Elara leaned forward, rocking on her hands and knees, and sniffed the soil under the patch of wilting jimsonweed. It smelled moist, green, and alive. She sat back on her feet and pondered the thorny plants. Only yesterday, the patch was in good health, the stems standing straight, spreading the toothed leaves, and cradling white and purple trumpet shaped flowers. Today, the stems had wrinkled and shrunk, curling down. It was as if all the water had been sucked out of the plant, and it was dying at the end of a long drought. But the soil was moist.

Next to her, James Cornwell twisted his hands. A white man in his forties, he was of average height, but his arms and legs seemed too long somehow, his shoulders too narrow, and his frame too lanky. He wore a straw hat and he often joked that from the back people mistook him for a scarecrow. He was the keeper of poisons. If it was poisonous and they grew it, James was in charge of it. Normally he was upbeat, but right now agitation took hold of him.

“Never seen anything like this,” James said.

“Have you dug one up?” she asked.

He turned, plucked a plant from his wheelbarrow with his gloved hand, and held it in front of her. The root, normally thick and fibrous, had shrunk down, so desiccated it looked like a rat’s tail.

“What could do that?” James asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“The entire crop is a loss.”

He was right. Jimsonweed, Datura stramonium, wasn’t one of their most valuable plants. A powerful hallucinogenic, it belonged to the nightshade family, sharing ancestry with tomatoes, potatoes, and chili peppers, but also with belladonna and mandrake. Once it was used as a remedy against madness and seizures, but the toxicity of the plant proved to be too high and it was abandoned as soon as safer alternatives were found. Now it was mostly harvested to induce visions. They sold a small quantity of it every year to specialized shops and made sure it came with bright warning labels. It wasn’t a significant earner, but the sudden wilting was worrisome.

Elara glanced to the left, where a patch of henbane bloomed with yellow flowers. Hyoscyamus niger, also poisonous and hallucinogenic, brought in a lot of money, mostly from German and Norse neo-pagans. The plant was sacred to Balder, son of Odin and Frigg. Balder was famous mostly for his resurrection myth, detailed in Prose Edda, but the medieval text glossed over one important detail: Balder wasn’t a martyr. He was a warlord, proficient with every weapon known to ancient people. The neo-pagans prayed to him before every major obstacle, and henbane was a crucial part of those prayers. Henbane was too toxic to be grown and harvested by amateurs. It came with a big price tag.

If whatever killed the jimsonweed jumped to the henbane, they would take an expensive hit.

“What do you want to do?” she asked.

“I want it warded.”

“The henbane?”

He nodded. “I’ll put plastic up too, but I would feel better with a ward.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell Savannah.”

James twisted his hands some more.

“Would you like me to do it?” she guessed. “Now?”

“Yes?” he asked.

“Okay.”

“Thank you!” He reached into the wheelbarrow and withdrew a bundle of elm sticks.

The rapid thudding of a galloping horse sounded through the trees. Elara frowned. A rider came around the bend, emerging from the trees. Sam, wearing his Iron Dog black.

He slowed the horse, bringing the mare to a stop in front of them. “Trouble.”

She jumped to her feet.

“What?”

“People from the Pack are here. The guy who was here before and two others, a man and a woman. They said they were the alphas of Clan Bouda.”

Just what they needed. “Where is the Preceptor?”

“In the moat, on the other side. We didn’t tell him yet.”

Clan Bouda, Clan Bouda… What was it the boy said before? His people killed the alpha of my clan.

Oh no. “Keep the Preceptor away from the bailey. Do whatever you have to do. Don’t just sit there, go! Go!”

Sam turned the horse around and rode back the way he came. She focused on the trees in the distance.

“But the henbane,” James moaned.

“I’ll be back.”

