“If you’re his co-leader, why didn’t he tell you to bite me?” The second knot gave way. One more to go. I began working faster, trying to keep the motion from traveling into my arms and betraying what I was doing.

Blithe’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I’m just saying, Cooper never told me he was sharing leadership with anyone. He seemed pretty sure that this whole pack belonged to him. He came up with the current plan all by himself. Leave me human, infect my girlfriend, make me beg to be one of you—that was all him. How come he didn’t tell you to convince me?”

“He didn’t have to,” she said. She was starting to sound uncertain. Good. “He knew that when he left me here to keep an eye on you, I’d start working on bringing you around. I’m not some pup who needs constant guidance.”

“Or maybe he didn’t think you’d disobey him, because he doesn’t think you’re an alpha.” The third knot was beginning to slip. Not much—not enough—but there was give in the rope now. I kept working, praying she wouldn’t smell the blood from my increasingly raw fingertips.

While I would never be glad that one of my mice was dead, I did find myself thankful Mick had crossed a line and justified Cooper killing him—even if the justification was only in Cooper’s mind. Mick had bled enough as he died that my little scrapes shouldn’t attract any attention. I hoped.

“Shut up,” said Blithe.

“I thought you wanted me to talk to you,” I said. “So we could discuss what it’s like to be a werewolf. Wasn’t that the plan? I’m interested in your insights, since you’re the one who decided to bite a man who was smarter than you were. Did you secretly know that you weren’t an alpha? That would be a good way to go about replacing yourself. You wouldn’t even have to admit what you were doing. You’d just need to stand back and follow orders while the pack slipped away from you and toward him. I applaud you, really. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“Shut up.” This time Blithe chased the word with a snarl. There was a wild look in her single amber eye; the blue contact covering her other iris kept it from portraying quite so much of her turmoil. It was almost a snapshot of the werewolf condition. She was human and animal at the same time. Again, I wondered whether I had any right to do what I was about to do. If she had been willing to keep her teeth away from people, to go into quarantine and live out her life without hurting anyone, could I really have called her a monster?

But those weren’t the choices she’d made. She’d bitten Cooper, knowing what might happen, and she’d helped him with his whole delusional plan to create a pack from the bodies of the Thirty-Six Society. She was a person, yes. She was also an enemy.

“Make me,” I suggested.

She lunged, snarling—

—and stopped, looking in confusion at the throwing knife that was sticking out of her abdomen, just below the rib cage. It was a good shot, if I did say so myself. That’s not an easy mark to hit, especially when your target is in motion.

“You little bastard,” she said wonderingly. “I knew we should have searched you. I knew it. But Cooper said you’d be more cooperative if you felt we’d been respectful.” She raised her head and growled, ropes of froth beginning to form at the corners of her mouth. “I’m done being respectful.”

“Good,” I said. “So am I.”

Her one amber eye made a perfect target, distinct as it was from the rest of her face. Knife-throwing was never my focus—not the way it was for Verity, who practically specialized in the things, or Antimony, who regularly carried knives belonging to our great-grandmother, and considered them more accurate than bullets in many situations. But it was a family tradition, and I knew how to handle a blade with sufficient skill as to not be an embarrassment. I aimed. I threw.

Blithe stopped, the menace leaking out of her face like it was a punctured balloon. “Ah,” she said, reaching up to touch the knife’s hilt with one shaking hand. Vitreous humor was beginning to leak down her cheek like thick, terrible tears.

“Silver-tipped throwing knives,” I said, pulling my other hand from behind my back and beginning to cut the ropes holding me to the chair. “Always carry them when going into werewolf territory. Unless you’re trying to commit a very painful form of suicide.”

“Ah,” said Blithe again. She started trying to close her fingers around the knife, and found that she couldn’t: the silver on the blade was already interfering with her motor functions.

“Cooper was right: people are generally happier when they feel like they’ve been treated with respect. But the way to do that would have been to not do this in the first place. Nothing about this situation is respectful.” Pins and needles flooded my feet when I cut the ropes away. My circulation was going to take a while to return to normal. Bastards. I forced myself to stand anyway, testing my balance. “I truly am sorry this happened to you. I’m sure you were a lovely person before you got bitten.”

“Ah,” she said, dropping her hand. She looked at me beseechingly, or as beseechingly as it was possible for someone to look when they had a knife protruding from one eye.

“I understand,” I said.

The third knife caught her in the hollow of the throat, severing her airway and coating the wound with silver at the same time. Whatever regenerative properties she possessed—it was unclear exactly how much healing werewolves were capable of, but all the legends agreed it was there, and it was always best to trust the folklore when fighting something you couldn’t risk studying in depth—they wouldn’t be able to work around the silver.

The sound she made when she hit the floor was small and somehow sad, like she had been intended for a grander ending. I walked across the room to where she lay sprawled, and knelt, rolling her onto her back. Her single remaining eye stared sightlessly at the ceiling. I checked her pulse, and found it absent. I still used one of my remaining knives to slit her throat, and waited for a count of one hundred before I reclaimed the others. It was always better to be safe than sorry, especially under circumstances like this one.

I wiped my knives clean on a patch of carpet that no one had yet had the chance to bleed on. Then I straightened, checking the rest of my weapons. They were all present, save for the pistol that had been at my belt. I guess Cooper’s ideas about “respect” didn’t extend to leaving me with silver bullets. That was all right. I’m a Price. I was raised knowing how to improvise.