new clan was already contravening a millennium of tradition just by existing, and pushing it any farther wouldn’t be a great idea. Because Sophie didn’t care about that. She cared about her own little group being seen as equals after a lifetime of being hidden away in the special schools the Corps had for people whose magic wasn’t on the approved list.
          She had spent a lifetime being the Other, being Wrong, being Weird and Shameful and whatever other words had been applied to her—I was sort of grateful I didn’t know them all—and now she was touchy.
          Very.
          And this was just all I needed.
          “Only clan and its auxiliaries can walk,” I began, only to be cut off almost immediately.
          “Fine. Then we’ll be auxiliaries.”
          For someone with her long red hair in a curly updo tonight, and her hi-lo gown a giant mass of pink ruffles, she should have resembled a very well-heeled can-can dancer. Yet she nonetheless managed to look intimidating. Almost as much as a wolf.
          I felt my lips quirk. I was proud of her and couldn’t deny it. This place should have intimidated the hell out of her, but nothing intimidated Sophie. Or if it did, I didn’t want to meet it.
          And, technically, she was right, although…
          “That’s not just a word,” I explained. “Clan auxiliaries are… they’re important. Not wolves, as they haven’t been bitten, but bound by oaths of loyalty and service to the clan nonetheless. Like junior members.”
          “Okay, give me the oaths.” It was immediate.
          “Yeah, only we haven’t even figured out what they are yet!” I said, getting a bit exasperated. “We don’t have a clan structure, a symbol, even a name, much less written oaths—”
          “Then make them up.” That was Jen. She was a vision in pale yellow silk, wearing a sleek, body-hugging gown with strategic cut-outs at the waist outlined in diamond-like bling. It was a get-up worthy of a vampire, which she was not, and complemented her blond bob and the blue eyes that could burn green whenever her necromancy was active.
          “Guys, it’s okay,” Jace said, always the peacemaker. “I’ll be fine.”
          “We know you will, ‘cause we’ll be there with you,” Sophie said staunchly.
          “We’ll call you… honorary auxiliaries… for the moment,” I told them, because I didn’t have time to argue. And because all the other clans that had paraded around for weeks had had long trains of followers, showing off their strength to everyone and dressed to the nines, so why shouldn’t we? “Do all of you want to walk?” I asked, looking past the ringleaders to where my three other students were hugging the wall to stay out of the way.
          Kimmie, the cute black girl with the Cleopatra braids and the yellow, black, and leopard-print Versace number that had had Jen eyeing her enviously earlier, only nodded, not being the in-your-face type. Aki, a Japanese-American with blue-tipped hair and a tux with a blue sheen, and Dimas, the youngest of our tribe at barely fifteen, looked at me blankly. They had both been tugging on their finery in different ways, looking like they couldn’t wait to get home to shorts and t-shirts, and now seemed surprised by the question.
          “You weren’t planning for us to walk?” Aki asked. “Then why the suits?”
          “You’re invited to the party afterward,” I assured him. “Whether you walk or not is up to you.”
          “Of course we’ll walk,” Dimas said, like I was being boring, while trying to get his short dark hair to lie flat. It grew in clumps, all of which seemed to want to go in different directions, in what was normally termed a cowlick. Only in his case, it looked like a whole herd had been at him.
          “Okay, but you stay to the back and do not pass in front of any of the clan members. It would be interpreted as an insult, possibly even as you challenging them—”
          “Everything’s a challenge to Weres,” Aki complained. “I don’t know how you’re not all dead already.”
          “—or as a sign that our clan is badly organized and doesn’t know what it’s doing, which is what they expect.”
          Sophie, who’d had her mouth open to say something, abruptly shut it.
          “We’ll stay to the back,” Jen said, her eyes flashing. “And prove there’s nothing wrong with our clan!”
          “So I go in front… alone?” Jace asked quietly.
          “You’ll go behind Cyrus and me,” I reassured him. “In line with the other clan members, and in front of the auxiliaries.”
          “Just walk in like you own the place!” Ulmer said, passing by and clapping Jace on the back hard enough that the boy almost fell over.