Elara stepped. The trees rushed to her. She stepped again, hurrying to the castle, burning magic too fast. Three days had passed since Deidre was taken from the castle and Hugh had gone inside himself. He didn’t want to fight with her. When he spoke, it was short and brisk. He spent all his time finishing the moat. She’d snuck into his dreams last night and found fire and death, ruins littered with corpses, and him, a terrifying monster prowling through it to the chorus of screams and killing, the fiery maelstrom behind him so big, it took up half of the sky. She couldn’t tell if it was a nightmare or a distorted memory.

In that moment, before he’d turned away and left as Deidre’s family drove out of the castle, she had seen his eyes. Hugh hadn’t realized his legacy. He knew what it was, he knew himself to be a killer, he let it torment him, but inside the castle walls he was sheltered from its full impact. The Iron Dogs admired him; her people looked to him for protection. Whether he knew it or not, Hugh leaned on that human net to keep going. He saw himself as strong, violent, and ruthless, but also as someone who protected and led. He was feared but respected and even envied.

He had never stopped to think how people from the outside saw him. There was no respect in what Wayne Harmon had said. Only contempt and revulsion.

Hugh was a man who couldn’t be trusted with children. A villain. A butcher without a single redeeming quality to him. And she was a witch, Satan’s consort, an evil creature, a deceiver and defiler, fit only to be stoned to death. It didn’t sting her. Elara was used to it. She had grown up with it.

She’d known both kindness and utter contempt. A Baptist church had sheltered her and her people once, knowing what they were, because they were hungry and had no place to go. In the next town, only ten miles down the road, the Christians had lined up along the road with loaded shotguns to make sure they kept moving.

Some people in the world only saw in black and white. They were driven by fear. They had learned how to survive in their little corner of the world and they saw any change as a threat to their survival. But they still liked to think of themselves as good people. Good people didn’t hate without a reason, so they grasped at any pretext, no matter how small, that gave them permission to hate. A line in a holy book. The color of a person’s skin. The brand of their magic. They were not in the habit of taking a second look or giving chances. Their fear was too great and their need to defend themselves too dire. They always lost at the end. Life was change. It would come to them, as inevitable as the sunrise, despite all their flailing.

She had years to armor herself against it. Hugh didn’t. He was on top. On the winning team. No doubt was allowed.

And now the alphas of Clan Bouda were here. She had no idea how he would react to that.

Elara stepped onto the wall and forced herself to stop and catch a breath. The shapeshifters had dismounted in the bailey. A tall, dark-haired man wearing black, his movements fluid and quick. He looked like he was barely holding it together. And a woman, who was his polar opposite: short, blond, and calm. She was telling him something, and her movements seemed soothing. Ascanio Ferara hung behind them, a long-suffering look on his handsome face.

Elara realized that her blue dress was stained with dirt. There was dirt under her fingernails. No time. She descended the stairs. At the foot of it, Dugas waited.

“That man is about to do something violent,” he murmured.

“I know.”

She walked past him and put a smile on her face. “Hello.”

Ascanio and the woman turned to her. The man was still scanning the bailey. The blond woman put her hand on his arm and gently pulled on him, until he turned to face Elara.

“Hello,” the blond said. “So sorry to barge in on you unannounced. I’m Andrea Medrano. This is my husband Raphael. You’ve already met Ascanio, of course.”

“I have,” Elara said. “You must be tired. Would you like something to eat?”

Ascanio’s eyes lit up.

If she could get them out of the bailey and safely settled inside before Hugh showed up, maybe they would dodge this bullet after all.

“We would love something to eat,” Andrea said. “Wouldn’t we, honey?”

Hugh d’Ambray walked through the gate, with Stoyan right behind him.

Raphael saw him. Their gazes locked.

Raphael pulled his leather jacket off with a single jerk of his hand.

“Raphael!” Andrea said. “You promised me you wouldn’t do this. Raphael!”

Raphael yanked two daggers from the sheath on his belt and started toward Hugh.

“I told you,” Ascanio said. “I said this would happen.”

Hugh pulled a knife from the sheath on his waist and moved forward.

The two men reached each other. Raphael struck, so fast he was a blur. Somehow Hugh dodged.

