I couldn’t say it, but my father easily interpreted my tortured silence. “No…” he whispered, and the footsteps stopped. Something scraped the phone, as if he’d covered the receiver, then he was back and fully composed. “Are they willing to negotiate?”

“Not about this.” The circle of stony expressions said that fact hadn’t changed.

“Have you exhausted all the other options?” Meaning, fight or flee.

“There are no other options.” Not that wouldn’t end with both me and Kaci dead.

My dad sighed. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll call you when I’m on the way. For now, though, I need you to call Beck back into the front yard. Then toss him your phone. I’ve negotiated a ceasefire for the next two days.”

“Good work.” I heard a hint of real pride shining through the fear and anger in my father’s voice.

Something scratched against the phone again, and I was almost certain none of the birds heard my father’s whispered order. “Get the gun and stand by the front door. We’re going out.” Then he was back on the line, and his heavy footsteps changed when he stepped from the hardwood in his office onto the tile in the hall. Other footsteps joined his, and I recognized my mother’s distinctive clacking as well as Michael’s tread, identical to my father’s in tempo, but lighter, thanks to his rubbersoled loafers.

But if Marc was there, he wasn’t walking; I would have recognized his footsteps, too.

I forced aside the deep pang of fear Marc’s absence rang in me and made myself listen as my father gave instructions for whoever was backing him up in Marc’s absence.

Then the front door creaked softly, and my father stepped onto the concrete porch. “Beck!” he shouted. Even over the phone I heard the rustle and wind-stirring flaps as at least half a dozen birds landed somewhere on my front lawn, who knew how many miles away. “Beck, your Flight wants to talk to you.

“Okay, Faythe, I’m going to toss him the phone.”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. “I’m handing mine over, too.” I eyed one of the young birds who’d claimed he could use a phone—one of only two who currently wielded human hands—and feinted once, to make sure he got the picture, then tossed the phone for real.

My breath stuck in my throat when he caught it, then fumbled before tightening his grip and bringing the phone to his ear. “Beck?” he asked, and I had a moment of panic, suddenly sure Beck wouldn’t know which end to talk into.

But then a vaguely familiar, scratchy voice answered from the other end of the line. “Ike?”

“Yes.” The young bird glanced around and received small nods from his peers, then took a deep breath and continued. “We’re calling a forty-eight-hour ceasefire, for Faythe Sanders to seek evidence of her Pride’s innocence in Finn’s murder. If you haven’t heard from us two days from now…”