Chapter 1

T here are far too many red pins in the map.

Occupying an entire wall of the library—the only space not taken up by shelves overstuffed with books—is a map of the world. Since I have magic, it is not a normal, mortal, static, boring map. Oh, no. This map is…shall we say…interactive. It began as a regular old flat map, a Mercator Projection, if you care about such things. I had it copied, blown up to be a square ten feet to the side, and fixed to the wall of the library.

But then I stared at it and realized it was lacking something. So, I glamoured it. Now, it's no longer that wildly inaccurate Mercator nonsense, where Greenland is way out of proportion and looks much closer to the US than it is in reality. Now, the continents are represented in accurate proportion and position in a way only magic will allow. And, best of all, I can use the same pinch-to-zoom methodology as an iPad to magnify a particular place, and I'll see a real-time view of it as if I'm watching from a satellite.

I'm still not entirely certain how I managed it—a lot of imagination and even more willpower, perhaps. I have been practicing my glamours, after all.

But, back to the pins. There are three colors: yellow, orange, and red. The yellow pins represent reports of minor skirmishes—these are so numerous as to defy enumeration and are scattered everywhere, clustered most thickly around cities, primarily first-world cities; why that is, we're still not sure. The orange pins represent significant engagements between mortals and immortals—more than a hundred people involved in total. These are not as numerous as the yellow, but still, too many.

The red pins are the worst. The scariest. They represent actual pitched battles between organized factions. There are pins in New York City, London, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Paris, Rio De Janeiro, Bogota, Sydney, Melbourne, Singapore, Moscow, Berlin…just about every major city.

The reports are coming in from mortal news media as well as messages sent by my newly-minted representatives: Hesperion, Sorren, and Raphael.

Hesperio's messages take the form of a small ball of glamour light, which, when touched, opens to form a weird, distorted, miniature sort of hologram version of Hesperion—very much, in fact, like in Star Wars—giving what amounts to a recorded message. Very cool, very sophisticated.

Sorren's messages arrive by snake. I don't love snakes, and these are six-foot-long, wrist-thick cobras. They coil around my ankles and wind up my legs and then my waist, and then perch on my shoulder with their tails wrapped around my wrist, and they hiss in my ear, and somehow I hear Sorren's sibilant-heavy voice in my brain.

Raphael sends his messages to me via a process he calls shadow-link. Apparently, vampires have a certain affinity for and power over shadows—not at all unusual. But this…this is a little odd. The first time it happened, I freaked out.

I was here, in the library, staring at the map and trying to decide what to do—my new hobby, it seems. And then, out of the corner of my eye, a shadow seemed to grow in the corner, down between the edge of a bookshelf and the wall and the floor. I took no real notice of it at first. But when it seemed to spread, like an ink stain on fine linen card stock, I turned to peer at it, watching it. And yes, it blossomed—grew larger and larger almost imperceptibly. I was alone in the library, so there was no one to ask. Before I could reach out to Alistair or anyone else for advice or help, the shadow seemed to reach out and swallow me whole.

I was surrounded by darkness—but it was definitively not The Dreaming. I knew that much.

"Hello?" I called.

A swath of shadows detached itself from the gloom and became a figure—arms, legs, a head.

"Who's there?" I said again, staring hard at the figure.

It came closer, and I grasped at the prana.

"Just me, Maeve," came a familiar voice, rich, smooth, and powerful: Raphael.

"What—what is this?" I asked.

"A very old and nearly forgotten means of communication between vampires. It's called a shadow-link. If the bond that allows you to speak mind-to-mind with your coven mates is a phone call, then consider this a text message. Sort of. I don't need to be bonded to you, but I do need to know you personally, directly. I could link to Alistair since I've had a conversation with him, but not Phineas since I've not spoken to him directly."

I turned in place—there's nothing to see. Even Raphael, when I focused on him once more, was barely more than a man-shaped shadow among shadows and a voice more in my mind than my ear.

"So…how do I do it? How do I shadow-link with you? Or whomever."