          “I’m going to be sick,” Jace informed me, and looked it.
          “Okay,” Cyrus came into the room where we were all huddled up, and unlike Ulmer, he looked like a dream in a perfectly fitted tux.
          It hugged his broad shoulders and somehow managed to hide most of the muscles all Weres had in abundance, while setting off his tousled brown curls and whiskey-colored eyes. He’d gotten a deeper tan since coming to Vegas, and it looked good on him, although I had yet to discover something that didn’t. And while the get-up should have appeared odd on a man who was almost as devoted to his jeans and western shirts as Jace was to his street wear, he pulled it off.
          Somehow, he looked like he was born to it, which he sort of was. Arnou was the leading clan, and he was one of its favorite sons. Yet here he was, trying to start a new clan to give outcast boys a fresh start.
          It was a big gamble. Once an outcast, always an outcast, as far as the Were world was concerned. Nobody had ever tried reintegration before—or as far as I knew, even proposed it.
          Yet here we were.
          I felt a nervous tickle down my spine and told myself to get a grip.
          “You look fantastic,” Cyrus told me, sweeping me in close for a kiss, his hand warm on my skin through the open back of my borrowed dress.
          The girls had been leaning heavily on Sebastian’s credit card, which had been needed until Cyrus’s recent stint as vargulf was lifted and his access to family funds was restored. And afterward, on the clan’s money, which right now was basically Cyrus’s bank account, since my war mage salary didn’t cover much. I could have done the same, but one look at the price tags on appropriate attire had had me calling up a friend with a massive wardrobe and asking for a favor.
          And she had really come through. My ensemble for the evening was red and orange, which sounds gaudy but wasn’t, transitioning from a simple crimson slip-style top with spaghetti straps to a sleek ombre-colored body and a skirt that flared out around knee-level into delicate vertical ruffles in different shades of orange, yellow, and white. They fluttered up when I moved, giving me the look of an upside-down candle, with my dark hair the wick and the dress the flame—
          And was suddenly causing me to worry that people would assume I was wearing the clan colors when we hadn’t decided on those yet!
          Crap.
          But at least the kiss made everyone relax slightly. Seeing their Alpha and Lupa—the latter the word for a female clan leader—showing affection reinforced the whole clan’s bonds. Weres were touchy-feely and liked public displays of affection.
          Jace even stood a little taller while everyone gathered around.
          “Alright,” Cyrus said. “It’s down to the wire, and we’re up next. We need a name and have to decide. We can always change it later, but we have to have something for them to announce.”
          “Dark Sun,” Luis said immediately. He was the newest recruit, with his South of the Border good looks showcased by a perfectly fitting, traditional tux.
          “For the last time, we are not naming ourselves after your favorite D&D campaign,” Noah, an exasperated blond, told him.
          “And I don’t think ‘dark’ is a word we want to be associated with right now,” Lee said. His head of impressive dreads crowned a tux that he’d managed to make his own, with a pair of purple velvet slippers and a matching jacquard bow tie. They complemented his dark skin and handsome features.
          “Yeah, naming ourselves after the other side in the war doesn’t seem smart,” Andy agreed, referring to the Black Circle, a bunch of dark mages the Corps had been fighting for centuries, although never as viciously as right now. Andy was an early member of the group, a tall, quiet, brown-haired boy who didn’t say much, but when he did, people tended to listen.
          “I just think the name sounds cool,” Luis protested.
          “It’s not about sounding cool,” Noah said, for maybe the hundredth time. “It’s supposed to say something about us, about who we are. Most clans are named after founders or members who did big things—”
          “The Cyrus clan it is,” somebody said, laughing, but there were a lot of nods.
          “—but those are the older clans like Arnou. Modern ones are usually named after something descriptive about them or the area they live in or used to live in: Sunseeker, Red Mountain, White Plains—”
          “We live in Vegas,” Jace said doubtfully. He looked a little better after the kiss and conversation change.
          “High Rollers it is!” Jason put in, the tall redhead’s Adam’s apple going up and down as he laughed.
