I zipped up my boots and Jace dropped his duffel on the floor and stomped out of the room.
Great. This must be the episode where Faythe can’t make anyone happy. Fortunately, my plans for Calvin Malone had nothing to do with his happiness.
Clad in jeans, boots, and a plain, snug black long-sleeved tee, I grabbed my jacket in the living room, and we headed toward the main lodge as a group. I expected both of the guys to give me the proverbial cold shoulder, but to my surprise, they took up positions on either side of me, only pausing briefly to glare at each other. Not a promising start to the evening. But surely once they had a mutual enemy to focus on, the personal rivalry would fade for a little while.
The cabin Malone and Mitchell shared was dark when we passed it, and when we got to the main lodge, I realized we were the last to arrive. One of Paul Blackwell’s men met us at the door and led us to the formal dining room at the back of the lodge, where I’d stood trial for my life three months earlier. The room was long, and it normally appeared even larger than it was, thanks to an entire wall of windows. But it felt small and cramped, packed with ten Alphas and a grand total of thirty-six enforcers. I’d never felt such a concentration of testosterone and hostility.
And I was the only woman in the room.
The three solid walls of the room were lined in folding metal chairs, most already occupied with beefy toms. The table in the center sat ten, and nine of those spots were filled with the other Alphas.
An odd hush descended as I entered the room followed by Marc and Jace, and I fought the urge to drop my eyes, which got easier when I realized they weren’t focused on Marc’s scent still clinging to me—they hadn’t had a chance to smell me yet. This was the first time about half the men in the room had seen me since Colin Dean sliced my face up.
Most of them didn’t know what had happened to me. I’d declined to answer the few who’d had the nerve to ask, and Dean didn’t seem to be advertising that little bit of trivia, probably because his scar was bigger than mine. But I’d obviously been cut on purpose—accidental cuts aren’t that straight or even.
I stared back boldly, silently daring someone to comment, and only when the return glances went to Colin Dean did I realize which direction the prevailing rumor winds were blowing. They may not have put all the pieces together yet, but our similar scars were too much of a coincidence to be unrelated.
Paul Blackwell stood at the head of the table, his cane hooked over the arm of his chair. Malone sat to his left, and the seat opposite had been reserved for my father.
My dad took his place and Blackwell cleared his throat, signaling for the last of the stragglers to find a seat. But when I looked for a chair, I saw that there were only two available. One between Alex Malone and Colin Dean, and the other on Alex’s other side. They had set us up, insuring that I’d have to sit with one of them instead of with either Jace or Marc. Marc had already taken the seat between Dean and the wall, and when I smiled to thank him for taking that option out of the mix he returned my smile with a tight one of his own.
I deliberately took the chair between Alex and Dean, to show them I couldn’t be intimidated. Both men looked perversely pleased by my choice.
When I sat, Blackwell spoke. “Before we begin, is there any prevailing business?” He knew what we were up to. He’d been at the ranch when we were attacked by the thunderbirds, and he’d launched the initial investigation into Malone’s involvement. But he remained officially neutral, which he considered the only appropriate course of action for the council chair. At least until we’d formally presented our case.
“I have one bit of business,” my father said, and I treasured the look of surprise on Calvin Malone’s face, brief though it was.
“Go ahead, Greg,” Blackwell said.
My father stood and straightened his suit jacket. “I charge Councilman Calvin Malone with treason against this organization and its members.”
Six
“What?” Alex Malone popped up from his seat like a jack-in-the-box, and his surprised, angry gesture came within inches of smashing my nose. But at a single glance from his Alpha, he dropped into his chair, fuming in silence. His gaze was glued to the table, where my dad now stared down at his, both Alphas impeccably composed, while the level of tension in the room rose quickly enough to make the rest of us sweat. Literally.
Malone leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Now, Greg, I hardly think that my questioning of your authority qualifies as treason.”
