Ryan droned on. He supported Mulradin and he would’ve loved nothing more than to create some sort of problem between the Pack and the People and then dump it in Ghastek’s lap. Unfortunately for him, nothing potentially problematic had happened, and so he was forced to make a mountain out of a molehill. He knew it, everyone else knew it, and now we were all collectively bored to death by it. Out of convenience, the People and the Pack had divided the city into imaginary territories, with each party patrolling their own imaginary borders, and Raphael’s reclamation business happened to have bought a building on the border.

Claire tugged at the metal bracelet on her wrist. All of the People wore one today, and knowing them, the new jewelry was a corporate fashion statement.

“. . . we object to the Pack’s continued disregard for . . .”

The double doors separating the private dining room from the rest of Bernard’s swung open. A tall broad-shouldered body filled the doorway. Hugh d’Ambray strode into the room.

For a moment my mind struggled to digest the fact that Hugh was there, and then every cell in my body went on full alert, as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water on me and then shocked me with a live wire.

My memory shot me back to last summer. I heard the crunch of his back snapping as Curran broke his body over the stone parapet. I smelled the smoke of the stone-melting conjured fire that devoured Castle Megobari and watched Hugh fall into the flames down below. Yet here he was, wearing jeans and a leather jacket over a black T-shirt. He seemed no worse for wear, the bastard. No limp. No stiffness. Even his hair, dark, almost black, was the same length, falling to his shoulders. Same fist-breaking chin, same hard, square jaw, same stubble. Over six feet tall, he was corded with hard, supple muscle and he moved with a swordsman’s grace, perfectly balanced, sure, and adroit in his control.

How could this be?

He was broken. He was broken, damn it. His bones had been crushed. His face had been battered. Curran had snapped his spine like a toothpick, and here he was casually strolling in, like it was nothing. His face showed no signs of the broken bones. His skin had no burn marks. The scar on his cheek was missing. He looked . . . younger. Less carved up by fighting. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was Saiman wearing Hugh’s skin, or . . .

Hugh met my gaze. Icy blue eyes laughed at me.

The hair on the back of my neck rose. It was him. Hugh was in those eyes and I would know him anywhere.

I had no idea what my father had done, but he had somehow fixed his favorite human wrecking ball. Dear God, how much magic did it take? How . . . ?