The heart of the Sigvard's home had gone dark, the dining room lit by a single candle in the middle. And though Alex had curled up on the couch, looking pale and nursing his stomach, Sadie hadn't given up on the protection spell they'd started casting together.

It didn't matter that she didn't believe. She wanted to help, and if this was all she could do, then dammit she'd do her best.

This time, Alex set a bowl of water in front of her. "Water for protection," he'd said. So Sadie focused on the fire's reflection and she spoke the spell he'd given her.

Water wash away the dark,

The ones I love seek your protection,

Mighty current carry fears,

Guide them in the right direction.

It was only poetry to her, but Alex said the words didn't matter as long as she believed in them, so she lost herself to the rhythm—in the water and the way it moved without really moving at all. It shivered every now and then, gold beneath the dancing flame.

Something heavy set in her heart as she watched the liquid ripple.

Gold and purple; their high school pride colors.

She remembered passing beneath the school banister—beyond the walls with all the names of the pride team stapled to the cork. Pride. What a stupid name for a club like that. There was nothing prideful about the the pride club.

The group was run by the school treasurer, filled with not his peers but his friends—the holy trinity of cliche high school cliques, widely envied in every teen movie and 80's classic; the cheerleaders, the football player, the conventionally attractive.

They were nothing more than a decoration committee, lavishing the school in photos of themselves, garish campaign posters and trophies that meant nothing to anyone but the asshole who'd won them.

Looking back now, Sadie couldn't understand why she cared so much. Maybe she hadn't discovered herself; maybe she hadn't learned to love herself yet, but back then, she cared. She cared too much about what everyone else thought of her.

There were gay men, sure. A few of them. But unlike shows and television, the social infrastructure of the school was progressive enough that they got along splendidly with the rest of the student body. Maybe they had their own experiences, took shit from people on occasion. Maybe their lives were a living hell, and she just never saw the shadows that all that sunlight cast.

But for the most part, the gay boys she knew were loved.

Strangely enough, it was the girls who got the real shit. Bi girls were hardly validated. The society within those walls only saw straight girls, looking for attention. Skanks, just in it for the boys. In it for the eyes.

Lesbians? They were myths. Most of them just like her: hiding in the masses.

Sadie never felt that kind of discrimination, because she feared the thought too much. And when rumors of her crept along the grapevine, it was Jaylin holding her hand, walking her to class, hanging onto her the way all the other boys hung onto all the other girls; playing the part so she could come out on her own terms, in her own time.

Jaylin was her fake boyfriend until she found her footing.

She'd taken it for granted. All that time in Europe and she didn't call once. She didn't text him; she didn't even think about him. She was too lost in her own world to even consider how shitty his own life could be. Too invested in Kat and then too invested in the heartache that came after.

She knew about Julia, but she didn't think about Jaylin. Not once while she was in Europe. Not once.

She was starting to wonder if this was the universe paying her back for her misdoings. Karma taking something precious from her because she never realized how precious it was. Maybe Alex was right. Maybe she was unlucky.

"The ones I love seek your protection," she uttered into the fire and the water. Into the air and into the earth and into the universe. "The ones I love seek your protection."

Then the front doors opened with a hardy gust, and like a cruel joke, the cold October air killed out the little flame in front of her. The foyer lights flickered on.

A man ambled in on a beaten leg—military tags clicking around his muscular neck, and at the sight of him, Alex scrambled off of the sofa and onto his feet in a start.

"Leo?"

"Ay!" Leo cheered. "Kid, how ya doin'? Hey listen, you got any ale? Lagers maybe?"

"Uh, yeah. In the fridge," Alex said, and Leo made way for the kitchen, shoving dining table chairs out of his way. The water in front of Sadie sploshed a bit as he knocked into the table. Then he was making for the fridge, and four more bodies were slipping in from the cold.

"Give Izzy and Elizaveta a call," Quentin was ordering, "Tell them we're leaving tonight." Then he looked to one of the maids. "A shirt from my room, please."