“Go get him, honey!” Andrea called out.

What? Elara looked at her.

“I’m so sorry,” Andrea said. “The Iron Dogs killed my mother-in-law.”

“My condolences,” Elara said. “What happens when my husband makes you a widow?”

“Raphael won’t lose.”

Hugh spun out of the way and kicked Raphael in the stomach. The shapeshifter rolled, sprung to his feet, his eyes growing blood red, and charged Hugh.

Don’t lose, she willed silently. Don’t lose, Hugh.

The two men clashed and broke apart. Hugh’s left forearm bled. A blue glow clamped the wound. It knitted closed.

A cut snaked down Raphael’s face. He wiped it off and flung the blood away. His skin sealed itself. Lyc-V, the virus responsible for shapeshifter existence, gifted them with unmatched regeneration.

They clashed again, slashing, carving, stabbing, so fast she could barely guess at the attacks. Raphael was a whirlwind, but Hugh was stronger. They tore across the bailey. If it wasn’t for the knives, they could almost be dancing.

Hugh staggered back. Cold rushed through her. He must’ve taken a hit, but she couldn’t see it. Raphael dove into the opening, slashing. The tip of his dagger grazed Hugh’s throat, drawing a sharp red line.

Elara gasped.

Hugh grabbed Raphael’s wrist with his left hand and twisted. Bone snapped with a crunch. The shapeshifter snarled and dropped the dagger. Andrea clicked her teeth.

Hugh kicked the dagger out of the way. They lunged at each other.

Seconds stretched into minutes, slow and viscous, like dripping honey. Hugh was covered in a blue glow now. Raphael was bleeding. The Lyc-V couldn’t fix him fast enough. The stones under their feet were smeared with red.

Something was wrong. She’d watched Hugh fight before. This wasn’t him. He was precise and deliberate. This was a frenzy, almost as if… as if he were letting Raphael vent his anger on him.

If he used magic, this fight would be over.

Hugh was punishing himself.

Raphael smashed his fist into Hugh’s side. Hugh took the hit, clamped Raphael’s arm, and stabbed Raphael in the kidneys. The shapeshifter tore free. The blue glow jumped from Hugh to Raphael’s wound and lingered.

She watched it for a long moment, in disbelief. Her hands clenched. That was enough. Elara started forward.

“What are you doing?” Andrea asked.

“I’m going to stop it.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Andrea said. “They don’t look like they need any help.”

Elara let her magic spill out of her. It rolled off her, cold like the bottom of an iceberg in the deep dark ocean. The shapeshifter woman drew a sharp breath.

“Hugh is healing him.”

Andrea squinted at the fighters. “No…”

The blue glow clung to Raphael’s other side.

Shock slapped Andrea’s face. “Yes. He is. Why?”

“Because he is punishing himself. The man your husband came here to kill doesn’t exist anymore. The man here now is going to let himself be hurt because he thinks he needs to be punished. This has gone far enough. Nobody is dying today. I won’t allow it.”

“Raphael,” Andrea called out. “Stop. Enough!”

Raphael drove his knife into Hugh’s side in a vicious upward stab. Hugh punched him in the face. Raphael staggered back, his lips drawn back in a grimace. Hugh had gone pale. Fear pinched her. She’d let it go on for too long.

Raphael spun a kick. His back was to her. She grazed his shoulder with her fingertips, stealing just a tiny drop of his life.

The shapeshifter halted. His black dagger drooped. He took a halting step back and dropped to his knees.

She thrust herself in front of Hugh and slid her arms around his neck, her magic bathing them both. “It’s over.”

He took a step forward, carrying her dead weight on his neck.

“It’s done,” she murmured, wrapping her voice around them. “No more. I need you. We all need you. Please, Hugh. Let it be.”

He stopped and looked at her. Awareness came back in his eyes. Elara exhaled.

Behind them Andrea knelt by Raphael and put her arms around him.

“So tired,” Raphael whispered and slumped to the ground.