          Nobody joined in that time. We had been discussing this for days and had cycled through all possible variations on the basic idea of the clan: Reclaimed, Reforged, Unbroken, Restored, etc., and gotten nowhere. But this was important, as a clan’s name often became how they were fixed in people’s minds thereafter.
          “I still like Phoenix Rising,” Chayton said.
          He was another founding member, with Native American features and a fresh haircut to tame the shaggy Were mane that grew faster than nature should have allowed, and which he usually wore in a ponytail. He was also another quiet one—a lot of the boys were, as their short lives had taught them to be cautious, as anything a vargulf said could be taken the wrong way and bring on a fight. One that they weren’t likely to win with no clan behind them.
          “Too cliché,” Noah—who was definitely not quiet—pointed out. He’d taken the naming thing seriously and had come up with half of the suggestions so far. “Besides, we’re not birds, we’re wolves.”
          “It’s a metaphor,” Lee argued.
          “It’s expected, which none of this was. It doesn’t fit us—”
          “Says you. And anyway, why do we want something that fits us? What are we supposed to call ourselves? The Hated? The Unworthy? The Disappeared?”
          Lee was one of the more bitter of the boys, which was saying something, but he wasn’t wrong. The Were world was not kind to its outcasts. And the fact that these were mostly teens, many of whom had lost their clan status over events beyond their control, either through mistakes their families had made or internal clan politics, didn’t cut them any slack.
          “That doesn’t describe you,” I said quietly, and had furious black eyes turned on me.
          Then the herald stuck his head in the door and tried to keep a sneer off his face. “You’re next,” he said shortly. “Name?”
          “Fireborn,” Cyrus said, as smoothly as if it were a long-established fact. “From ashes, we rise.”
          Everybody exchanged glances, but nobody contradicted their clan leader. Not that they probably would have in any case, but I saw some smiles breaking out. And heard the name whispered around the group, as people tried it on for size.
          The medieval horns the Clan Council liked to have blown at every possible occasion blared out, causing me to jump slightly.          
          “The Fireborn,” the herald’s magically enhanced voice rang out.
          And, okay, it was showtime.
 





          The Council was meeting at a local hotel—at the hotel, if you happened to be part of the magical community in Vegas—known as Dante’s. It was one of the few places where odd was normal, weird was winked at, and anything that didn’t burn the whole place down could be accommodated if you paid the avaricious hotel manager enough. Which I guessed the Council had, because it had taken over the entirety of the extensive conference rooms for the last month, after the usual meeting place was, uh, made unavailable.
          I suppose they had cleaned up all of the blood by now, from the events of a month ago, and burned the bodies. But that didn’t mean anybody wanted to assemble there, or probably would for a while. So, Dante’s it was, and I had to admit the place was impressive.
          A little too much so, as the final ceremonies were in the biggest of the banquet rooms, with a soaring ceiling, cream and gold accents, and a marble floor that somebody really should carpet, because it caused every footfall to echo.
          That would have been bad enough as we clickety-clacked across in almost dead silence, with me in backless heels I was trying to keep up with because Weres didn’t wear binding clothes. A strap-covered sandal might have been as much of an insult as Ulmer’s caftan, going too far in the other direction, and I didn’t have his reputation for crazy to prevent the fallout. Straps said overconfidence; straps said I’m backed by Clan Arnou and protected; straps said I think I can do whatever I want, like dragging a bunch of vargulfs into the heart of the Were world, and bind up my feet because I’ll never have to fight for it.
          Straps would have been bad, like too much jewelry, which again said “I won’t have to fight.” Or the wrong perfume, or too much of it, covering up my natural musk and making it appear like I was hiding something, because Weres’ scents changed slightly based on mood. Or a color scheme too close to Arnou’s blue and silver, which could be taken for throwing the relationship in everyone’s face.
          Or a thousand other things that I hoped I’d remembered when putting all this together, because anything, absolutely anything, that could be taken as an insult tonight would be.