"Tonight?" Lisa shuffled through her purse for her cell phone as the maid ascended the stairs. "And why on Earth tonight, Quentin? You hardly have a plan to set in motion."

"No," Quentin said. "But I have a hound who could smell a lie from a mile away, an archer with a vendetta..." To that, Tisper flicked her hair behind her ear.. "...and my two strongest Sentinels."

"And me," Matthew declared.

Quentin pointed a thumb to him. "And that guy."

Sadie ignored the offended expression on Matt's face and rose to her feet, chair knocking out from behind her. "I want to come too."

Quentin smiled at her, that charming cheek-creased smile. She was glad to be immune to that kind of manipulation.

"I need you here. Hard at work, trying to contact Qamar."

Sadie slumped back into her seat. "How am I supposed to contact someone I've never met? If it was working wouldn't Qamar be here by now?"

"It's working," Quentin assured her. "This is the most I can ask of you. Stay here, let Alex help you so you can help us."

"Okay," Sadie sighed, fresh nerves blossoming in the pit of her stomach, "fine."

"What now?" asked Tisper.

"Bailey needs his scent."

"I can run to his house—grab some dirty clothes or his shower towel," she offered.

"No," Bailey said. "I need the last thing he left his scent on."

"His room's upstairs," Quentin told him, "Take your pick."

As Bailey climbed the staircase, Leo took a seat at the table, dropping a six-pack of beer in front of him. He cracked open the first can and downed a swig so large, he was out of breath by the end of it.

"Ah," he exclaimed with a satisfied sigh. "Nothing like a beer after getting the shit kicked outta you."

"What'd they do to you?" Alex asked, too restless to take a seat. "Did humans really do this?"

"Nah." Leo kicked his boots up on the table—big black dirty military boots. "All this here was the wolves. But the humans had those—those darts. Four days spent in bed, still feel like I'm half dead. Least the nausea's gone; been needin' one of these." He tipped back the can, swallowed down the second half of the beer in a few greedy gulps. Then Leo crumpled the empty can and cracked open a new one.

"This will work." Bailey was jogging down the stairs with something gray in his arms. He tossed it to Quentin unraveled the fabric in his hands.

A sweater, wrinkled and creased like it'd been lying in a ball, untouched for days. Quentin stared down a the sweater for a long while, thumbed along the seams, feeling up the teeth of the zipper like he was lost in the threads. Then he asked, "Where did you get this?"

"His bed. Smelled more like him than anything—kid must wear it to sleep. Smells a bit like you too."

"Because it was mine." Quentin seemed to lingered on the sight of it, the feel of it. He was lost to the timeworn cotton. "Does smell like him."

Bailey rolled his eyes. "Christ, you do have a type." He snatched the sweater out of Quentin's hands and tossed it over his shoulder, bumping shoulders with him hard as he brushed past. "Leo, throw me one of those. This is going to be a hell of a night."

-

Though they'd decided advance their search, Quentin still had some preparations to make. He was smarter than Tisper had given him credit for. Knew what he was doing, even with no plan at all.

He'd tossed her the duffle bag Bailey brought, and inside she found a leather quiver and a dozen wooden arrows.

"If by chance we're attacked, use the wood on the humans," he'd told her. "The ones Devi gave you—save those for the wolves."

She'd been twisting the wood between her fingers, gnawing restlessly at her lip. What if she hurt someone tonight? She didn't want that. But Jaylin—she'd barrage an army to get him back.

Quentin had been on the phone, pacing while the rest of them ate. He'd stopped his calls to dress in the t-shirt the maid had given him, but hadn't taken a break since then. Not even when the redhead they referred to as Izzy came prancing through the door with a box of Obicini's Organic pizza in her arms and declared it an early victory dinner.

Tisper liked her enthusiasm, but she didn't feel much like celebrating. And she was far too unnerved by the woman that had joined at Izzy's side. Elizaveta, they called her. She watched the room from beneath her black fringe, her slender neck peaking out from under the straight cut frame of her mushroom-shaped hair.