“You fought well,” she told him. “You killed him at least four times. Aunt B would be proud.”

Hugh was looking at her. He dipped his head. She didn’t realize what he was doing until his lips found hers. It was a hungry desperate kiss. She tasted his pain on her tongue and stepped away. The entire front of her dress was soaked in blood. Hugh stumbled and toppled forward like a log. She barely caught him and her knees shook under the impact of his dead weight.

“Can we have lunch now?” Ascanio asked.

Hugh opened his eyes. The ceiling above him was shrouded in gloom. He was in his bedroom.

Everything hurt.

He blinked at the ceiling, trying to find some equilibrium between the pain in different parts of him, a magic spot where it hurt a little less. He failed.

What time was it? It had to be late. The last thing he remembered was fighting Medrano. He didn’t really have a plan for that fight. He wasn’t sure how it would have ended. He hadn’t wanted to kill Medrano in front of the man’s wife. He had some vague idea of letting the shapeshifter tire himself out, but then it became something else. He was pretty sure one of them wouldn’t survive that fight.

He remembered Elara and the cooling touch of her magic. Like walking into a cloud of mist on a hot summer day.

Then he remembered nothing.

Did he kill Medrano?

No, she must’ve stopped him.

A smell floated down to him. He smelled orange, butter, and something else, some sort of dough. Suddenly he was ravenous.

Sitting up proved to be an effort. Someone had stripped him down to his underwear. He didn’t smell blood, so he’d been washed.

He staggered to the door. Across the hallway, Elara’s door stood open. Soft light glowed inside. The aroma was coming from there.

He stumbled around, looking for something to wear, and settled on a pair of black pants and a white T-shirt. He managed to put both on without making noises and headed down the hallway.

The scent got stronger. The castle lay quiet around them. Outside the windows in the hallway, night spread across the sky, glittering with stars.

Hugh made it to the doorway. The front room of Elara’s suite lay empty. He walked through, following the smell, turned and saw her. She stood in a small nook off her bedroom. A big stone oven occupied a large part of the far wall. In front of him was an island with a cooktop and a prep sink. Between the stove and the island stood Elara, with her back to him. Her blue dress clung to her, draping over her butt. Her hair was braided and pinned up, and he could see her slender neck.

Mmmm.

He leaned in the doorway.

Elara grabbed something out of the stove and turned toward him. She was holding a metal platter, her hands in kitchen mittens.

She was wearing an apron. A frilly little apron, white, with pink cherry blossoms on it and wide black ties, wrapped around her and knotted into a bow on the side.

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

This couldn’t possibly be real. It was another dream. “I wonder which part of my demented brain wanted to see the Ice Harpy in an apron. Baking cookies.”

“These are not cookies.”

He glanced into the pan. It was full of crepes, folded into quarters and drenched in melted butter. The heat had browned the crepe edges. She must’ve sprinkled them with sugar, because a thin layer of caramel dotted the edges. The last time he had a crepe Suzette was in France, ages ago. He couldn’t recall why he was there or what he was doing, but he remembered the dessert and bright red flames licking the crepes as it was flambéed at the table.

Elara pulled off her oven mittens. “Is that what I am, an Ice Harpy?”

“Yes.” And he was on fire. He couldn’t even think straight.

“You’re not going to get any of my crepes with that attitude.”

He moved toward her, stalking. She crossed her arms on her chest but didn’t move. He walked behind her, slowly, aware of every inch of space between them. She smelled of jasmine and green apples. Too subtle for a perfume. A hint of shampoo or a lotion, maybe. He wondered if he would taste it as he licked her skin.

“Be careful, Preceptor.”

He reached down, caught the end of her apron tie, and tugged on it.

“Quit it,” she told him.

Oh, he would enjoy this. “It’s my dream,” he told her.

“I don’t care.”

Of course she didn’t. He laughed, his voice low, and tugged on the tie again.

“Will you stop it?”

