The brotherhood descended the steps of the plane in human form. Six naked men and one woman in her underwear—Jenny preferred to maintain a small amount of modesty until the moment she shifted—lined up and confronted the waiting group of men.

Centuries ago, this had felt different to Madden. Facing the enemy naked had been a proud, warrior-like act. Often, their opponents were werewolves and would also be naked. If they were not werewolves, they would be intimidated by such fine specimens of masculinity.

Now, in this modern age of technology and formality, the act took on a different role. It still got the attention of the enemy, but for very different reasons. Naked people tended to be looked upon as weirdos these days. It gave the brotherhood an unexpected edge. The opposition didn’t take them seriously. Although the jokes, laughter, and derogatory comments were annoying, they worked in their favor. It lulled their opponents into thinking they had some sort of advantage. As soon as the brotherhood shifted, they had the element of surprise, dominated the scene, and didn’t have to deal with the inconvenience of shredded clothing. It was a win-win situation.

A man stepped forward from the uniformed group, his lips curling into a sarcastic smile. “No, thanks, guys. You’re really not our type.” His eyes lingered on Jenny. “Although, once we’re done with the formalities, I’m sure the lady will appreciate spending a little time with some real men.” The slow rumble issuing from deep within Wilder’s chest made him pause. “Are you growling at me, wolf boy?”

Wilder gave him back stare for stare, not blinking, not moving. It was the standard brotherhood tactic. Not responding. Madden had done it himself often enough. He knew how unnerving it could be for an opponent. The seven Arctic werewolves stood shoulder to shoulder, assessing the opposition.

Easy. It was Samson’s voice.

Weapons? Madden asked the question.

In the vehicles. Samson was the group’s tracker. His nose was the most powerful. Even though the cars were some distance away, Madden trusted his friend’s powerful wolf senses. I can smell silver.

Shock tactics? Madden checked.

Go for it. Samson’s voice in his head was loud and clear.

The brotherhood was used to working in unison. They shifted so fast, the man facing them let out a shout of surprise and tried to dart back toward his friends. Seven huge white Arctic werewolves dropped to their haunches and bared their canines. Seven matching snarls ripped through the air. Madden knew his role as leader gave him a unique insight. His teammates would act almost entirely on wolf instinct, but he would retain a strong element of his human persona. From that perspective, he would be able to analyze what was going on and make decisions.

Madden moved swiftly, catching the man who had confronted them as he was midway back to his companions. Swiping his claws down the man’s chest, Madden ripped through flesh, muscle, and bone. This wasn’t just an attack on their leader, it was a message to the others about what they faced if they stuck around. He had to make this look good. Or, depending on the perspective, very, very bad.

As the helpless human slumped against him, Madden let him fall to the ground. Crouching over the writhing figure he bared his huge fangs. Making sure he had the attention of every one of the Hellhounds, Madden lowered his head and, using his lethal teeth and claws, tore through flesh, bone, and muscle and ripped out their leader’s heart. The action was enough to send a few of them scattering and running for the exit gates.

Not sticking around for the main event? I’m only just getting started.

Madden knew the unique telepathy between the members of the brotherhood meant his teammates could hear his thoughts.

Biting into the bloody heart, he shook it, spraying great, thick droplets of blood in an arc around his head. Although his wolf instincts conditioned him to enjoy the scent and taste of blood, human blood was distasteful to him in the same way that wolf blood would be. The sweet, coppery taste was too close to cannibalism.

But they don’t know that.

Shapeless red globules dripped onto the ground. Madden cast the torn heart aside and turned his attention to the body. Samson joined him and together they put on the performance of their lives. Doing what wolves do best, they tore the flesh from the body.

“The master never warned us about this.” It was an anguished cry as a few more of the onlookers fled.

The master. It was what the Hellhounds called Chastel. Not conclusive, but another indicator that they were facing the werewolf hunter they knew only too well.

Taking advantage of the paralyzing shock induced by the sight of two giant werewolves feasting on the body of their leader, the other members of the brotherhood lunged at the uniformed men. Madden and Samson flung aside the brutalized body and joined them. There was a flurry of fangs and claws as they charged down their targets. The initial sound of fleeing footsteps was quickly drowned out by shouts of panic and the snapping of teeth on bone.

Madden caught sight of Sebastian launching himself onto the back of a fleeing figure and plunging his razor-sharp claws into the Hellhound’s back. As Sebastian used his jaws to grip the back of the man’s neck and slam him into the tarmac, his victim screamed out a spray of red bubbles.

Another one down.

On the periphery of his vision, Jenny, the swiftest and most elegant of the brotherhood’s fighters, took on two of the Hellhounds. Twisting and turning between the two, she slashed, dodged, and sliced with devastating effect until the two men were brought, bloodied and bewildered, to their knees. Madden had seen her use this whirlwind tactic before. If any of her opponents lived, they always swore they had been faced with more than one werewolf.

Madden kept one eye on those vehicles. So far there was no movement from the men behind the wheel of each. Who was controlling this scene? The guy who had appeared to be their leader was dead, but they were obeying someone, that much was obvious. It was as if they were listening to an invisible voice, waiting for instructions before making their move.