"My time is short, so I'll have to teach you another time. I'm in Brussels, Belgium—it's long been a sort of gathering place for vampires—there are more havens here in Brussels than anywhere else in the world. This is…not beside the point, but anecdotal to my point. Which is that things are heating up here. I'm in contact with the leading figures in the vampire community here, and they are looking to come out of the shadows once and for all, as is happening around the world. What worries me is the temperature here, politically. Belgium is a complicated place, Brussels in particular, and the politics, just among mortals, is treacherous at the moment. Add in the vampires and you have a powder keg. If the vampires here make a public gathering, and it feels at all volatile, things will get very bad, very fast. You'd have another red pin."

I absorbed this in silence for a moment. "Suggestions?" I asked.

A pause. "At the moment, there isn't much to be done, unfortunately, but wait and see what happens. I am speaking to the coven leaders daily, and I am urging a cautious, peaceful approach to de-cloaking."

"De-Cloaking?"

"Oh, well, yes. That's the term that seems to be in vogue. Meaning, revealing their existence—I mean, at this point, it's common knowledge that immortals exist—that cat's out of the bag. De-cloaking refers to individual revelation."

"I see. Well, thank you for the report, Raphael. Continue to monitor the situation and continue to advise a cautious, peaceful approach. There is no reason for violence, yet it seems to be how everyone is responding."

Raphael sighed. "Yes, well, such is humanity, I'm afraid. Fear begets violence, and the unknown and unfamiliar begets fear."

"I wish I could say you're wrong, Raphael."

Something cool and insubstantial brushed against the outside of my arm. "I must take my leave now. I have a meeting with the coven leaders shortly."

"Thank you for the update."

"Of course. I'll be in touch again soon."

"And you'll show me how to shadow-link."

"It would be my pleasure. Until the next time, my queen." His shadow bowed, and then the shadows receded as gradually as they had swallowed me, leaving me staring at the map once more, blinking in the abrupt light.

"Maeve?" A voice behind me brings me back to the present.

I turn away from the map to find Stirling behind me, a cell phone in his hand. "Hi. What's up?"

He smiles. "I must admit, I enjoy hearing you speak more informally, sometimes. Queen Maeve is hot, but just Maeve, the girl, is a different kind of hot." He rakes his eyes over me, top to bottom, twice. "How does it feel to be wearing jeans again?"

I laugh, smoothing my palms down the front of my thighs and back up my hips, and then shove my hands in my back pockets, shrugging. "Weird, honestly. I mean, it's nice to be clothed at all, let alone in my own clothing. But…once you get used to it, there's a certain freedom in nudity."

He sidles closer, resting a hand on my hip, nosing my throat. "And if I'm being honest, there is a selfish part of me that likes you naked all the time." He inhales my scent. "And the blood armor? Sexy as hell."

I feather my fingers in his hair, tipping my head back to offer him my throat. "Are you here to seduce me? Or did you have something to tell me?"

His tongue swipes up from the suprasternal notch at the base of my throat, his long, elegant fingers holding my head tipped back. "Can't it be both?"

I knot my fingers in his hair, gasping as venom sends a sudden burst of heat billowing through me. "I suppose it could…"

"In truth, I came to tell you something, and then I saw you, and scented you, and forgot the real reason." He drags cool, smooth fingers down my neck, over my white V-neck T-shirt, and under the hem to find my skin at the small of my back. "And now, I can't seem to remember what it was I came to tell you."

I laugh, but the laugh turns to a moan as his tongue blazes a hot line against my jugular. "Perhaps a quick drink will help refresh your memory," I breathe.

"Perhaps it will…"

His fangs pierce with a delicious pang of pain that quickly becomes ravaging arousal. He pulls at my vein, and the rush of blood sends heat pooling in my sex. I feel my knees go weak, and his arm circles my waist, and then his hand cups my ass, and he's holding me up as my legs give out entirely. I moan, eyes closing, giving myself over to the pleasure of the moment—a brief distraction from my responsibilities.

His fingers pop the button of my jeans and tug down the zipper, and then his now-warm hand presses against my flesh to dive behind the elastic of my underwear. I whimper as he finds my clit and now I'm soaring as he drinks from me and sends me hurtling over the cliff into immediate climax.

