Silver Borne

Chapter 11

THE ONLY REASON THE GARAGE WASN’T PACKED WITH werewolves was that there hadn’t been enough time for the word to go around.

Instead of thirty or so, we only had eighteen, not including Sam, who wasn’t pack. But I had to keep looking around and counting because there seemed to be fewer people than my count showed. Most dominance fights, like boxing or wrestling matches, are full of jostling, cheering, jeering, and betting. This one was eerily silent, and only one person was moving.

Paul jogged in place on one side of the padded floor, stopping every ten or fifteen seconds to stretch or do a little shadowboxing. He was a tall man with blond hair and a short red beard. His skin was the kind that is usual for redheads, pale and freckled. The excitement of the impending fight left him flushed. Like Adam, he wore only a pair of gi pants.

There is no tradition that dictates dominance fights have to be done in human form. It is common, though, because it makes the challenge more about skill and strength. When you are armed with fangs and claws, a lucky hit can take out a more skilled opponent.

On the far side of the mats from Paul, Adam stood in horse stance, head bowed, eyes closed, and shoulders relaxed. All signs of pain were gone from his face, but he hadn’t been able to eliminate the pain-caused stiffness in the time that he’d walked from the house to the mat. Even if he had, only an idiot would look at the broken scabs on his feet and hands and not understand that he was in trouble.

As Alpha, even as badly hurt as he had been, he really should have been healing faster than this. Granted that werewolves, even the same werewolf, will heal wounds at different rates depending upon a number of things. He might have been hurt worse than he’d shown us, or the trouble he’d been having with his pack could be interfering with his ability to heal. I tried not to look worried.

Jesse and I had the equivalent of ringside seats at the edge of the mat on the side where Adam stood—traditional for the family of the Alpha, but not smart when neither of us could reasonably defend ourselves if the fight rolled off the mats. Sam stood beside Jesse, and Warren stood between us, presumably to keep the combatants from hurting us.

Adam wasn’t wearing a watch, but at exactly nine thirty by the clock on the wall, he raised his head, opened his eyes, and nodded at Darryl.

Wolves aren’t much given to long speech-making. Darryl strode from the sidelines to the center of the mat. “Paul has chosen today to challenge our Alpha,” he announced baldly. His lips twisted as he said, “He eschewed the formality of running the challenge by the Marrok.”

No one murmured or looked surprised. They all knew what Paul had done.

There was the bare chance that the Marrok would look at the mess the pack was in and allow that Paul had no choice but to challenge. The chance that the Marrok wouldn’t kill Paul would have been slightly greater if Adam hadn’t been hurt already. But Paul probably thought that he was in the right and that he could convince the Marrok of the same thing.

I suppose anything is possible. I don’t think Paul understood just how unlikely that was. He’d never, to my knowledge, actually met the Marrok. Henry, who had, probably told Paul that it would be all right. People like Henry are good at getting others to believe them.

Darryl looked around the audience. “My job is to see that you stay off the mats. I am willing to ensure that this is a fair fight with your life. Are we clear?”

“Excuse me,” said Mary Jo’s voice.

She was just this side of five feet tall so I didn’t see her until she stepped onto the mat in front of Darryl.

“I call challenge on Paul,” she said.

And then there was noise, a great howl of noise as the whole garage full of werewolves objected—women don’t fight in challenge fights.

Darryl raised his hand and quiet spread reluctantly.

“I’m within three of his rank,” she said. Her eyes were properly on Darryl’s feet, though her face was turned to him. “It is within my right to challenge him for the right to fight the Alpha.”

I stared at her. This was not something I’d have expected of the Mary Jo who had allowed the fae to set fire to my house while she was supposed to be standing guard.

“You’re not within three ranks,” growled Darryl.

She held up her hand. “Paul,” she said. Then she held up one finger “Henry.” Another finger. “George and me.”

She was right. That was where I’d have put her, too.

“You are an unmated woman,” Darryl said. “That puts your rank at the bottom. Alec is after George.”

“Alec,” she called, not taking her attention away from Darryl. “Who is more dominant, you or me?”

Alec stepped around the other wolves and looked from her to Paul. I could see the answer he wanted to make, and Darryl started to relax. Adam, I noticed, was watching Mary Jo with surprised respect.

Alec opened his mouth, then hesitated. “You all could tell if I lied,” he said. He raised up both his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mary Jo.” He looked Darryl in the eye, and said, “Mary Jo outranks me.”