Chastel, you bastard. He was convinced the werewolf hunter was somehow mixed up in this. Where are you?

Jean Chastel was a coward. It was a truth he had demonstrated over and over in his dealings with the brotherhood. The werewolf hunter hid behind his followers, placing them in the firing line while he kept his distance. If Chastel ever got close to the action, he swiftly took to his heels at the first sign of danger to himself.

There were seven cars, ranged in a line facing the plane and each had only one occupant. As Madden contemplated how to deal with them, two of the Hellhounds threw themselves on him from behind, pressing him facedown on the tarmac.

With a howl of rage, he twisted his body beneath them, feeling intense satisfaction as his claws connected with flesh and warm blood soaked his fur. He would let one of these two live. He wanted answers to a few questions when this fight was over.

To his right, he saw Samson hurl one of his opponents over his head. At the same time, seven sets of headlights came on as the vehicle engines gunned into life.

* * *

Maria spent a few minutes waiting obediently in her seat. Then she decided she needed to be able to see what was going on. It was all very well for Madden to tell her to stay where she was, but he hadn’t told her anything about what was happening. From the way the brotherhood had stripped off their clothes, she guessed a fight was imminent. What if they were defeated? That would leave her trapped on this plane with no way of knowing what had happened to Madden.

Cautiously, she had made her way to the other side of the plane and peeped out of one of the windows. Her heart sank as she caught a glimpse of a line of uniformed men. Police? She dismissed the idea. Madden was a police officer. He wouldn’t contemplate shifting into werewolf form and fighting human officers. Militia? Bounty hunters? She swallowed hard. It seemed impossible that the seven members of the brotherhood could take on so many opponents.

She needed a better view. The cockpit door was still open, so she made her way to the front of the plane. When she reached the small space, the windows gave a clear, all-around view, but they were facing away from the action, which was taking place at one side of the plane. She chewed her lip in frustration.

She could be dutiful and return to her seat, or she could move around the plane until she found a window from which to watch to action. While she did that Madden and his friends could be getting killed on the tarmac outside. He could be dead right now, and I wouldn’t know. Or, she could do something about it. I won’t be a victim again.

Making her way to the aircraft door, she slid it carefully open. Crouching low at the top of the steps, she surveyed the scene below her.

It was carnage. The dark surface of the tarmac was shiny with blood. Bodies and body parts littered its surface as the werewolves tore through the humans, hurling them into the air and shaking them as if they were rag dolls. Maria raised a hand to her lips, half shocked, half relieved at what she was witnessing. I should have known they wouldn’t—couldn’t—be defeated.

She experienced a feeling of mild surprise that she wasn’t more repelled by what she was witnessing. Blood and gore were not her usual style. She avoided slasher films and didn’t enjoy horror stories. But I’m a werewolf . . . and I’ve just escaped the clutches of a serial killer. Maybe my shockability threshold has been raised.

From her vantage point, she had a view of the vehicles that were lined up on the opposite side of the compound. From here, it was obvious what the plan was, and she recognized it with a feeling of horror. Whoever was in charge of this attack was callously sacrificing the men out in the open. The horrific fight that was taking place was nothing more than a diversionary tactic. Once the Arctic werewolves were sufficiently engrossed in the battle, those vehicles were going to speed across the tarmac and plow into them.

The werewolves couldn’t be killed by the cars, but they could be horribly maimed. Then, if the drivers had silver bullets or knives—and Maria suspected they did—they would be finished off while they lay injured.

She had to do something before they could put their plan into action. But what? Think. She forced herself to stop panicking and focus. The tires. She had to let down the tires on those cars and she had to move fast. Shimmying down the steps of the plane, and keeping low to avoid the mayhem, she dashed toward the hangar. There must be some tools in there, something that she could use.

Driving down the feelings of panic that were threatening to overwhelm her, she glanced wildly around the hangar. There was a toolkit near one of the planes. Almost tripping over her feet in her eagerness to get to it, Maria tugged it open and stared down at its contents. She found a large screwdriver with a sharp, pointed blade and grabbed it up with a sound close to a sob.

Thank God I still have most of my right hand.

Hurtling out of the hangar, she skirted around the bloodbath and, staying in a crouch, made her way along the chain-link fence until she reached the rear of the first car. Her task was made easier by the chaos going on around the plane. No one noticed her as she made her way stealthily along the line of cars. Her heart was threatening to make its way out through her mouth and her breath was coming in short, sharp bursts. Even so, she did it. With a hand that was shaking wildly, she managed to drive the screwdriver into fourteen of those tires, avoiding the front ones, and rip into every one of them. With every downward slash, she reminded herself she was doing this to save Madden’s life.

She completed her task just in time. As she finished ripping into the last tire, the atmosphere changed. A cloak of malevolence descended and the engines roared into life. Retracing her steps and ducking back into the hangar, she watched from behind the door. All she could do now was hope she had done enough. She knew it was possible to drive on a flat tire. She just had to have confidence it wasn’t possible to drive the distance those cars needed, in a straight line, on two slashed rear tires.