She spoke with a Russian accent and never once smiled. But all the while she sat there, she was so calculative. Every time her eyes cut into Tisper, she felt like ducking beneath the table.

Across the room, Quentin was biting on the knuckle of his thumb while he waited for answers. After a brief chat on Alexander's cell phone, he'd refer to a book of contacts on the living room table, flip to the next page and dial another number.

"What's he doing?" Tisper asked, filling her glass again. "Shouldn't we get going?"

"Probably calling the nearest sheriffs for leads. I mean, you can't start no where, right?" Izzy said.

Again Tisper felt Elizaveta's eyes boring into her, and she tried not to meet them. Instead she looked to Izzy. "So, you're Quentin's 'best Sentinels', huh?"

"Yup!" Izzy bubbled. "It goes Eliza, then me—"

"Then Amanda," Elizaveta added, "Lilly, Jessica, Shande, Serena, Abigail, Fleur, Britta, and the rest are minor patrols—not of importance." Her tongue rolled pleasantly over every R, and though Tisper enjoyed the sound of her voice, Elizaveta still spoke it with no emotion at all.

"The Sentinels," Tisper began, "Are they all women?"

"Dah," Elizaveta said, "Women more powerful. More tactical. Female wolves reap the kill."

"So you don't have any men in your military?" Sadie enthused. "Kickass."

"Men are patrols only," said Elizaveta.

"We have ranks, I guess you could say," Izzy clarified. "Sheriffs, Sentinels, and Patrols. Patrols are kinda just like cops, you know. They—well, they patrol. Men can be Sheriffs if they're strong enough, but never Sentinels."

"Why not?" Matt asked, edging away from the wrath of Elizaveta's glare. "I mean, we got chicks in our military. Lots'a people think women are less powerful." Her dark gaze grew heavy and Matt shrunk further into his seat. "Not me, but... you know. People."

"Is different with wolves," Elizaveta spat. "Women have great aggression—wonderful for battle. But as human we are calm and rational. Rationality is key. Men are not calm. Men are irrational."

"When Sentinels were first established as part of every alpha's regional military," Izzy began, "The Queens feared that men wouldn't be able to control the wolf in them. Males of our kind are a little different than males of your kind. They're um... more hormonal."

Bailey made a disgruntle noise from his corner of the table. "Hormonal my ass. We're pissed is what we are."

Izzy raised her hand as if to say see what I mean. "Anyways, it's an archaic law. But it's not exactly senseless. Females are stronger but Male werewolves are naturally more aggressive. Even in human form, their testosterone levels are like—" she threw her arms up in the air and wriggled her fingers "—wooosh!"

"Dah," Elizaveta said, copying her movements. "Voosh."

"Well anyways. I'm all for guys joining, but y'know. This isn't exactly a democracy." Izzy dropped her cheek into her palm and traced around the top of her wine glass. "I don't know. Even if it was, wherever there's money, there's always going to be corruption."

"And this Ziya person. She loaded or somethin'?" Matt asked.

"Yeah." Izzy rolled her shoulders up and sighed. "She's a powerful person. In our world and yours."

Tisper felt the uncertainty boiling up in her again. She bit her lip and cast her glance down to the chipped polish on her fingernails. "I guess this kind of is our world now."

Then something crashed in the next room—shattered across the hard floor. A vase, knocked to nothing but a pool of water and shattered clay, roses laying scattered on the living room rug. And Quentin stood over them, pacing in place, his black locks clutched in the fingers of his fist.

He looked as if he wanted to scream—to tear things to shred. Instead he took another object from the mantle—a glass statue, and threw it with the arm of a natural pitcher. It crashed against the wall, shattered into splinters and Tisper jumped at the violent sound.

The table had gone silent, everyone rising from their seats, waiting for an explanation. Everyone beside Leo, who sat tipped back, happily guzzling his sixth beer.