Heat clenches and boils in my belly and radiates to my extremities, and his circling, pressing, long middle finger curls down and drives into me. I clutch at his nape with rough affection, holding him to me as he drinks and drinks, and I yank at the clasp of his slacks, drive my hand in to find him hot and hard and eager—

"Maeve, did you hear about—oh. Um." Saige's soft, delicate voice brings me abruptly back to reality. "Sorry, sorry, I'll—I'll come back."

Stirling lets me find my feet, withdrawing his hand from my jeans and his fangs from my throat at the same time. I give his manhood a quick squeeze before I pull my hand away as well.

"No, no. It's okay. We were just…" I laugh, trailing off and starting over. "Getting a little carried away."

With his back still to Saige, Stirling turns void-black, need-hot eyes to mine, sliding his middle finger, slick with my essence, into his mouth.

Later, I promise him, mentally. We'll finish this later.

He zips and buttons my jeans, leaning in to lick the wound closed and licking again to clean away the dribbles of blood trickling down my throat.

He turns to face Saige—whose eyes widen, a blush staining the soft, clear brown of her cheeks; his slacks are still undone, and his desire is quite evident.

"Stirling," I mutter.

He pivots back to me and zips up, then turns back and gestures at Saige. "Your report, Saige?"

I hold up a finger. "Wait. Stirling. Yours, first, please?"

He produces a phone from his back pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to me; on the screen is a paused video—a news report.

I tap the screen, and the video plays—it's the same unhelmeted British reporter from Colin's video from two weeks ago.

"The situation here in Manhattan is becoming quite dire, local residents tell me." He half-turns to indicate an elderly mortal female. "This is Abigail Henderson, a long-time resident of Manhattan's fabled Upper West Side. The Mortal Federation has blocked access to every bridge and tunnel from Midtown north and has erected barricades at every intersection along 31st Street from the East River to the Hudson, blocking access to the northern districts. Abigail came downtown for shopping and hasn't been allowed back to her home since—the barricades are guarded by armed soldiers who claim to have orders not to allow anyone past the barricades."

He turns back to the camera. "The Army of the Once-Mortal Queen, now referred to by most simply as the A-O-M-Q, have no plans to take this demarcation sitting down, they say. This reporter has spoken to several leaders of the AOMQ over the last two weeks, and I can tell you one thing for certain—the Battle for Manhattan is far from over."

"Shit." I hand him the phone back. "Any word on the response from the government? Or anyone?"

He shrugs and shakes his head. "Nothing. Reports from D.C. are sporadic and either exaggerated or understated, and sometimes both at the same time. A single report will say the White House is empty and the president has abdicated while also saying Congress is standing united against the specter of civil war. All I know for sure is that the President hasn't been seen in public since she came out as immortal. Several cities, including New York, have declared states of emergency and have requested the activation of the National Guard, but so far, there's been no mobilization."

I glance past him at Saige. "What do you have for me, Saige?"

Standing barely 5'5", Saige is petite and quiet. She's freshly razored the sides of her scalp, with the thick black coils woven into dozens of tiny braids smaller than my pinky, which are then braided together to hang down to her nape. Gold hoop earrings ladder down both ears. Amber eyes give away her shifter heritage, blazing with internal light. Even though she's a small, quiet, still sort of woman, there's a potent energy to her that speaks of a feral, wild, predatory core of steel. Out of everyone in Caleb's pack, she's the one I've clicked with the most.

She's dressed in a loose white sundress, the hem fluttering just above the knee, a wide, supple leather belt around her waist just beneath her small, high, firm breasts—she's braless and barefoot. If she needs to shift, all she has to do is whip off the belt and shrug out of the dress.

She approaches, smiling hesitantly. "Um, yeah. I heard from Sorren just a few minutes ago. He says his report is sensitive enough that he doesn't trust it to a messenger. The boys are off hunting, and Sierra is off being Sierra somewhere, so, you know, here I am."

"For a two-hundred-year-old shifter, you seem uncomfortable with our sexuality, Saige. Does it bother you?"