“No. But inciting war with another Shifter species does. Especially when that war is intended to hide your Pride’s guilt and cripple my Pride’s resources.”
“Greg, these are very serious charges,” Milo Mitchell said, from his seat next to Malone. Like we were unaware.
“Accompanied by very few details,” Nick Davidson added. “I assume you can provide both specifics and evidence?”
“Of course.” My father nodded, and this time, Malone’s slow blink was the only indication of his surprise. He didn’t know about the feathers. “I believe you all know that, last week, my Pride was attacked by a Flight of thunderbirds from a nest in New Mexico. Evidently they winter in the werecat free zone just to the west of my territory. We were hosting several guests at the time—” no need to mention that our “guests” were helping us plot an attack against Malone’s Pride in retaliation for my brother’s murder “—and between us, we lost two enforcers and sustained multiple serious injuries. But we also captured a prisoner, who told us that his Flight was attacking to avenge the death of one of their own—whom they believed we murdered.”
“And how exactly does this make Calvin Malone guilty of treason?” Mitchell demanded, while Malone sat silently beside him, apparently unfazed by our allegations.
“We have evidence that the thunderbird in question was killed not by one of my enforcers, but by one of his. But Calvin blamed the murder on us, inciting the thunderbirds to attack and cripple my Pride, while sparing his own.”
“The thunderbirds told you this?” Nick Davidson leaned forward, propping both elbows on the table. He looked considerably older than forty-two, but then, he’d had a rough few years. He’d lost his wife to cancer and was left to raise their seven children—including one small daughter—alone.
“Not initially.” My father frowned and his focus returned to Malone, who stared back as if none of this bothered him. “Brett Malone told us. Right after he asked for sanctuary. Less than an hour before he died.”
The room went completely silent. I think most of us stopped breathing. Even Paul Blackwell looked shocked, his wrinkled hands clutching the arms of his chair like he might fall over without it. He’d known we would accuse Malone of treason, but evidently hadn’t foreseen the blatant implication of murder.
Calvin Malone rose, brown eyes blazing. He leaned with both palms flat on the table, glaring at my father as if bold eye contact would be enough to intimidate him. “Are you saying there was something suspicious about my son’s death?”
My father stood firm, unruffled. “I’m stating facts. The conclusions you draw are your own.”
“Brett died during a training accident.” Milo Mitchell leaned forward in his chair, but was obviously unwilling to draw any more attention to himself by standing. “His death has been very hard on his family, and it is reprehensible of you to slander the dead, Greg.”
“I’m not slandering him, Milo.” My father returned his gaze boldly, and Mitchell looked away. “I have immense respect for Brett Malone. It takes a great deal of courage to stand up for what’s right, especially when that means standing against one’s own father.”
“Brett had nothing to fear from me!” Malone roared from across the table, and I couldn’t resist a tiny grin of satisfaction at seeing him lose his temper. Especially when Alex flinched on my right. He sat so stiff and tense that I was half convinced he’d explode if I poked him.
“And he had no plans to defect,” the Appalachian Alpha contin
ued, softer now, but with no less vehemence. “Unless you have some evidence suggesting otherwise, I strongly suggest that you let my son rest in peace and move on with the more relevant parts of this discussion. Assuming there are any.”
Malone started to sit, then froze when my father turned toward the far end of the room, where Marc, Jace, and I sat interspersed with the Appalachian enforcers. “In fact, I do have some rather suggestive evidence.” My father smiled at me briefly, then nodded at Marc.
Marc stood and reached into the inside pocket of his coat as he crossed the room. All eyes were on him—more than half the gazes openly hostile—as he handed several folded sheets of paper to my dad.
“What’s that?” Milo Mitchell demanded, without acknowledging Marc. We’d been expecting some static over his unofficial reinstatement into the Pride, but so far no one had said a word. Neither had Malone even mentioned the covert ops we’d unleashed on his Pride, in spite of the fact that several of his men had been seriously injured.
