My mind finally processed what had happened at the Conclave. Hugh d’Ambray had come for me. Everyone associated with me had just acquired a big target on their chest. He would kill them one by one or a dozen at a time, whatever it took. My memory replayed Hugh’s voice. “It’s his will. Let it happen.” My father had targeted the shapeshifters before, but never so openly. Roland knew I was here, and he’d sent Hugh to break the Pack’s back and pry me loose while he was at it. The thing I’d been dreading had come to pass. My friends would die because of me.

Acknowledging it was like dunking my head into a bucket of cold water.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. In my plans Curran was always with me. In my plans we stood together, we fought together, and we did it on our terms. Instead Curran had disappeared into some Appalachian wilderness, and I was stuck here, with a murder on my hands and fifteen hundred people to keep alive. I was the Consort. I had a job to do. I had to quash this war.

I would have to take it one step at a time. Step one: find the killer.

Jim matched his stride to mine. “What the hell was that back there? You almost let him goad you into walking right back to him.”

“I need you to find Curran. Hugh hates him and he likely knows exactly where Curran is. Best-case scenario, Gene is keeping him away from here. Worst case, it’s a trap.”

Jim bent toward me. His gaze met mine. “Hey. Look at me.”

I looked.

“Curran will be fine. He’s got this. They would have to have sent an army to North Carolina in order to bring him down. I have people watching Gene’s territory. Nobody came in or out.”

That’s right. Jim would have someone watching them.

“Hugh will try to fuck with your head. Don’t let him. Do your job. You’ve got fifteen hundred people depending on you.”

“Awesome pep talk.”

“If you want a pep talk, get yourself a cheerleader. Did you recognize the crusader with Hugh?”

“Yes.” I’d recognized Nick, alright. I saw him shoot Desandra.

“Why did we run?” a man demanded behind me.

I stopped and pivoted on my foot to face him.

It was one of Jennifer’s bodyguards. In his early twenties, he was large, with a head of wild blond hair, athletic. His eyes shone yellow, catching the moonlight. His lips trembled, baring his teeth. Right, all the lights are on and he’s exhaling aggression with every breath. Adrenaline junkie. Bad choice for a bodyguard.

“We had the numbers on them. We could’ve taken them.”

“Make him sit,” I told Jennifer. “Or I will and he won’t like it.”

Jennifer’s expression was blank.