“I told you to stay out of my dreams.” He leaned in close, inhaling the scent of her skin and whispered into her ear. “You’re trespassing.”

Her eyes widened. He looked into them and caught the exact moment where a hint of white flame burst in their depths. On the battlefield of Elara’s mind, banners of war unfurled, and soldiers broke into a charge. He’d learned to watch for this look when they argued. That’s when it got really good.

“Perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re letting me waltz in and out of your dreams, Preceptor. What is it you want?”

He was so hard, it hurt.

“Perhaps I’m hungry.” He reached over her shoulder and stole a crepe from the platter. She tried to slap his hand, but he was too fast.

“They’re not done yet.”

“They look done to me.” He held the crepe, out of her reach. “Do you want this back?”

“Yes.”

He leaned closer. “What will you let me do to you to get it back?”

“Give me back the crepe, Hugh.”

He held it in front of her. She snatched it out of his hand and turned her back to him to drop it back into the pan. He locked his hands on the island, caging her between his arms.

She stood completely still. He felt the tension vibrating in the angle of her spine and the set of her shoulders and it made him harder.

He leaned forward and kissed her on the right side, just below her ear. She gasped. Her skin felt warm and soft under his lips, like warm silk. He touched the sensitive spot with his tongue, painting heat over the nerve, and she leaned back slightly, looking for him in spite of herself. He wanted to crush her to him, to rip off her clothes, and lose himself in her soft body. It was a wild, uncontrollable need, simple and violent in its intensity. He wanted to pin her to the bed and run his tongue over the nipples of her breasts and then slide lower, over her stomach, down below. He wanted to hear her moan, to see her breathless, to watch her open her legs for him, and make her come like she never came before. He wanted to thrust into her and hear her scream his name, because she couldn’t get enough. He wanted her to love it, because he was doing it to her.

“Stop, Hugh,” she whispered.

He caught a tendril of her white hair into his fingers and kissed it. “Why?”

“What if this isn’t a dream? What if you’re awake?”

“And you’re cooking crepes Suzette in the middle of the night in a pretty apron?”

“What if I am? If we wake up in the morning in the same bed, what then?”

“I don’t know. Tell me.” He kissed her neck again, on the other side. She took a sharp breath and swallowed.

“We finally learned to work together. If you don’t stop…”

He bit her neck, pinching the skin between his teeth. Her voice broke. She shivered, and it almost pushed him over the edge.

“…if you don’t stop, we’ll go to war in the morning, because this isn’t you. Your body was straining so hard to repair all the damage, you glowed for hours. You’re exhausted and not in your right mind. You’ll regret this moment of weakness. You’ll make me pay for it.”

His lips traveled down to the bend of her neck. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. She wanted him. His whole body had gone hard, every muscle, every nerve screaming for her.

“I can’t afford the price. Stop, Hugh. Stop.”

The words finally penetrated. He could force her. It was a dream and he could do whatever he wanted to, but it wouldn’t be enough. He wanted more, something his subconscious refused to let him have even in his dreams. This was another nightmare. He just hadn’t realized it until now.

He rested his forehead against the back of her head. “Elara…”

“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t say anything you’ll regret in the morning.”

His voice was a low snarl. “Sometimes when I lay awake in the middle of the night, I think of you.”

“Don’t…”

“Sometimes there is nothing left and all that’s anchoring me here is knowing you’ll pick a fight with me in the morning.”

“Hugh...”

“What do you want more than anything? Tell me what it is, and I’ll rip the world apart to bring it to you.”

She turned in his arms slowly and raised her hands. Her fingers touched his hair, brushing it back from his face. He savored it.

She stood on her toes and brushed his lips with hers. “Ask me again in the morning.”

“Now.”

“You have to go now, Hugh.”

The tightrope broke under him and he fell. “No.”

“Yes. We’ll talk about this again, in the morning. Please go to your bedroom.”

She pushed him. He could’ve stayed where he was. She didn’t have the strength to move him. But instead he moved for her. He walked to the doorway and stepped outside. She shut the door and he heard her sag against it on the other side.