And chaos reigned. Paul stuck his head in Darryl’s face and raved. He was one of the very few people in the pack tall enough to stand eye to eye with Darryl. If there hadn’t been so much noise, I’d have been able to hear what he said—but I could guess. Paul liked Mary Jo. He didn’t want to kill her.

Mary Jo stood there; like Adam, she was an island of quiet in the uproar. She was small, but every ounce of weight she had was muscle. She was tough as boot leather, quick, and agile. I wasn’t as certain as Paul was that she’d lose—I wouldn’t want to fight against her. If she won, she could yield to Adam. If she decided to fight—and I didn’t think she would—she’d be coming into the challenge tired and possibly hurt.

Then I remembered the way Henry had thrown her into the island in the kitchen. She had either broken or cracked her ribs when she hit. Though I couldn’t see it in the way she was moving, there had not been enough time for her to heal. No one healed that fast unless they were an Alpha with a full moon outside.

“Enough,” roared Warren suddenly, his voice ringing out over the hubbub like a shot fired in a crowd.

Darryl turned to Mary Jo, and said, “No.”

“Not your call to make,” she informed him. “Adam?”

“I have a problem,” he said. “Justice demands that I must step away from this determination because I am more than a little vested in the decision. In the name of justice, then, let it fall to the next three in rank—Mercy, Darryl, and Auriele.”

He looked at me.

I know what I wanted to say. Auriele was likely to agree with Mary Jo—and we’d already heard what Darryl’s viewpoint was. Even if Mary Jo lost, it would help Adam. I looked at the wolves and saw a lot of resentful faces—they had done the math as well, and they were very unhappy with me being a part of the decision.

Then I saw some wiggle room.

“It seems to me that there is another problem,” I said. “If we agree that Mary Jo can fight because she ranks within three people of Paul. I submit that Paul does not stand within three people of Adam.” Like Mary Jo, I held up my hand. “Adam, then me.” I held up a finger. “Darryl—and Auriele, then Warren.”

“Then Honey,” said Warren with a little smile. “Then Paul.”

Paul snarled. “He has already accepted my challenge. That presupposes I have the right.”

I looked at Adam.

“Nice try,” he told me. “But I agree with Paul.”

“And the official code of conduct,” said Ben grumpily, “which I had to damn well memorize before I was allowed in the pack, says challenge within quote three men unquote. The important word being ‘men.’ ”

“So Mary Jo can’t fight,” said Paul with a relieved grin. “She’s not a man.”

“So Mary Jo’s claim is still valid,” I pointed out. “She’s within three men of your rank. Does the code of conduct say that the challenger has to be a man?” Kyle told me that one of the secrets of being a lawyer was never to ask a witness a question you didn’t know the answer to. I knew what it said, but it would sound better coming from someone else.

“No,” said Ben.

I’d done all I could do. Adam’s silent urging pushing me, I looked at Mary Jo, and said, “Like Adam, I have too much of a stake in this.”

“Mercy,” whispered Jesse fiercely. “What are you doing?” I patted the hand she’d locked on my wrist.

“Darryl, Auriele, and Warren will decide this, then,” said Adam.

Because my mate bond with Adam was sort of functioning again, I knew he believed that if I’d been part of the decision, it would have just become another point of contention. Another stupid thing that allowing a coyote into a pack of wolves had accomplished—instead of what it should be, a recognition of Mary Jo’s right to challenge regardless of her sex. I figured he was right.

“There are only three females in this pack,” said Darryl. I don’t think he forgot about me so much as he really meant three women werewolves instead of females in general. “That is typical for all packs. Most werewolves die before they have spent a decade as a wolf, but for women who are wolves, that life span is almost doubled because they do not fight men for dominance. And still they are so few. You are too precious to us to allow you to risk so much.”

It took me a while to realize he wasn’t talking to the whole pack, but to his mate.

Auriele crossed her arms. “That makes sense in a species where women are important to survival. But we aren’t. We cannot have children—and so are no more valuable to the pack than anyone else.”

It had the ring of an old argument.

“I vote no,” said Darryl, snapping his teeth as he spoke.

“I vote yes,” responded Auriele coolly.

“Damn it,” said Warren. “Y’all are going to throw me in the middle of a marital spat on top of everything else?”

“Up to you,” Auriele said grimly.

