He stared at me for a moment, his face blank and then said in his grating voice, “Fair enough.”

We moved at the same time and I stared into the barrel of his Sig Sauer while Slayer’s tip pressed against his jugular. I wasn’t sure how I knew he’d move.

The door opened slowly. Someone stepped into the room and halted. Neither of us was willing to look away. A long moment passed, and the newcomer exited. The door clicked, closing. A loud knock broke the quiet.

I grimaced at Nick. “You going to do something, do it, so I can slit your throat and move on.”

The gun barrel pointed upward and vanished back into the holster with a safety’s click. “Not now,” he said. I slid Slayer back into its sheath.

The knocking persisted. “Come in,” I said.

The door opened, revealing a female shapechanger. She turned to me. “Curran wants you,” she said.

The woman led me to the Council room in the back of the auditorium and held the door, motioning us to enter. I stepped inside and saw a dead girl on the floor. She lay on her side, her legs spread obscenely, her arms stretched forward. Moisture stained her torn T-shirt. A tiny heart on a long gold chain, the kind a teenage girl might buy for herself, spilled through shredded fabric to rest on the ground. Long scratches scarred the wooden floor, where her claws had scraped the boards. She must have changed shape before she died.

Her head stuck out at an unnatural angle, blind blue eyes staring at the ceiling. She looked young, frighteningly young, fourteen at the most. Someone had broken her neck, quickly, cleanly, in a single devastating jerk.

Curran was looking at her corpse from the gloom. Mahon sat at the wall, rubbing his forehead. There was a white piece of paper in his hand.

“The upir sent a phone number,” Curran said.

Mahon put his hand over his face. A scene played itself before my eyes: the girl lunging forward, blue eyes insane with the upir’s thoughts, changing into a snarling beast in midleap; Mahon stepping forward, huge arms grabbing her, snapping fragile bones on instinct, before the brain reacted; the girl changing back and falling to the floor . . . I didn’t ask where on her body they found the note.

“Are you going to call him?” I asked.

“Yes,” Curran said. “Suggestions?”

“He loses his temper when things slip from his control,” I said. “And he thinks with his dick.” It wasn’t much.

Curran picked up the speakerphone and dialed the number. The long tone sounded through the room once, twice. A click announced that the phone was picked up and Bono’s voice said, “I see you’ve got my message.”

“I got it,” Curran said.