“Then I’ll be on my way.”

“No!” Kaci’s head popped up on the edge of my vision, her cheek brushing my arm. I patted her back and squeezed her arm, telling her silently to stay quiet. I’d explain everything to her when we had a little privacy. Assuming we got that chance.

“Make your call,” a voice at my back ordered.

I autodialed, and my father answered on the first ring.

“Faythe?”

I almost cried at the sound of his voice, relieved to find him still alive. No matter who we’d lost in the offensive, it wasn’t my father.

“Yeah, it’s me. Kaci’s with me, and we’re both fine,” I added, before he could ask. “For now.”

My father’s barely there pause was the only indication that he understood the gravity of our situation, if not the details. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know. We’re in the Flight’s nest, but they haven’t been very forthcoming with an address.” I closed my eyes briefly, as loath as I was to take them off our captors. “Is everyone…okay?”

My father knew exactly what I meant. “No new casualties, on either side.”

My exhalation of relief was so ragged it was more like a sob. “Manx and Des?”

“They made it to a—”

“Time waits for no cat, Faythe Sanders,” an intrusive, scratchy voice warned, and a deep, low growl trickled from my father’s throat. “Your clock is already ticking.”

“Who is that?”

“Um…we’re kind of surrounded by thunderbirds. Literally.”

“What do they want?” Leather creaked over the line, then floorboards groaned as my father paced, a sure sign that he was planning something.

“I’ll explain in more detail when I get a chance, but the short version goes like this—they’re giving me two days to find proof that Malone’s Pride is responsible for Finn’s death, and when I get back with the evidence, they’ll let Kaci go.”

Another half second of silence, but for steady, heavy footsteps. “And if you don’t make it back on time?”

I couldn’t say it, but my father easily interpreted my tortured silence. “No…” he whispered, and the footsteps stopped. Something scraped the phone, as if he’d covered the receiver, then he was back and fully composed. “Are they willing to negotiate?”

“Not about this.” The circle of stony expressions said that fact hadn’t changed.

“Have you exhausted all the other options?” Meaning, fight or flee.

“There are no other options.” Not that wouldn’t end with both me and Kaci dead.

My dad sighed. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll call you when I’m on the way. For now, though, I need you to call Beck back into the front yard. Then toss him your phone. I’ve negotiated a ceasefire for the next two days.”

“Good work.” I heard a hint of real pride shining through the fear and anger in my father’s voice.

Something scratched against the phone again, and I was almost certain none of the birds heard my father’s whispered order. “Get the gun and stand by the front door. We’re going out.” Then he was back on the line, and his heavy footsteps changed when he stepped from the hardwood in his office onto the tile in the hall. Other footsteps joined his, and I recognized my mother’s distinctive clacking as well as Michael’s tread, identical to my father’s in tempo, but lighter, thanks to his rubbersoled loafers.

But if Marc was there, he wasn’t walking; I would have recognized his footsteps, too.

I forced aside the deep pang of fear Marc’s absence rang in me and made myself listen as my father gave instructions for whoever was backing him up in Marc’s absence.

Then the front door creaked softly, and my father stepped onto the concrete porch. “Beck!” he shouted. Even over the phone I heard the rustle and wind-stirring flaps as at least half a dozen birds landed somewhere on my front lawn, who knew how many miles away. “Beck, your Flight wants to talk to you.

“Okay, Faythe, I’m going to toss him the phone.”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. “I’m handing mine over, too.” I eyed one of the young birds who’d claimed he could use a phone—one of only two who currently wielded human hands—and feinted once, to make sure he got the picture, then tossed the phone for real.

My breath stuck in my throat when he caught it, then fumbled before tightening his grip and bringing the phone to his ear. “Beck?” he asked, and I had a moment of panic, suddenly sure Beck wouldn’t know which end to talk into.

But then a vaguely familiar, scratchy voice answered from the other end of the line. “Ike?”

“Yes.” The young bird glanced around and received small nods from his peers, then took a deep breath and continued. “We’re calling a forty-eight-hour ceasefire, for Faythe Sanders to seek evidence of her Pride’s innocence in Finn’s murder. If you haven’t heard from us two days from now…”

I cleared my throat to interrupt, and glanced at my watch. “By…5:23 p.m. on Tuesday.”

“…by 5:23 p.m. on Tuesday,” Ike repeated, after another round of nods, “resume the attack.”

“I understand” was Beck’s only reply. Ike tossed the phone back to me, and my father’s familiar sigh of relief—or maybe disbelief—whispered over the line. Seconds after that, the front door closed on another series of footsteps, and the wind died in my ear.