Her hopes were fulfilled. As the cars accelerated toward the fight scene, it was immediately clear that the drivers were struggling to control them. Maria’s instincts had proved right and each vehicle singled out one of the brotherhood members. Because of their slashed tires, the cars couldn’t stay on track and they veered wildly across the tarmac before coming to a halt just short of their targets.

The Arctic werewolves had been alerted by the engine noises and the fact that the drivers were struggling to maintain control. Instead of being mowed down in a surprise attack, they were able to avoid the oncoming cars. Even so, this was the dangerous part: If the drivers of those vehicles did have guns with silver bullets, they were now within shooting distance of the brotherhood.

Maria watched in fascination as the Arctic werewolves worked in a concerted movement to each lift the body of a dead or dying Hellhound in its jaws and hurl it against the front window of one of the cars. She winced. It was an unpleasant, but effective, way of obscuring the vision of the men behind the wheels. Now they could neither drive away, nor see to fire a weapon from where they were. If they wanted to get a shot at the Arctic werewolves, they would have to leave their vehicles. Maria was guessing that, having just witnessed what had happened to their friends, they wouldn’t be too fond of that idea.

Observing the brotherhood was like viewing a choreographed routine. She knew they could communicate telepathically, but it really was incredible the way they worked together as one entity. She could distinguish Madden from the other werewolves by the star-shaped gray blaze on his forehead, so she knew he was directing his teammates and she watched now as he lifted his head and howled. In response, the others shifted back into human form at the same instant Madden did.

Each member of the brotherhood moved swiftly to one of the cars and, jerking open the driver’s side door, hauled the occupant out onto the tarmac. The attack had the element of surprise and none of the drivers managed to fire off a shot. The helpless men lay facedown on the bloody tarmac with the bodies of the other Hellhounds littered around them.

“Vigo, take their guns off them and search them for any other weapons.” Madden issued the order. “Samson and Sebastian, search the vehicles. Jenny and Wilder, round up the injured.” He raised his voice slightly. “Lowell, go and get Maria out of her hiding place in the hangar.”

* * *

“Cleaning up after something like this is a fucking nightmare,” Madden grumbled.

Maria regarded him with fascination. “Does it happen often?”

“No. Thank God.” He stretched his arms above his head and rolled his neck wearily. “But I’m a police officer in my human life. I can’t leave any trace of what happened here, or any hint of my DNA—wolf or human—at this scene. None of us can afford that sort of scrutiny.”

Wilder had taken charge of the cleanup operation. It seemed this was another, well-practiced routine. Within minutes, he had been directing the others to dispose of bodies and vehicles. Now, less than two hours later, the tarmac was clear of any evidence of the carnage that had taken place. Each member of the brotherhood was clean, clothed, and appeared deceptively wholesome. Maria didn’t care to inquire too closely into the methods her new friends had used to dispose of their evidence. She was just glad she was on the same side as them.

“Where does the money come from for all this?” She waved a hand toward the plane and the hangar.

“Every Arctic werewolf living in the human world donates a portion of his or her earnings toward the Brotherhood of the Midnight Sun,” Madden said. “That fund might not be touched for centuries. Or, like today, it might be needed to provide some expensive support. It’s useful to know we don’t have to count the dollars when we have a job to do.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “I might have guessed there was a catch. I suppose I have to start contributing to this fund now I’m a full-fledged werewolf?”

Madden laughed. “I’m sure Wilder will be in touch for your membership fees. No one slips through his net.”

“It’s a good job my right hand is working. Looks like I’m going to need to sell a few paintings.”

She cast Madden a sidelong glance. Something was different about him. She had no idea what it was, but he seemed more relaxed, easier within himself. Maybe he got off on killing humans. That thought should have her running for the hills. It didn’t. I am in so deep I can accept a little light dismemberment from the man I love.

“This seems like a good time to discuss the fact that I told you to wait on the plane.” Madden’s voice was silky smooth.

Maria opened her mouth to say something. She wasn’t sure what. An explanation or an argument maybe. The words faded on her lips at the message in Madden’s eyes. It needed no interpretation. He was putting her in her place. He was an alpha male and she was obliged to defer to him. To his strength, his masculinity, his dominance. Her human might not like it, but Maria was a werewolf now. It was her duty to obey him. He had given her an order and she had transgressed.

A flash of anger thrilled through her. She had saved their lives with her actions, and this was the thanks she got? A reminder that she was the little woman in a wolf-man’s world?

The moment was interrupted by Sebastian. “Three.” Madden raised a brow, and his friend elaborated. “Two of them can’t speak. One has no teeth and the other probably won’t regain consciousness.”

Madden nodded. “One is all we need. Bring him into the hangar.”

Maria wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going to question a Hellhound.” He placed an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t look so worried. We might finally get a few answers.”

When they stepped into the gloom of the hangar, the other members of the team were already assembled in the center. Kneeling on the concrete floor in front of them was a man. Even through the dried blood streaking his face, Maria knew him immediately. She let out a little exclamation and clutched Madden’s arm.

“What is it?” He glanced down at her, his expression concerned.

“Don’t you recognize him?”

Madden looked closely at the man’s face, his own features hardening as he identified him. “Redmond Wilkes.”