There was nothing left but to go back to his room. That was the only way out of this twisted dream.

The void opened behind him. He stared into its burning depth, swore, and went to his bed.

Hugh opened his eyes. The morning light flooded his room. The windows stood open and a light breeze floated through his bedroom, bringing with it a hint of the first autumn chill.

His stomach growled. He sat up and saw Lamar in a Lazyboy chair, his glasses perched on his nose.

“Well, hello there, Sunshine,” Lamar told him.

Hugh looked at him.

“We missed you,” Lamar said.

“How long was I out?”

“Three days.”

That explained the hunger and the fucked-up dreams. “The shapeshifters?”

“Still here. Medrano wants to talk to you. Your wife has been holding the fort. I think she’s about to serve them breakfast.”

Hugh stood up. His limbs ached, and his insides felt raw and tender. Too much healing too quickly. There was a book lying on the table by the chair. Hugh picked it up. “Harry Potter?”

“Bale read it out loud to you. It’s his favorite.”

They had sat with him for three days, making sure he didn’t die. He would’ve done the same for them, but he never expected they would do it for him.

Hugh pulled on a pair of pants. “How’s the moat?”

“We’re done.”

There was two weeks’ worth of work left when he had gone under. “How?”

“Elara mobilized her people. They came out in droves to lay the concrete.”

The harpy had helped him. Huh.

“Do you want the best news? They have a family of stonemasons that speed-cured it. They do their thing and instead of 28 days, we get cured concrete as soon as they walk on it.” Lamar grinned. “There is one section left they didn’t get to, because the magic’s been down, but once it’s done, we’ll be ready to flood.”

“Lamar?”

“Yes.”

“Punch me.”

Lamar unfolded his hard frame from the chair and sank a punch into his gut. The pain pulsed through Hugh, a welcome shock to the system.

“What was that about?” Lamar asked.

“Making sure I’m awake.”

“You are,” Lamar said. “But don’t do that again. You let Medrano gut you like a fish. I watched you do it. You promised Stoyan, Bale, and Felix. You promised me. You can lie to those motherfuckers, but I’m going to hold you to your word. We need you. We’re not safe yet.”

“Get the hell out of my room,” Hugh growled.

Lamar grinned and headed for the door.

A stray thought hit him. “How long did you say the magic’s been down?” Hugh called.

“I didn’t. It crashed the evening after you stabilized, about ten hours after your fight with Medrano.”

Lamar kept moving.

If the magic had been down for most of the three days, Elara couldn’t have walked through his dreams.

Did he imagine the whole thing? It felt sharp and real, the same way it felt when she had first let herself into his head.

He had never seen her in the kitchen. He’d been in her bedroom when she patched him up, but he couldn’t see that side of the room from where he’d sat.

Ten minutes later, dressed and showered, he crossed the hallway and knocked on Elara’s door. No answer. He tried the door handle. It turned in his hand. Hugh walked in. The bedroom stood empty. He picked his way along the familiar route to the far wall and turned left. A kitchen nook greeted him. The same island, the same stove, the same fridge. He pulled the refrigerator door open, knowing what he would find inside.

A plate rested on the middle shelf, holding a stack of crepes.

Hugh stared at it.

It was real. He’d gotten up in the middle of the night, walked here, and told her all that stupid shit. She’d warned him, but he spilled it all out, like an idiot, giving her all the ammunition she would ever need. He stood there, like some starving dog, whining to be let inside. She’d practically had to shove him out of her room.

Pathetic.

It happened.

Everything would change now. They had a back and forth and he fucked it up. If he walked down there and saw pity on her face, it would kill him.

For a long moment he stood there, numb, until finally some cold emotion took hold of him. He puzzled over it and recognized it. He felt cold, crystalline anger. He let it wash over him, freezing every inconvenient emotion he had.

He was the Preceptor of the Iron Dogs. His wife was serving breakfast to a man who tried to kill him. A man who was still a threat.