My theory on his silence was that Malone was planning to throw consequences at us full force, once he had the power to overrule any objections. Which was one of the more critical reasons we had to keep him from being voted in as council chair.
“Calvin, when did Brett die?” my dad said, without answering Mitchell’s question or unfolding the papers. “Time and date, please.”
“This is completely inappropriate,” Malone insisted, as a vein in his temple throbbed visibly. “I’m not going to let you turn my son’s tragic death into the center ring of whatever circus you’re directing. We’re here to vote.”
“I don’t think we can afford to gloss over such serious accusations. And I would think you’d be eager to defend yourself.”
“There’s nothing to defend. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
My father raised one brow, still eyeing Malone steadily. “Then answer the question. When did Brett die?”
Malone sank stiffly into his chair, still pushed back from the table, and when Blackwell didn’t object to the question, he had no choice but to answer. “Last Monday night.”
“What time of day?” My dad slowly unfolded the first piece of paper, focused on it now, rather than Malone, as if the other Alpha was no longer worthy of his full attention.
“Afternoon. I don’t remember the exact time. It was a very traumatic day.”
“I’m sure your wife was traumatized, as well, but she remembers the time. According to Patricia, Brett died at around 3:45 p.m.”
Malone nodded slowly, eyes narrowed in barely contained fury. “That sounds about right. What’s your point?”
My dad laid the first sheet of paper faceup on the table and pushed it toward Malone. “This is a printout of the recent activity on Jace Hammond’s cell phone. My daughter borrowed it last Monday afternoon, in front of multiple witnesses. The highlighted line shows a call she made at 2:49 p.m. the day your son died. Do you recognize the number she called?”
Malone looked like he wanted to say no. To say he didn’t recognize his own son’s phone number. But he knew we could prove whose number it was, so finally he nodded. “It’s Brett’s. So what? She called him, and he probably hung up as soon as he heard her voice.”
“Look again,” I said, then rushed on before anyone could tell me to shut up. “That call lasted seventeen minutes, and I’m more than willing to testify about what he told me.”
“You don’t have the floor,” Mitchell snapped, eyes flashing. “And hearsay testimony is inadmissible.”
One of the few parallels to the human legal system. Which we all already knew. But Mitchell was ill informed.
I stood and addressed Paul Blackwell, trying not to be completely creeped out by the fact that I’d just left both Alex Malone and Colin Dean at my back, where I couldn’t watch them. “Councilman, if I may?” I said, in my best, most respectful voice. Who says I never learn?
Blackwell gave me a short, reluctant nod, and I squashed my brief urge to grin in triumph before redirecting both my gaze and my comments to Milo Mitchell, whose son Kevin had broken my arm and tried to kill me, Marc, Jace, and Dr. Carver earlier that same month.
“Hearsay isn’t admissible during a trial, but as Councilman Malone has already pointed out, he’s not on trial. We’re simply offering evidence as a basis for the charge we’re leveling against him. We have every right to present both the charge and the evidence, and I can cite multiple precedents, if you’d like.”
I’d worked with Michael for eight straight hours, memorizing cases and learning how the council’s ruling in each one supported our strategy. And silently I dared Mitchell to challenge my knowledge. To give me a chance to show off and to make a fool of him. That’s the least he deserved after conspiring with Malone to tag strays in the free zone, a plot that had nearly cost Marc his life, and had convinced most of the strays that there could be no peace between them and the Pride cats.
But Mitchell must have seen the truth in my eyes, or in my confident bearing—which I’d also worked on with Michael. Apparently there’s a difference between confident and cocky. Who knew?
Either way, Mitchell only shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”
That time I resisted a smile in favor of a small nod, the most noncommittal response, and one most Alphas perfected quickly. Then I turned back to Blackwell. “Will the council hear my testimony?”
Blackwell hesitated, but to his credit, he didn’t glance around for input from his fellow Alphas. He only had a matter of minutes left as the council chair, and he wasn’t going to waste it. “Yes. Briefly.”
