“Bessemer obtained permission from the local alpha, as well as an offer of aid should we need more hands to take this thing down.” Graeson twisted forward and gave the windshield his attention. “No one wants a creature who’s preying on supernatural children loose in their backyard.”

“Good. Fine. Whatever.” I slumped against the door, propped my elbow on the armrest and peered through the glass. Nothing but trees, trees and more trees. “I was serious about the bathroom.”

Dell applied the brakes and guided the SUV onto the side of the road. She leaned across Graeson, jerked open the glove box and fisted a handful of fast food napkins. She pressed them into my hand and disengaged the child safety locks I hadn’t realized were on. “That ought to do it.” She flicked her hand in a shooing gesture toward the tree line. “Go mark some territory, girlfriend.”

Chapter 12

The Chandler pack had commandeered an old bait-and-tackle shack that had, at some point, also served fast food. The scent of grease and fries clung to the air. After breathing in the calories for a few hours, I could have used a handful of antacids.

The wargs moved fast to organize their base camp. Our long drive from Wink had given them ample time to settle in and set Graeson’s plans into motion. Plans I wasn’t privy to. Not that I was bitter about being treated as cannon fodder or anything.

The witchy brother-in-law Graeson had mentioned, Miguel Garza, had set up shop at the now-defunct checkout counter. A younger man stood beside him, his face a dark shade of red from the blustering I had interrupted. Both had black hair, richly tanned skin and milk-chocolate eyes. Some of their more creative swearing called to mind the year I took Spanish in high school, but I pretended not to understand the insults being hurled like javelins lest I make myself a target for rolling my eyes at their dramatics.

Apparently the witches were debating the hour of the kelpie’s attack. One, being a traditionalist, argued for midnight. The witching hour. The other, being more progressive, felt if a kelpie had committed eight previous murders in order to set a ritual circle, then its higher intelligence indicated it would hunt during times when children were more likely to be exploring unsupervised. He cast his vote for dusk. Five full hours earlier than the time Miguel suggested. And ’round and ’round they went.

“Are they always like this?” How did the pack stand the constant bickering with their sensitive ears?

“Pretty much,” Dell, who stuck to me like a magnet on a fridge, confirmed. “You get used to it after a while. It becomes white noise. It’s when they get quiet that you have to worry.”