It was his job to neutralize threats.

He would attend.

He knew.

Elara gripped her fork tighter. One moment the doorway to the sunroom was empty, the next Hugh loomed in it, and instantly she realized he knew the conversation in her kitchen happened. His blue eyes were iced over. Cedric sat by his feet, wagging his tail.

He walked over to her.

She had no idea what he would do. At the table, Andrea and Raphael went still.

Hugh leaned over her. His lips brushed her cheek. It was about as dry and emotionless as rubbing chalk over her skin.

She conjured up a smile. “You’re finally up.”

“You know me, I need my beauty rest.”

His voice was warm, the hint of a smile tugging on his lips was just right, but his eyes were hard.

She took his hand and held it in hers. “I was worried.”

He freed his hand. He did it smoothly, and an observer wouldn’t have been able to tell, but she felt it. He didn’t want her touching him.

“I’m sorry. I won’t worry you again.” He’d sunken some awful finality into those words.

Hugh picked a chair next to her and sat. The big dog sprawled at his feet.

Raphael and Andrea were looking at Hugh like both he and Cedric had gone rabid. She’d reached a comfortable balance with the shapeshifters over the last three days. Given time, she would win them over, but none of it mattered. It all hinged on what would come out of Hugh’s mouth next.

The silence hung over the table, ominous and heavy.

Hugh frowned.

She tensed. The shapeshifters leaned forward slightly.

“Where is the bacon?”

She exhaled, got up, lifted the lid off a platter, and set the huge plate of cooked bacon and sausage in front of him.

Hugh filled his plate, took a gulp of coffee, and paused for a moment, savoring it. “Makes me feel almost human.”

“Are we going to talk about it?” Raphael asked.

Hugh set the mug down and faced him. “I’m sorry my soldiers killed your mother.”

There it is. Elara held her breath.

“I respected your mother,” Hugh said. “She was a leader and she led from the front. She died because she wanted to buy you time. I didn’t dislike her, and I didn’t specifically want her to die. Daniels was the target. But your mother and I were on opposite sides, and anything that weakened the Pack was judged to be good for Roland’s cause. She was dangerous, powerful, and popular and she exercised a great deal of influence over Lennart and Daniels and the Pack in general. Her death left a big gap in your power lineup. So I would be lying if I said that killing her wasn’t a victory at the time. However, I no longer support Roland’s causes. I deeply regret her death and the pain I caused you and your family.”

Andrea exhaled quietly.

“I understand why you attacked me,” Hugh said, cutting a pancake with his fork. “I get it. It was fair. It’s done now. Each of us has a wife and people we are responsible for and our business interests intersect. We can continue to work together, we can look for alternative business partners, or we can kill each other. Figure out what do you want to do.”

Raphael leaned back, his face calm. “By my count, I killed you four times during that fight. How are you still alive?”

“I’m difficult to kill,” Hugh said.

“Where do you stand on the Roland issue?” Andrea asked.

“He wants us dead,” Hugh said. “We are not the highest priority target at the moment, so he likely told Nez to take care of us at his discretion.”

“What happens if Roland attacks Atlanta?” Andrea asked. “Who will you help, d’Ambray? Elara told us you weren’t the same person. Is it all lip service or not? Where do you stand?”

They pushed him too far and too fast. She had to step in. “My husband’s first priority is the survival of our people.”

Hugh chewed his bacon and took another gulp of coffee. “Right now, Daniels is the best chance of stopping Roland. If he takes Atlanta, he will roll over us. We can hold out for a while, but it won’t be long. So if there is a coalition forming in Atlanta, we will aid it.”

She almost fell off her chair.

Raphael leaned forward. “Do we have your word?”

“Yes. The more relevant question for you is where will the Pack stand?” Hugh chewed a bit more. “Shrapshire, your new Beast Lord, is a paranoid perfectionist driven by the fear of not living up to his responsibilities. He is naturally a loner and he can’t believe he found a woman who loves him. Dali Harimau is his sole pillar of support.”