She shrugs, toying with the buckle of her belt. "Not really—it doesn't bother me. I just…our pack is different. We're close—we've been together for a very, very long time. But we're more like siblings, which is unusual in the shifter world. So I'm not uncomfortable with nudity, but sexuality is a different story." She blushes harder than ever. "I've had lovers, of course, but…it's always been a very private thing for me. Seeing you guys so open with it is…it's weird." Her eyes widen. "Not bad weird, just…I'm just not used to it. We all keep our…relationships, such as they are…away from the pack."

"I understand, believe me," I say. "It takes some getting used to. I mean, I grew up mortal, so it's extra weird for me. But you do get used to it, especially with five virile, immortal males who can't seem to keep their hands to themselves," I say, grinning at Stirling.

"Don't act like you don't love every second of it," he murmurs.

"Oh, I do. But it has taken some getting used to."

Saige rubs her face with both hands and then lets out a quick, steadying breath. "Anyway. Sorren's report."

"Yes, please."

"He says the immortal community as a whole is watching what happens in Manhattan. He's been in contact with Raphael and Hesperion, and they say the same thing—fae, vampires, and shifters around the world, and especially in the US, are watching Manhattan. He called it a…shit, what was the word he used? Bellwether. I'm not entirely sure what that means."

"It means a predictor of something—an indicator of how things will go," Stirling says.

Saige nods, shrugs. "Makes sense, then, in that context. He said to tell you that if you're considering making a move, his advice would be to do it in Manhattan."

I blow out a breath and turn back to the map. "It is where things sort of blew up in the first place," I say, as much to myself as out loud. "So it does make a certain amount of sense to make a play there, especially if that's what everyone is watching."

Stirling and Saige wait, watching me think.

"Let's get everyone together. We have a decision to make." I glance at Saige. "When will the boys be back?"

Saige shrugs. "They're not far." Her eyes go vacant. "They're heading back."

"And Sierra?"

This gets me a wince from Saige. "She, um…she says she doesn't answer to you."

I sense that she's not being fully honest. "What did she really say, Saige?"

Saige gives me an apologetic look. "She said she doesn't take orders from a half-breed child."

I laugh, which makes Saige's eyebrows raise in surprise. "I bet that went over well with Caleb."

I can talk to Caleb, and I can feel the pack—if I focus, I could probably communicate with the pack. But, since we're all still getting to know each other, I've opted to stay out of pack business and off the pack channel, so to speak. I could have summoned them directly or via Caleb, but my gut says to play it cautious and not give orders to the pack. Sierra has continued her campaign of what feels like outright hatred, staying away not just from me but the whole pack and the estate in general, largely roaming the forest in wolf form, with occasional forays in her human body to the nearby town. No one says so in so many words, but my pack-sense tells me she's…distracting herself with mortal males.

"Maeve, Sierra doesn't mean—"

I cut her off. "She absolutely does, Saige. And that's okay. She's entitled to how she feels. She owes me nothing. It's not my fault I'm Caleb's mate any more than it's her fault she's not. If she wants to hate me, that's her choice. I'm not threatened by her anger, but nor will I waste my time and energy chasing her. She'll just have to figure things out for herself." I shrug. "It's pack business, and while I'm Caleb's bonded mate, I'm not a shifter. So it's not my business."

I reach out mentally to my coven. Can I have everyone in the library? Stirling is here, and Saige. The others are on the way, minus Sierra, of course.

I receive an overlapping wave of mental responses, wordless acknowledgments in the form of intimate caresses from their mind to mine.

A few minutes later, Caspian, Fin, and Alistair arrive together. One by one, they greet me in their own unique way: Alistair with a soft, cautious brush of his lips against mine and a much less cautious but very much private caress of his mind against mine in a way that has me squirming and pressing my thighs together; Fin with an exuberant kiss and an affectionate squeeze of my ass with both hands; and Caspian with a nuzzle of his nose to my throat with his hands framing my face.