“Hell,” said Warren, “if this ain’t a whole can of worms, I don’t know what is. Mary Jo?”

“Yes?”

“You sure about this, darlin’?”

It felt as if the whole pack drew a breath.

“This is my fault,” she told him. “That Adam got hurt, that the pack has been in an upheaval. I didn’t cause it all, but I didn’t stop it either. I think it’s time I make suitable reparations, don’t you? Try to fix the damage?”

Warren stared at her, and I saw the wolf come and go in his eye. “All right. All right. You go fight him, Mary Jo—and you damn well better win. You hear me?”

She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“You do better than that,” he said grimly.

“Mary Jo.” Paul’s voice was plaintive. “I don’t want to hurt you, woman.”

She kicked off her shoes and started pulling off her socks. “Do you yield?” she asked him, while she stood on one foot.

He stared at her, his body tight with growing anger. “I stuck my neck out for you,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes. And I was wrong to ask you to.” She tossed her second sock aside and looked at him. “But Henry used both of us to ruin our pack. Are you going to let him get away with it?”

It was very quiet in the garage. I’m not sure anyone was even breathing. Henry’s name had been a shock. Heads turned toward Henry, who was leaning against the wall between the garage doors, as far as he could get from Adam’s side of the mat.

Paul looked at him, too. For a moment, I thought it was going to work.

“Are you going to let some girl lead you around by your tail like I did?” Henry said, sounding miserable. “She wants Adam, and she’s willing to throw both of us away to get him.” It was a masterful performance, and Paul bought it—hook, line, and sinker.

“The hell with you, then,” Paul said to her. “The hell with you, Mary Jo. I accept your challenge.” He looked at Adam. “You’ll have to wait. I guess I’ll eat my dessert first.”

And he strode to the far end of the mat, next to Henry. Mary Jo walked up to where Adam was standing.

“Reparations accepted,” he said. “You remember he fights with his heart and not his head.”

“And he moves slower to the left than the right,” she agreed.

Adam left her. As he walked across the white mat, he left little traces of blood wherever his foot hit. Blood was better than yellow pus, right?

“Good job,” he murmured when he came up to me. “Thank you. I couldn’t tell if you could hear me or not.”

Warren yielded Adam his place between Jesse and me, moving around Jesse so he could still help her if he was needed. Sam moved around to my side and lay down on the cement with a sigh.

“See if you congratulate me when she’s lying dead,” I said, very quietly. I’d have told him about her ribs, but I was afraid that the wrong person would hear, and Paul would find out. Henry knew, of course . . . but somehow I didn’t think he would tell Paul that he’d broken Mary Jo’s ribs. Paul wouldn’t understand—and Henry was smart enough to know that.

Mary Jo adopted Adam’s horse stance and faced Paul, whose back was to her.

“Challenge given and accepted,” Darryl said. “Fight to the death with the winner having the option to accept a yield.”

“Agreed,” said Mary Jo.

“Yes,” said Paul.

Mary Jo was faster, and she was a better-trained fighter. But when she hit, she didn’t hit as hard. If Paul had been nearer to her size instead of four inches over six feet, she’d have had a good chance. But he had over a foot of height, which translated into reach. I’d remembered from his fight with Warren that he was surprisingly fast for such big man.

Eventually, he landed a fist on her shoulder that put her down like she’d been hammered.

“Yield,” he said.

She stuck her feet between his and knocked them apart. Then she rolled like a monkey between his spread legs, elbowing him in the kidneys as she rose behind him. A second kick behind the knee almost had him on the ground, but he recovered.

“Yield like hell,” she gritted, when she was a few body lengths from him.

“Quit being easy on her,” said Darryl heavily. “This is a fight to the death, Paul. She will kill you if she can. If you accepted her challenge, you have to give her the respect of fighting her honestly.”

“Right,” said Adam.

Paul snarled soundlessly, and stepped back to the edge of the ring, raising both arms to a high block position, his feet perpendicular to each other, hands loosely fisted, deliberately inviting a strike to the torso.

Trouble with baiting a trap like that was that if Mary Jo handled it right, she might be able to turn it into a very big mistake. I grabbed hold of Adam’s arm and tried not to dig in my fingernails. He was tense beside me, muttering, “Watch out, watch out. He’s faster than he looks.”

