Daddy promised to send her home the next day, under escort, but no one volunteered for the job. He chose Michael, who accepted the assignment with his usual stoic dignity.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of front-door chimes and hushed voices, with al the quiet dread of a wake, because that’s essential y what it was. A bitter, angry wake. The Alphas sipped Daddy’s brandy in smal groups in the office and the living room, whispering to each other about the tragedy of a young life wasted. Sara’s mother and my aunt Melissa sobbed at the kitchen table, while my mother and two other dams kept their teacups full. And little Nikki Davidson, only eight years old, sat in one corner of the living room for hours, her face blank with shock. I was pretty sure she’d overheard more of the details than she should have, but I had no idea what to do about it. So, like everyone else, I did nothing.

People shot me nervous glances every few minutes, but no one approached me. They were al thinking what I was trying hard not to admit to myself: that if tabbies were being targeted, I could be next. But I wasn’t worried. They’d have to get through a houseful of Alphas first, and that just wasn’t going to happen.

When the whispers and stares grew old, I settled into an overstuffed armchair near the living-room window, turning my back to the crowd as I watched the sun set. I curled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, slumping my shoulders to look unapproachable, in case anyone got brave. It worked, and everyone left me alone. In fact, after a while, they seemed to forget I was even there, just like they’d forgotten about Nikki. Except for Marc. He was stil on Faythe-sitting duty, and he kept one eye on me at al times. But at least he was courteous enough to do it from across the room.

I’d been watching moths gather around the front-porch lights for a solid half hour when a couple of the northern Alphas wandered near my chair, taking no notice of me at al . They stil sipped from short thick glasses, but my nose told me they’d switched over to whiskey at some point.

At first I paid no attention to their exchange, bored to death with the political maneuvering that persisted even under such grave circumstances. But my ears perked up when I heard their conversation shift to Sara’s funeral arrangements and their own plans to attend.

Sara would have to be buried in private, on her own property, because her death couldn’t be reported to the police. There would be no autopsy and no investigation. Her human friends and neighbors would be told she’d gone abroad for some time to herself before settling into married life. Then, in about a week, her parents would announce that she’d died in an accident in Europe. They would erect a memorial and hold a public service for her in a local cemetery.

Similar arrangements were necessary anytime a Pride cat met a violent end, but because Sara was one of very few tabbies, her death was a devastating blow to everyone, especial y her immediate family, who couldn’t publicly mourn her, or even acknowledge her death until the memorial service. Worst of al , their grieving process would be forever shadowed by the horrific circumstances of their daughter’s murder. It was a terrible way to deal with such a loss, but like so much else, it was completely beyond their control.

Stil listening to the Alphas’ discussion as I stared out into the dark, I wondered if my father would let me out of the house long enough to attend Sara’s funeral. Probably not.

Soon, the conversation moved on to a topic I had yet to consider: the future of the southeast territory. Had Sara lived, she would one day have taken over her father’s Pride and its territory with Kyle at her side. But with her death, al that had changed. Instead, Kyle would live the rest of his life like most tomcats: single, with no wife and no children. And because the southeast territory now had no heir to bear the next generation, its future existence was tentative at best. Once Sara’s father died, if they’d found no tabby to replace Sara—as heartless as that seemed in the midst of grief—his territory would most likely be divided up among his closest neighbors, some of it, through necessity, becoming free territory.

Having fil ed my brain with more disturbing questions than I’d ever thought possible, the northern Alphas left for my father’s office to refil their glasses. While they were gone, the last Alpha arrived, and Daddy escorted the entire council into his office. They didn’t come out until after midnight, not to request a tray of sandwiches or drinks, not even for a bathroom break.

Not long after my father closed his office door, my mother knelt by my chair, her eyes stil swollen and rimmed in red. She said she was about to clear away the buffet and asked me to fix a plate of food for Nikki Davidson while she got Donna settled into a spare bed. I had no idea what eight-year-olds ate, but arguing with my mother would have been an exercise in futility, so I headed for the kitchen, crossing my fingers that Nikki liked port-wine cheese balls and salmon croquettes.

On my way to the kitchen, Ethan cornered me in the empty dining room, backing me into an alcove created by my mother’s huge china cabinet and the wal perpendicular to it. He planted one palm on the wal and the other on the cabinet, blocking my escape.

I briefly considered knocking him on his ass, but rejected the idea because I knew that if I caused any more trouble while the council was convened, I could pretty much kiss daylight goodbye for a very long time.

Ethan glared at me in silence for almost a minute, as if trying to guilt me into making a confession. When it became clear that I would do no such thing, he heaved an irritated sigh and spoke. “Jace wanted me to tel you he’s okay. His back is bruised, and he has a bump on his head, but nothing serious.” His face made it clear that he hadn’t volunteered for the mission.