As Caspian pulls away, I hear claws clicking on wood, and Caleb, Colin, Callahan, and Channing pad into the library in their wolf bodies. Caleb trots over to me, shifting between one step and another with a brief, blinding amber glow. He hooks an arm around my waist and claims my mouth in a quick, rough kiss—he's flushed from exertion, his golden skin coated in a sheen of sweat, panting slightly.

"Have a good run?" I ask.

He grins, but it doesn't entirely reach his eyes. "Mostly."

"You miss Connor."

He nods, his jaw tight. "We all do. A pack run isn't the same without him. I miss his humor."

Saige's eyes glimmer with unshed tears. "You didn't get a chance to know him, Maeve, but he was so funny. Even in his wolf, he was funny. Caleb, remember when he ate that mushroom? He tripped balls for three days."

Caleb's lips twitch. "He was communing with the Earth Mother," he said. The lip twitch turns to a full-fledged grin. "Which was funny because, you know, he was as Irish as the day is long and never otherwise went in for what he called hippie mumbo jumbo."

"Even though he spent six months running with the Apache coyote shifter clan back in, what was it, '67?" Saige says.

Caleb frowns. "Oh, shit. I forgot about that. He did, didn't he? He said he wanted a change of scenery."

Saige laughs. "I thought for sure they'd kill him. Those coyotes don't much like outsiders."

"It couldn't have been Sixty-Seven, though," Caleb says. "It was before the Russian thing."

I frown. "Wait, are you guys talking about Nineteen Sixty-Seven or Eighteen Sixty-Seven?"

Caleb chuckles. "Eighteen, babe. The year the US acquired Alaska from Russia."

"Also, that bullshit treaty," Saige says, her delicate, demure voice now a savage snarl.

"Yeah, that too," Caleb says.

Saige blows out a breath. "But yeah, you're right. It had to have been before that. Sixty-Six? It was after the war, I know that."

Callahan shifts, becoming a towering, dark-haired hulk of a man. "Sixty-Six." He grabs a stack of bathrobes we've taken to keeping in the library for this exact reason and passes them out as Colin and Channing both shift as well.

Caleb nods. "It was Sixty-Six, you're right. We were in Wyoming at the time. Red Cloud told us we'd best make ourselves scarce. We barely hit the trail when shit blew up."

"Still think we should've stayed," Callahan growls. "Could'a made a difference."

Channing smacks his shoulder affectionately. "Wasn't our war, brother. You know that. We may have been wolves, but we were still white men."

Callahan just rumbles in his chest, a sound that says he hears him but doesn't agree—the whole argument has the feel of something that's been debated back and forth for, well, centuries.

Caleb does something—some sort of wordless alpha pulse of authority—and everyone falls silent and turns their focus to me.

I press a kiss to his bare chest—he doesn't bother with the robe. "Thanks, honey." I sweep my gaze around the group. "I appreciate everyone gathering so swiftly. We have a decision to make."

It's still weird to me to wield such authority over people who are all literally hundreds of years older than me. It's a constant thorn in my side, this feeling of being an imposter, and I do what I always do: ignore it and forge on.

"Saige heard from Sorren while you were out on your run," I say. "He says the immortal world has their collective eyes on Manhattan—according to him, Raphael and Hesperion report the same from the vampire and fae communities they've been in contact with. It seems like the mortal world is paying just as close attention to Manhattan if the news reports I'm seeing are any indication."

I gesture at Stirling. "And additionally, Stirling just showed me a news report from Manhattan, which only confirms how bad the situation is there—the Mortal Federation has divided Manhattan into half, barricading all northbound intersections at 31st street across the entire island, as well as blocking off the bridges, so no one can get into or out of Manhattan. But the immortals, operating under the name the Army of the Once-mortal Queen, are planning to fight back and try to retake territory."

Alistair scrubs his jaw. "Not a good situation, is it? With the US government all but disintegrated, things around the country will only go from bad to worse. Supply lines will stop, and the country will just shut down. Food will get scarce, anarchy will prevail, and people will die. To say the situation could go apocalyptic is not much of an overstatement, and I'm British."

I frown at him. "What does your being British have to do with it?"

He snorts. "We Brits are famous for understating things. Stiff upper lip, keep calm and carry on, that sort of thing."