Mary Jo went slowly left, then right, and Paul turned easily to face her. She shifted her weight to the right—but with a blur of speed, she broke left and moved to the attack, dropping into a long, low lunge that looked almost like something a fencer might use, her fist blurring as hip and shoulder rotated into line, driving it forward like a lance. It was a perfect strike, delivered with superhuman speed.

Paul rotated smoothly as her fist flashed through empty air, just grazing his stomach. He brought both fists down like hammers on her unprotected back, driving her flat to the ground with a sound like distant thunder. Next to me Adam grunted, as if he felt the impact of Paul’s fists himself.

Mary Jo was obviously dazed. She lay on her stomach, blinking myopically. Her mouth and throat worked like a fish’s out of water. Then she drew in a long, shuddering breath and her eyes focused. If her ribs had been hurt before, she must be in agony after the blow she’d just taken.

Any sane person would know the fight was over, and beg to yield, but she was slowly struggling to get her elbows under her and lift her body from the mat. Paul’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile as he watched her efforts.

“Stay down,” he told her. “Stay down. Yield, damn it. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

She’d gotten to her elbows and was pulling her knees up when he did a flashy skip-step and brought the edge of his foot down on the back of her thigh, driving her flat to the mats again. A short scream tore from her throat, but she jerked her knees underneath her and popped to her feet.

Her guard was too low, her right elbow pressed tightly against her injured ribs. Below her elbow, a small stain of bright red blood was slowly spreading. Every wolf in the room could smell it, and so could I. I was afraid that one of those damaged ribs had punctured a lung. Her left leg wasn’t working quite right, and she took a simple stance with most of her weight on the ball of her right foot. She stood at the very edge of the ring, which eliminated her ability to retreat but also meant Paul couldn’t circle behind her.

Paul advanced slowly, carefully, a predator stalking wounded prey. But I saw him frowning at Mary Jo’s ribs. He was trying to figure out how she’d hurt them.

He moved left and right, forcing her to use the injured leg, his head tilted. He must have heard the same thing I could—the faint burble of a collapsing lung. Her mouth was open as she tried to get more oxygen.

Paul struck with a powerful front kick with no trace of finesse, but power to spare. Mary Jo snapped both arms down and slowed the blow, which had been aimed at her injured leg, but it still flung her stumbling backward off the mats.

She kept her balance, barely, but the leg was obviously almost useless. A ragged sea of hands pushed her, not ungently, back into the ring where Paul was waiting for her.

“It’s okay,” Adam said. “It’s okay. Yield, Mary Jo.”

Mary Jo looked beaten, but as she entered the ring, her injured leg suddenly shot up, toes pointed like a prima ballerina’s. Her kick was as simple as Paul’s had been. Straight up, angling between his thighs.

He tried to block, but it was already too late. There was a muffled impact, and Paul’s breath exploded outward. He backed up rapidly, bent forward with fists crossed over his groin, every muscle in his torso tensed in sudden pain. Mary Jo followed, though I could tell that it hurt, and took advantage of his dropped guard to hit him with a hammer fist to the back of the head.

A perfect nerve strike, I thought. Good for you, Mary Jo.

If he hadn’t been a werewolf, he’d have been seeing lights and hearing bells for weeks. His eyes were wolf-pale, and his arms moved strangely as bones began to shift beneath the skin. Paul shook his head, trying to shake off the effects of the strike. If she’d been in better shape, she could have finished him.

But Mary Jo was too slow. He straightened and pulled his hands back to guard position with obvious effort. Then he came at her slowly, implacably, simply walking to close the distance. Her right fist shot toward his throat, but he blocked it with his right hand, then pushed her elbow with his left, turning her body, then smashed a knee into her injured ribs, hard. She went to the mats, facedown and coughing blood. Paul followed her to the mats, landing astride her shoulders. He grabbed one of her legs and began to bend it back, bowing her back into a tight arch. There were faint popping sounds, and Mary Jo scrabbled at the mat frantically, her control shattered and the wolf fighting for survival.

“Goddamn it,” he said. “Yield. Don’t make me kill you.”

For some reason at that moment I looked at Henry. The bastard was watching without any emotion on his face at all.

“Yield,” Adam roared. “Mary Jo. Yield.”

Mary Jo hit the mat with her right hand, twice.

“She yields,” Paul said, looking at Darryl.

“Paul wins,” said Darryl. “Do you accept her yield?”

“Yes, yes.”

“It is over,” declared Darryl.