“He has a family,” Andrea said.

“Yes, all of whom are typical werejaguars: solitary. They come together for family occasions, but aside from that, they lead separate lives. Shrapshire cares about two things: his mate and doing the absolute best job he can in whatever position within the Pack he assumes. His father failed to put a child who went loup to death. It was his responsibility as the medic for the pack. He was tried and imprisoned for this failure of duty. Shrapshire’s never gotten over that.”

He was delivering all of this with clinical precision, while eating. No trace of Hugh from that night had lingered, Elara realized. Only the Preceptor of the Iron Dogs remained. It made her want to grab him and shake him until the ice broke.

“Right now Shrapshire is in a position of ultimate responsibility as the Beast Lord. If you knock him off his stride with the right catastrophe – like injuring Dali or killing some Pack children – he will respond with overwhelming force and, once that assault fails, become progressively more irrational as he retaliates.”

The two shapeshifters were staring at him as if he had sprouted a second head.

“Back when I worked for Roland, he called on me to come up with a comprehensive plan to dismantle the Pack. He doesn’t have me anymore, but if he works from my playbook, he will likely target Dali. It’s easier and cleaner than other targets. Once Shrapshire is convinced he can’t even keep his mate safe, he will spin out of control and there is no telling where he will land. He abandoned both Lennart and Daniels before. If you hit him the right way, he may pull everyone into the Keep and forbid anyone from leaving. Andrea, Daniels is your best friend. So what are the two of you going to do when she is out there, Roland is coming, and Shrapshire has you holed up in your fort?”

The two shapeshifters gaped at him. Elara felt a small twinge of satisfaction.

“This is the side of him he doesn’t usually show to anyone,” she said. “Sounds like your best bet is to keep the Beast Lord’s family safe.”

“I’ll give you an answer.” Andrea bared her teeth. “If Shrapshire tries to keep Clan Bouda from that fight, we will split from the Pack. Clan Heavy and Clan Wolf will as well. We stand with our friends.”

Cedric raised his head and barked at her. Hugh held a piece of bacon out and the big dog wolfed it down. She’d have to talk to him about feeding the dog from the table.

“You’re right,” Raphael said. “We have intersecting business interests. We don’t have to be friends, but it’s mutually beneficial to cooperate. I miss my mother every day. I’d like nothing better than to put you in the ground, but that would benefit nobody at this point, least of all our clan. If my mother was alive, she would point it out to me. We’re not in the habit of wasting resources. You’re useful, d’Ambray. We’re going to use you. You owe us that much.”

“Fair enough. What do you need from us?” Hugh asked.

“Same thing you are doing now,” Raphael said. “We need a safe harbor for the shapeshifters in Kentucky. In return, we will aggressively push the Pack to purchase your herbals over competition.”

“Works for me,” Hugh said.

“Thank you for the lovely breakfast.” Andrea rose to her feet. “And your hospitality. We will be on our way now.”

“You’re always welcome,” Elara said.

Raphael got up and the two shapeshifters walked out.

For a couple of minutes, they sat in silence.

“Where is Ascanio?” Hugh asked.

“Exploring the castle.”

“You let him run around unsupervised?”

“Sam is with him,” she answered.

Hugh sighed. “By now he likely knows the complete layout of our defenses. No matter. I’ll handle it.”

He got up and picked up his plate.

“Don’t bother,” she told him. “I’ll clear it.”

Hugh set his plate on the floor. Cedric nearly lost his mind with joy. Hugh set the plate on the table after Cedric was done and tilted his head to catch her gaze.

His voice was quiet. “The next time you interfere in one of my fights, I’ll serve you with divorce papers. Are we clear?”

Right. The asshole was back. “The next time I have a chance to save your life, I’ll give it a thought.”

He walked out, his hound at his heels.

She wanted to pick up his plate and shatter it against the floor. But he would hear, and she refused to give him the satisfaction.