          Yet it didn’t look like it had been enough, as none of the surrounding faces were happy. Even Arnou, our sponsor, was dour, probably because their leader had put their own vaunted reputation on the line by trusting a bunch of ex-vargulfs to form a workable clan. But at least they kept their expressions stoic, which was more than I could say for most of the other clans.
          Many faces in the crowd bore faint looks of disgust, some had full-on sneers, and a few turned their shoulders slightly as we passed, as if rejecting the very idea of us. I was angry that clan law made it necessary to subject our boys to this, furious that my fellow Weres were still this freaking medieval, pissed off that I couldn’t do a damned thing about it but keep my chin up and keep walking. But inside, my blood boiled.
          I knew Cyrus wasn’t doing any better, although he didn’t show it. As clan leader, he couldn’t afford to broadcast his feelings, as they would influence those of every wolf he had, and these boys weren’t socialized well enough to handle something like that. If their leader was boiling, they would be, too, and that could be a recipe for disaster.
          So calm down, Lia! I told myself harshly. Because they could feel my agitation, too, I knew they could. But I wasn’t all that well socialized as a Were yet myself, having only Changed for the first time a month ago, and while I’d thought I understood Weres before that, I’d been seriously mistaken.
          I had spent the last month learning that growing up clan, thanks to my mother’s blood, and growing up Were were two very different things. As a war mage, I was supposed to have iron control, something the Corps drilled into all recruits, who were like walking magical tanks and couldn’t afford to pop off at every insult. And then I’d had the added, accidental training of being a Were in a Corps that viewed my kind with serious distrust, and that was on a good day.
          So, I’d thought I had a master’s degree in restraint, but swallowing this much of an insult…
          Yeah.
          Calm the hell down already!
          And then it happened, as I had feared it would: halfway to the dais where Sebastian was waiting, an entire clan made an ostentatious show of turning their backs on us, all at once. And since they’d thoughtfully taken up positions on the front row, there was no chance that anyone had missed it. Even if they had, the collective gasp that went around the room would have gotten everybody’s attention.
          Okay, what was this?
          I didn’t know, but it was catching. Several other clans had started looking at each other, as if they were thinking of following suit, in a public spectacle that wouldn’t just reject us, a nobody clan few cared about, but Sebastian and the rule of Arnou as well. And maybe that was the point.
          Because the clan in question was Rand, and Cyrus had killed their leader, Whirlwind, in a duel a month ago just down the hall.
          I hadn’t actually expected to see them, as they’d been conspicuously absent from the proceedings all month, citing the need to bury and mourn their leader as an excuse. But most people thought they just hadn’t dared to show their faces. Only it seemed like they’d dared tonight.
          And we had to answer this. There was no way to hold up our heads again, or even to be considered a true clan if we didn’t. And if we weren’t a clan, these boys were still vargulf and could be killed on sight, something half the people in this room would have been fine with, and which the other half was likely jonesing for.
          Jace had a reason for his concern besides just nerves.
          But before anybody else voted one way or the other, before Sebastian could even intervene, Cyrus stopped, smiled, and tapped one of the offending clan members on the shoulder.
          The man jerked, snarled, and spun on a dime. Well, at least he’s now facing the right way, I thought. And pulled Jace back against me, in case this got ugly.
          And it was pretty much guaranteed to get ugly, because you didn’t pull something like this in the middle of Clan Council if you didn’t want to fight.
          “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Ulmer said loudly and transformed, just that fast. Cyrus hadn’t yet, and he put out an arm to indicate that the rest of us shouldn’t, either, but I didn’t know how long that was likely to hold, as his own eyes were suddenly a lot lighter and brighter. Wolf eyes, peeking out at their next prey.
          Only I wasn’t sure that the math exactly mathed in this case. Rand was a big clan, and it looked like every one of them was here tonight, seriously outnumbering us. If we’d been on our own, we’d be dead.
          But we weren’t on our own, something they knew very well. It was the reason, other than enjoying a good fight, that Ulmer was already in wolf form, despite being a member of another clan. Because, as pathetic as we might be on our own, we were sponsored by someone who very definitely wasn’t.