Paul jumped off of her and rolled her over. “Medic,” he said, sounding frantic. “Medic.”

A few heads turned to Sam. He stayed where he was, but he all but vibrated with the need to help. He closed his eyes and finally turned his back to the scene. It was Warren who pulled up Mary Jo’s T-shirt, and Adam who grabbed the first-aid kit.

I grabbed Jesse, and we both stayed back. Within a few seconds I couldn’t see what was happening for all the people who crowded closer.

“Got to pull the rib out of her lung,” said Adam tightly. Then, “Just toss the broken bits. They’ll regrow.” Medicine among werewolves is, in many ways, much simpler—if more brutal—than for humans. “Hold her down, Paul. The more she struggles, the more this is going to hurt.” Then in a much softer voice, Adam crooned, “Just bear with us a bit, baby. We’ll get you so you can breathe better in just a second.”

“I didn’t hit her in the ribs,” Paul said.

“Henry knocked her across the kitchen,” said Auriele. “Here. Don’t get that Vaseline all over. Just a little around the wound to seal the Teflon pad, but you’ve got to tape three sides of the pad, andthat will work better if you aren’t taping to Vaseline-covered skin.”

There was a wave of relieved silence as whatever they’d managed to do seemed to work and Mary Jo could breathe again. People backed away, giving her space since she was out of immediate danger.

The dojo came equipped with a stretcher—a very basic piece of equipment, just a metal frame with canvas stretched around it and a pair of grips on each end. Alec and Auriele picked Mary Jo up on it and carried her into the house. A human would be down for a long time with a punctured lung. With a few pounds of raw meat, Mary Jo’s lung would probably be fine in a few hours, if not sooner. The ribs would take longer, but she would be back to normal in a few days, a week at most. No worries about infections or secondary infections while missing pieces of rib or lung regrow.

Henry hadn’t moved from his place. I noticed that he was getting looks from the rest of the pack. And when they started to move back off the mats in preparation for the final battle, there was a space around Henry—and there hadn’t been before.

As a couple of wolves swabbed up the mess, Paul retreated to his corner of the mat and Adam to his.

I kept my eye on Paul. That nerve strike of Mary Jo’s . . .

At first I thought he’d just shrugged it off; his walk to his end of the mats had been pretty steady. But before Mary Jo’s blood was completely cleaned off the mat, Paul shook his head slowly and raised a hand to rub at his ear, avoiding the spot where he’d been struck. He blinked rapidly and seemed to be having trouble focusing.

Then Paul blew out a long, even breath and found his center. His body stilled, and his breathing became deep and regular. He stood like a statue, bare chest coated with a light sheen of sweat. There was no fat on the man, and he looked like a cross between a Calvin Klein ad and an Army recruitment poster.

After the wet spots on the mats were perfunctorily dried, Darryl stepped back into the center.

“Paul, do you still want to continue with your challenge?”

He looked at Henry. “You hit Mary Jo?”

Was he still a little off balance? I couldn’t tell.

“It was an accident,” Henry said. “Mercy said . . .” He looked at me. “You know, something as fragile as you are should learn to keep your mouth shut, then other people wouldn’t have to take the fall for you.”

“People with as much to lose as you have,” I said, “should control their tempers better.” As an insult it lacked . . . substance. But it was more important to get a quick reply out than it was to be clever. I looked at Paul. “Mary Jo stepped between me and Henry.”

“And you still let her fight?” Paul asked me incredulously. “You didn’t think that might be dangerous?”

“A fight to the death is dangerous,” I told him. “She knew about her ribs. I knew you didn’t want to kill her.”

He stared at me. Glanced at Henry. To Darryl, he said, “Yes. Let’s get this over with.”

Darryl gave him a half bow, stepped off the mat, and said, “Gentlemen, you may begin.”

It started slowly.

With most of the expanse of the dojo between them, Paul made some fancy salute that I didn’t recognize; a graceful flutter of the hands and forearms combined with a half step forward, then back. He made a breathy, hissing noise that sounded alien and predatory.

Adam placed his fists together at his chest, then lowered them slowly and silently, flowing smoothly into an openhanded guard: a more common salute, simple and direct. It looked very similar to the salute my sensei had taught me. The scabs on his hands broke as he moved his fingers.

Paul advanced, a quick series of zigzag steps that let him glide across the mat while making it virtually impossible to predict where his next step would take him. His left arm was high, almost vertical, while his right maintained a low guard, hand positioned unconsciously near his groin.