"Quentin," Alex was the first to speak, but his voice so small and the air felt so heavy. And there was an ire in Quentin—he was so angry. So tired and angry.

"I've called everyone. Every fucking sheriff in the Western territories. No one knows anything. No one's seen anything. How does an army just slip by undetected?"

"They slipped in pretty undetected when they took him," Bailey said. "That was what, three nights ago? I didn't feel anything."

"Me neither," Izzy added.

"I felt her." Felix was standing at the banister of the stairs, washed as a ghost. Lillabeth stood next to him, ready to catch him if he might wane—as if he wasn't twice her size and looking as if he'd collapse at any moment. "Felt her like a tidal wave when she showed up. And stop throwing shite, aye? Some of us are trying to sleep."

Tisper found that fiery despair on Quentin's face. It seemed no one wanted to address it—a look of helplessness on a man who was meant to be anything but. Lisa crossed the room to him, cupped his cheeks in her slender hands, a mother concerned for her son. In a way, that's what they were. Maybe Anna wasn't alive to connect them by vows, but they were still family.

She said things to him—quiet things to calm him. Tisper couldn't hear her words, but for a split second,Quentin met her eyes and she saw the fear that truly lived within them them.

He really was worried. He was worried sick about Jaylin. He'd been bullshitting everyone and himself, but she knew it now.

Tisper rose from her seat because she couldn't bare to see someone as strong as Quentin look so weak. "Maybe... Maybe they're hiding in plain sight."

Quentin lifted his head. That writhing helplessness wash away into a stark realization. "It was a distraction," he said.

He dialed a new number, brought the phone to his ears again. Then Quentin listened to the sound of the dial tone. The room was so quiet—so dead silent, Tisper could hear it from fifteen feet away. When no one answered, he dialed another. Then another. After the third attempt, Quentin tossed the phone aside and threw on his leather jacket.

By then, everyone was already on their feet, gathering their things, drinking down the last of their wine.

"All this time we've been trying to figure out how they cut through Idaho," Quentin said. "But the attack on your pack, Leo. That was all—"

"A distraction." Leo repeated, wobbling onto his weary feet, beer in hand.

"They came in from the South," Bailey said, and already he was making for the door. Izzy and Elizaveta followed after, slipping out into the cold night.

Her heart pumping, Tisper reached for her quiver and gathered all her arrows inside. Then she slung it over her shoulder, holding her heavy crossbow to her chest.

"So," she said, rushing to meet Quentin before he passed through the door with the others. "Where is he?"

"He's in Oregon."

"The hell do you know what?" Matth asked

"My own Southern territories, they were the only ones I didn't think to contact. They attacked Leo's Northern territories as a distraction—no one would expect them to break in through Oregon. None of my Salem sentinels are answer my calls. That's not right. Something's going on."

"Okay," Matt said with a deep rickety breath. "So we're drivin' all the way to Salem because your buddies ignored your phone calls?"

"Exactly." Quentin caught a bundle of black as Alex chucked a backpack his way—supplies, Tisper thought. Then he brushed past Matthew and he was out through the front doors. "Mind if we take your car?"

"My car?" Matt stuttered, scrambling after. "Wait. My car?"

Then it was only Tisper, standing in the doorway, looking back to the remaining eyes in the room. Sadie, Alex, Lisa, all watching her with worried apprehension on their faces. Even the maids clung to one another, holding on dearly.

And then atop the stairs, she found Felix still hanging over the railing. Slinking over it like a wounded animal. She found his eyes somewhere in the darkness, only glints of green in the coral light of dawn. His eyes burned into her like he was seeking an understanding, and when she gave none, Felix lifted his hand, pointed a finger to the ceiling. Aim up, he was telling her.

She tore her eyes away from him and slipped through the large Victorian doors. In the moment that they sealed shut behind her, Tisper felt like every safe thing she'd ever had was shut away with them. This was what she'd been waiting for.

No turning back, not without Jaylin.