“Thank you,” I said, and though my father dared not actually smile under such grave circumstances, I saw approval in his brief, encouraging nod. “The day the thunderbirds attacked my Pride, I personally interrogated the prisoner twice, and based on information from him, it became clear to me that Councilman Malone manipulated the Flight into attacking us. He lied to them about who was responsible for the death of their thunderbird.”
Anyone else would have minced words. Called Malone misleading, rather than a liar. But I rarely got the chance to tell the truth when it really mattered, and, like Blackwell, I wasn’t going to waste it.
“That is not—” Malone started, but Di Carlo cut him off with a single, gruff noise from the back of his throat. It wasn’t quite a growl—that would have been considered an open declaration of hostility—but it was enough to shut him up.
“Faythe has the floor. Let her speak.”
I could have kissed Di Carlo.
“I told both my Alpha and Councilman Blackwell what I suspected, but they both said we couldn’t act without evidence. So I called Brett, because he had access to information we needed, and frankly, he owed me a big one.” I’d saved his life only a quarter of a mile from where we sat, when a stray gored him and Colin Dean was too chickenshit to go help him without wasting time Shifting.
Blackwell nodded. “Go on.”
“Brett didn’t want to do it at first, Councilman Malone.” I shot Malone a wide-eyed, earnest look, knowing it would piss him off for me to address him directly. But there was nothing he could do about it. And I was telling the truth. “He wanted to stay loyal to his birth Pride, but he knew what you were doing was wrong. He asked for sanctuary, and my father offered him not only a place to stay, but a job as an enforcer. Brett agreed. He was a good man, Councilman, and we’ve all lost something with his death.”
Malone tried desperately to hide his rage, but it couldn’t be contained. His face flushed so red I was afraid the capillaries in his nose would burst. He clenched the arms of his chair so tightly the wood groaned, drawing all eyes his way.
In that moment, revenge, even in such a small, brief dose, was sweeter than my mother’s sun tea. And so much more refreshing…
“What did he say?” Nick Davidson asked, when I paused a little too long to enjoy Malone’s reaction.
“He said that he and several of his fellow enforcers were in the free zone in New Mex
ico…” I paused, and my uncle interrupted with a leading question, as planned.
“Wait, what were they doing in New Mexico?”
I shrugged and gave the entire council a wide-eyed look of confusion. “You’d have to ask Councilman Malone that. All I know is that that particular part of New Mexico is within miles of our western border, and several hundred miles from the Appalachian territory.”
I paused for a few more seconds, to let that sink in. Yes, I was being heavy-handed and obvious, but sometimes that’s the only way to feed information to a group of Alphas. In large numbers, they don’t seem to be able to grasp subtlety.
“Anyway, he said he and his fellow enforcers were in New Mexico, and one of them killed a thunderbird in a dispute over a kill. They called in their Alpha, and when the thunderbirds came looking for their Flightmate, Brett said his father, Councilman Malone, told the birds that one of the south-central Pride cats had made the kill. Brett said his dad worked out a deal. In exchange for information about where to find our ranch, the birds had to promise to bring the tabbies to him—to keep them out of harm’s way, of course—before the real bloodshed began.”
I paused again to let that sink in and to judge the reactions. Our allies had already known what was coming, of course, and Blackwell’d had a good idea.
But Malone’s allies’ reactions ranged from confusion and disbelief—from Nick Davidson—to utter outrage from both Milo Mitchell and Jerald Pierce.
“Who did Brett say really killed the thunderbird?” Di Carlo asked, right on cue. All that rehearsal had paid off.
This time my hesitation was real. I felt bad for the Pierces—for Parker most of all, even though he wasn’t there—and was far from comfortable with my decision to turn Lance Pierce over to the thunderbirds knowing he’d die. But I’d had no choice. The thunderbirds had been holding Kaci, and they would have killed her without hesitation if I hadn’t come through with what they wanted.