"So if you're saying it's nearly apocalyptic, then it's really, really bad, is your point."

"Quite." Since being in England, his accent has become more pronounced, not surprisingly.

It's hot.

"So the question becomes what we do about it?" Caspian says. "I mean, Maeve, you can't take full credit for this whole shitshow. What happened in Manhattan wasn't your fault. None of it is."

I sigh. "We could argue fault till we're all blue in the face, my love. It's pointless to worry about how much blame I do or don't deserve. I feel a responsibility to do something . People look to me. I can't say I want that responsibility—I certainly didn't ask for it. But it's mine, regardless. I have a certain amount of power that others don't, as well as visibility, you might call it. People are identifying me as the Once-Mortal Queen. Do I think I'm a great choice to be some sort of queen over all immortals? Not really. I'm not even twenty yet." I shrug, lifting my palms and then slapping them against my thighs. "But, here we are."

I scan the room, looking at each face, tilting my head to see Caleb upside down. "Recommendations? You are all vastly older and wiser than me."

"Go to Manhattan," Caleb murmurs. "Kick ass."

I laugh. "Perhaps we elaborate on what kicking ass looks like?"

"Show the mortals they're fucking with the wrong bitch queen," Saige says.

"Damn right," Callahan says.

I sigh. "Okay, I appreciate that vote of confidence, really, truly I do. But we want to de-escalate. We don't want this to become a full-fledged civil war. We want people to learn how to accept each other and live together in peace and harmony."

"Good fuckin' luck with that." Surprisingly, this is from Colin, who tends to come across as fairly sweet and innocent, making it easy to forget he's a 200-year-old shifter.

"No shit," Fin says. "Far as I know, there's never been anything but a scared sort of tolerance of us—and that from a serious fuckin' distance."

I groan. "I know, okay? I mean, I wasn't there, obviously, but I get it. We just…if we can't change that now, then when?"

"We're on the knife's edge of global war," Channing says. "How do you get mortals to stop trying to kill us?"

"By refusing to let war be the only answer," I say.

Alistair winces. "Unfortunately, dearest one, we may not have a choice but to fight. The Mortal Federation isn't going to just go away because you don't want to kill anyone else. I've heard of this Nathaniel Bridgestone, and he's not the type to just give up. He likes war and seems to hate immortals."

I scan faces again. "So…what? Go to Manhattan and take on Bridgestone and the Mortal Federation?"

Caleb squeezes me with his powerful arms. "Unfortunately, love, yes. I think that's the only play right now. Your people need to see you're willing to fight for them against the people who want to kill them. They're not going to follow you into peace if they don't know they can follow you into war. Bridgestone, at least, has to be handled."

I thump my head against his chest. "Fuck. You're right, and I know it. I just don't like it." A sharp exhale. "So. Manhattan, here we come. All of us?"

Alistair frowns. "As much as I hate to say this, I think Fin, Stirling, and I should stay here. We have Sorren, Raphael, and Hesperion working on gathering the oldest and most powerful immortals, including the former members of the Tribunal. Once you sort out things in Manhattan, you're going to need to address a system of governance to replace the Tribunal, and this estate seems to me to be the best place for you to settle as your seat of power someday. So we need to get this place ready. There's a lot to do."

I leave Caleb's arms and go to Alistair, taking his hands. "I don't want to be apart from you." I look at Fin and Stirling. "Any of you."

Fin sidles up behind me and rests his chin on my shoulder. "We don't like it either, babe, but Alistair is right."

Initially, we'd been assuming the Tribunal base in the mountain would be the best place for me to use as my headquarters, but the more I thought about actually going back, the sicker the idea made me. I just couldn't bring myself to go there. So, we abandoned it. Hesperion organized a systematic dismantling of the place, stripping everything useful from it. Much of the equipment has been steadily arriving here ever since, along with personnel.