          Someone who had just stood up and walked down the steps of the dais to back up his brother, but stopped at the foot, still halfway across the space, to let him handle this. However, it had just been made very clear that Clan Arnou stood ready and willing to assist the fledgling Fireborn. And that was making everyone unhappy.
          Every clan here was allied with either Rand or Arnou, and many with both, as they were two of the oldest and most prestigious of all the clans. And nobody seemed to have expected this any more than I had, because low-voiced, rapid conversations were breaking out everywhere, as people realized they might have to choose sides. Immediately.
          A civil war had been threatening for a while now, with half of the clans sick of supporting the Silver Circle in the current war, sick of Sebastian’s reforms to Were society, sick of anything and everything that threatened their positions.
          I just hadn’t expected it to come to a head tonight.
          And neither had Cyrus, who was looking pissed but also perplexed. Was this a political ploy, meant to start a schism, or a son grieving his father and doing something stupid? And was his clan really behind him, or being forced to go along with it, or prove themselves divided and leaderless at a vulnerable juncture?
          “Bleddyn of Rand,” Cyrus said, his voice ringing out in the echoing space. “You have had a month to challenge, should you think it needful, yet you leave it so late?”
          “No challenge,” the sneer was almost palpable. “Such a ‘clan’ doesn’t deserve the honor!”
          “Such a clan?” Cyrus didn’t elaborate, but he didn’t have to. His expression was eloquent as he swept his eyes over the disgraced Rand. Which was the only one of the two of us to have lost a leader recently for treason, for cheating in a challenge, and for then losing said challenge anyway, along with his life.
          Bleddyn caught the insult and flushed puce, which was dangerous for more than one reason. He was a big man, standing at least six-foot-five and possibly a shade more, bald, paunchy, and yet as heavily muscled as all Were men, and some of the women, were. He looked like he was in his late thirties, but heading for a heart attack in another ten to twelve, or possibly tonight if he didn’t calm down.
          Of course, if he didn’t calm down, it wouldn’t be his heart that killed him.
          Annnnd he didn’t, but his target wasn’t Cyrus.
          “You insult us by bringing this… thing… into a council session,” he said, the beady brown eyes fixing on Jace. “You pollute this company, insult these elders, show yet again that your clan—both your clans—have no regard for tradition, the rule of law, or even common decency!”
          “Decency?” Cyrus said silkily. “I wasn’t aware that was a concept your bloodline understood.”
          And shit, I thought.
          That’s a new tux.
          But there was nothing for it now, because either man’s words were tantamount to a challenge, and there would be blood drawn tonight.
          Cyrus still hadn’t Changed, but it was imminent. I could see the dark hair, slicked back with pomade in a vain effort to keep the curls contained, suddenly perking up, could smell the flood of musk on the air—smelled good, smelled right, smelled like a clan leader about to protect his family—could see the light of the wolf eyes spilling over enough to stain the collar of his soon-to-be-in-shreds tux. Yet he held it together a moment more, giving Bleddyn’s clan a chance to rein him in if they were going to.
          Meanwhile, I tried to pull Jace back out of the danger zone, but his shoulders were rigid with fear, and it was like he was rooted to the spot. He’d lost his brother recently, his only family, and had had to watch him die. He’d found a new family since, but years of living on the streets, of fighting for every scrap of food, of having no one in his corner and no one he could trust besides Jayden, and then to suddenly not have him there anymore—
          It was a lot.
          He wasn’t used to feeling safe yet, and this wasn’t helping!
They needed to keep their goddamned politics away from my kids, I thought savagely.
          But Bleddyn clearly didn’t think so, and his clan appeared to agree with him, or if they didn’t, they weren’t doing anything about it.
          It was infuriating my wolf, who snarled internally.
          “It’s alright, Lia,” Cyrus said softly. “I’ll handle this.”
          “Yes, handle your woman,” Bleddyn sneered, “or I will!”
          And that time, my snarl was audible.
          It was something I’d been struggling with since Changing for the first time. My wolf was overprotective and always seemed ready for a fight; I’d gotten the impression that she enjoyed them. That wasn’t unusual for a Were, but her enthusiasm seemed extreme, even for an extreme breed.
