Adam called Elizaveta and got one of her grandsons, though he could hear her cranky voice in the background.

“Who is calling at such an hour?”

As soon as her grandson told her, she took the phone from him. “Adamya,” the old witch said. “We have been so worried.”

“I need a cleanup,” he told her abruptly, so weary he leaned against the wall. “This is a landline, can you trace it?”

“Da, this is not a problem. How many bodies?”

He couldn’t remember. Hadn’t kept count. He looked at his hands and realized that they were black with blood.

“That many,” she said into his silence. “We will come and do what is necessary.”

“It has to be done before dawn,” he told her. “They are sending a helicopter at dawn.”

“Then they will find nothing,” she told him.

“We need transport, too,” he said. “For thirty wolves.”

“This we can also do,” she promised him.

“And I need to know where Mercy is,” he said.

“She is at Kyle and Warren’s house,” Elizaveta told him. “I thought you would ask, so I sent one of my grandsons to follow her.”

“Good,” he said. “Come as soon as you can.”

“Yes,” she told him—and hung up.

Elizaveta was nearly seventy; she was powerful, but her body was beginning to fail her. In the last two years, she’d lost both of the people she’d been training to take her place, the people who should have been helping her carry the burden of her work. Both of them were killed in incidents involving his wolves.

She might have taken it wrong, might have blamed his pack, except that she liked Adam. His mother had been Russian; her parents had fled Moscow when she was a child. She had spoken Russian as her first language, and Adam had learned it at her knee. When he’d first spoken to Elizaveta in Russian, she’d recognized the accent of Moscow, her hometown, and it had created a bond that he deliberately used. He was always very careful not to tell her that his mother had left fleeing the tide of revolution that had immolated Russia just after WWI.

He was at least as old as Elizaveta. She didn’t know it, would never know it because Adam understood people. Oh, she knew in abstract, unlike the public, that werewolves could live a good long time, but she’d never made the connection to him. He knew that because if she ever processed what she knew, she would hunt him down and try to make him turn her.

He would kill her before he did that.

The vampires had a taboo about attempting to turn anyone who was not a normal human. It had happened. The local seethe had a witchblood—and a woman who had been brain-damaged while still human.