The estate is vast, encompassing several hundred acres. Aside from the main house, there are several large barns, several fieldhouses, servants' quarters, storage sheds, and a store near the village where goods grown on the farm are sold. In the centuries of Alistair's absence, the property has largely functioned as a museum and tourist attraction, with the main house allowing guided tours by Harry, and—for an eye-watering sum—overnight stays. The various fields are still in use, producing hay, wheat, and potatoes, as well as an apple orchard and a variety of vegetable gardens—the agricultural work has been carried out, in long historical tradition, by tenant farmers—albeit Alistair is far more generous with the terms than in times past. It is very nearly a self-sufficient community all on its own, and with a bit of financial investment and hard work, it can be made completely self-sufficient. Which is Alistair's goal now that we've decided the state will function as my…home. Seat of power? My court? Call it what you will, I love it here and really have no desire to leave.

Especially not without my mates.

I gather Stirling close and inhale the intermingled scents of my beloved mates—Caspian and Caleb hang back, allowing me this moment with the others.

"I love you," I whisper. "Are we sure there's no other choice? I just got you guys back."

Alistair lets out a sound that's part growl, part sigh. "I don't see a way. If we're to host your growing court, there's work to be done. You'll need communications, logistics, housing for staff… and all that requires, well, a lot. Harry is competent, but this needs my attention. And honestly, it's long overdue."

I growl in frustration. "I'll just have to wrap things quickly, then, so I can get back here to you as soon as possible."

The four-way embrace breaks apart, and I step back. "Well then, it's decided. I go to Manhattan to deal with General Bridgestone and the Mortal Federation."

Caspian takes my hand. "I'll be with you every step of the way."

Caleb takes the other. "As will I."

I look at the pack. "You choose your own path. I'll welcome you, should you choose to join us, but I won't compel you, and I'll ask Caleb not to, as well."

Saige is the first to speak. "Like I'm gonna hang out here without my alpha? Hell no." She grins at me. "Plus, you need a girlfriend."

Callahan steps forward. "We're with you, Maeve. Where our alpha goes, we go." He's silent a moment, his gargantuan frame still and coiled. "You possess our alpha's heart, and so you possess ours."

"Thank you, Callahan." I smile. "Perhaps one day I'll have your love and loyalty simply for my own sake and not just because I'm your alpha's mate. But I do understand such things are earned. I promise I'll do my best to earn them."

I sense Sierra before she enters the room—she trots in and sits on Callahan's feet in wolf form, staring at me with open malice.

"Sierra, thank you for coming. I'll let the others fill you in on what you missed, but the short version is we're going to New York. Your pack has chosen to come with me. It is not compulsory, not by me and not by Caleb. Alistair, Fin, and Stirling are staying here to oversee the work on the estate."

She continues to stare at me—more like a OnceBlood Wolf than a shifter.

I shake my head and shrug. "I have too much of importance to worry about to bother with your jealousy, Sierra. Do what you want." I glance at Caspian and Caleb. "We'll need to make travel arrangements."

"That could be difficult, actually," Colin says. "Flights are getting canceled everywhere, especially international ones."

Alistair produces a cell phone from his pocket. "I can make some calls. I know some people."

"That would be great. Thank you, Alistair." I head for the door. "I suppose I should pack, then."

All it takes is a look at each of them, and Fin and Stirling follow me.

Caspian brushes my mind with his, a silent caress to tell me he approves of me taking time with Fin and Stirling to connect before it's time to say goodbye. I'll need time with Alistair, too, but my sweet, buttoned-up professor prefers to have me alone. He doesn't mind sharing and even enjoys it on occasion, but for the most part, our physical relationship is a private one.

Fin and Stirling catch up to me as we head across the house to my private quarters.

Even though it's not even midday, shadows swirl around us as we enter my bedroom. Prana surges in my belly, and a gust of wind blows the door closed. The shadows boil, emerging from corners and crevices to swarm around us, bathing us in cool, cloaking darkness.

"Can you smell her?" Stirling's low, smooth voice comes from my left.

"Smells like desire," Fin says on my right.

"She needs us." Stirling's nose grazes my neck.

"She's wearing too many damned clothes." Fin's finger grazes between the hem of my shirt and the waist of my jeans.

My breath catches my throat. I love it when they do this—play with me as if I'm a helpless little mortal thing.

I hold my breath and tremble, waiting for their next move.