          I told her to rein it in, and she snapped at me.
          “She can handle herself,” Cyrus was saying. “And let’s keep this between you and me. Or are you trying to start an all-out war?”
          “I’m trying to point out that you shouldn’t be here! That she shouldn’t—the Neuri-riddled bitch! That these things shouldn’t! Kill the bastard and be done with it!” he yelled, gesturing at Jace, and I felt my body go cold.
          Mentally, I knew that something was wrong; that he was being deliberately provocative; that he was acting like a madman when he didn’t have that reputation. I knew I should be worried about that, should focus on that, should look for the deeper meaning before we accidentally gave him what he wanted. I knew it all after years of Were politics and a decade of war mage training—
          And my wolf didn’t care.
          “You have something to say, Lupa?” he growled, noticing my agitation and turning the title into an insult.
          “No,” I said, and jumped him.
          I Changed halfway through the leap, saw his eyes widen, and then I was on him. And I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with my wolf, but she was not playing. And screaming at her didn’t work, and threats didn’t work, and pleading didn’t work except to get me a mental slap, and all the while blood and fur were flying, bones were cracking, and somebody was screaming as my wolf tried her best to rip her opponent to shreds.
          Her best was pretty damned good.
          And I didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. I guess nobody else had, either, because the other clans had yet to intervene. People had backed up to give us room, but they were letting us fight it out, as were Cyrus and Sebastian, because if they interfered, then their clans would get into it as well, and things would go south fast.
          But I… I was protecting a cub, something every Lupa in the place understood. That wasn’t a political matter; that was about blood. Something far older and more primal even than clan law. I had every right to make it abundantly clear what would happen to anyone who threatened one of mine, and any of them would have done the same.
          Thanks to Bleddyn’s stupidity, I could thrash the ever-loving shit out of him and not start a war, and I was the only one who could—providing I didn’t kill him. But my wolf wasn’t hearing that; my wolf didn’t understand what I was desperately trying to tell her, or maybe my wolf didn’t care. She didn’t intend to have to teach this particular lesson again, because when she was finished, the threat would be dead.
          And I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do about it.
          I was sure of one thing, however; Bleddyn wasn’t able to take me. I was smaller, sleeker, and black as sin in wolf form, with red eyes that made me look almost demonic. But he was nearly twice my size, a massive gray wolf with coloring much like his father’s, and younger, faster, and by reputation, meaner than the old man. Anyone betting on that fight would have said that I should be dead by now, or ripped open and left to bleed out as a cautionary tale to others who would dare to challenge him.
          Instead, he was the one bleeding from a dozen wounds, several severe. He was the one staring at me wildly out of the one eye he had left after a savage stroke took the other. He was the one screaming that I was cheating, I was using war mage magic, when everyone in the place could see that I wasn’t.
          He was the one turning tail and running from the room, leaving a trail of blood behind him that I slipped on as I immediately started after him.
          And was taken down by a dozen wolves, all clan, all mine, who nonetheless had difficulty holding me because I wanted. To eat. His face.
          “Lia! Lia!” Cyrus was shouting, my clan was pressing me to the floor, and I was still struggling mightily to get up, enough that I almost succeeded, mountain of fur notwithstanding.
          And since part of said mountain was Ulmer, his wolf face savage and satisfied even as he helped to hold me down, I was surprised again.
          Then Farkas, the oily advisor to Clan Rand, was coming forward, all slimy sincerity and cloying, honeyed words, before backing up abruptly when I lunged for him, too, dragging the whole damned mountain several yards in the process and missing his nose by millimeters when my jaws clamped shut in his face.
          “Bardric… can we get a… ruling?” Cyrus yelled, still struggling to hold me. “And consider… the clan… presented?”
          His voice echoed around the room, but I didn’t hear an answer, and I guessed Cyrus didn’t, either. Because after a minute, he called again. “Bardric!”
          Nothing.
          “Sebastian!”
          Still nothing. And that was weird enough to cause me to come back to myself somewhat and look around for our patron. But it didn’t do me any good, because Sebastian…
          Was gone.