Adam watched him, pivoting slightly to face him squarely as he crossed the mat. Had he seen what I had? That Paul was blinking as if he were trying to clear his vision.

Adam smiled just a little. For me? I decided that I’d do better to try to keep out of his head if I could figure out how—and let him concentrate on Paul.

Paul’s foot flashed out in a low, scything kick to the knee, and Adam’s weight shifted as he raised his foot in response. As Adam completed the block, Paul’s foot stopped short, then zipped up toward Adam’s right cheek in a modified roundhouse. Paul was strong enough to put some serious muscle behind the kick despite the short distance. Adam barely blocked in time, and the force of the kick made him stumble a half step. Paul danced back out of range.

Adam moved forward slowly, deliberately, a couple of bold steps, eyes on his quarry. Paul retreated, automatically giving ground to the Alpha. He caught himself and glared at Adam, who met his eyes and held them. With weres, a battle could be waged on multiple fronts.

To get away from Adam’s gaze, Paul threw another roundhouse with his left foot, but he was too far away to connect effectively. Stupid waste of energy, I thought, but at least the move let him break eye contact without actually losing the contest. He was using his legs more than his arms, and I wondered if he had hurt his hands in the fight with Mary Jo. If so, it wasn’t enough to matter.

Paul used the momentum from the wasted kick to spin sharply and drive his right heel in a savage back kick aimed at Adam’s stomach. He might be a jerk, but Paul knew how to move, and he was blazingly fast.

Adam again managed to block the kick, but the block only muted the force. Adam let the kick fold him over and throw him back across the mat, springing back with it. Paul came in right behind, arms rising to the high-block position he’d used on Mary Jo. Adam regained his balance just as Paul closed with him, and spun on his left foot and drove his right leg in a side kick. There was the crisp pop of fabric snapping as his leg flashed out to full extension, but it missed Paul by a handspan or more.

Paul’s hands clenched, and both fists came down in an instant replay of the attack he’d used on Mary Jo. Adam was bent at the waist, failed kick still extended, his back exposed to Paul’s descending fists. And then he did one of those kung-fu movie moves, spinning horizontally. I wasn’t the only one who gasped.

The kick hadn’t missed; it was the start of something beautiful and dangerous. Adam’s left leg hit Paul’s shoulder with such force that Paul’s blow went wide, flailing at empty space, as he spun in midair before crashing to the mats.

Paul hit like a pine tree falling, and the sound of his arm breaking was loud enough for everyone to hear. Adam landed on his stomach, one leg trapped under Paul’s body, which was perpendicular to Adam’s. Unlike Paul, Adam’s landing was deliberate and controlled. Before Paul could react, Adam twisted his body and drove the shin of his free leg into Paul’s chest.

In karate movies, they break celery to mimic the sound of breaking bones. Trust me, my hearing is acute, and I know these things: Paul’s ribs didn’t sound anything like celery. A human might have died from that blow; he certainly would have needed CPR. Werewolves are tougher than that.

Paul’s hand slammed the mat.

“He yields,” said Adam.

“Adam wins,” announced Darryl. “Do you accept Paul’s yield, Alpha?”

“I do,” replied Adam.

“This fight is over,” said Darryl.

Adam leaned down to Paul. “That edge you lost in your fight with Mary Jo is what allowed me to take the time to find something that would hurt you—instead of kill you. You can thank her for your life.”

Paul moved his head, exposing his throat to Adam. “I will, Alpha.”

Adam smiled. “I’d give you a hand up—but we’d better have Warren look at your ribs first. One punctured lung is enough.”

I’d been keeping an eye on Henry throughout the fight. I glanced at him just as he stepped onto the mat.

“Alpha,” he called. “I chal—”

He never got the whole word out—because I drew my foster father’s SIG and shot him in the throat before he could.

For a split second everyone stared at him, as if they couldn’t figure out where all that blood had come from.

“Stop the bleeding,” I said. Though I made no move to do it myself. The rat could die for all I cared. “That was a lead bullet. He’ll be fine.” Though he wouldn’t be talking—or challenging Adam—for a while. “When he’s stable, put him in the holding cell, where he can’t do any more harm.”

Adam looked at me. “Trust you to bring a gun to a fistfight,” he said with every evidence of admiration. Then he looked at his pack. Our pack. “What she said,” he told them.