The second set of Shifts was a little easier, but only because my recent meal had given me more energy. My right arm still hurt like I was being tortured for information, but by the time I sat up again in human form, my left arm had healed to a thick but raw-looking pink scar. It would have taken several days for it to heal that far on its own.

I talked Marc into removing the stitches while Jace called his mother, to save time.

“Jace?” Patricia Malone’s voice rose into the dog whistle range in surprise. Evidently her son didn’t call very often.

“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” Jace crossed into the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet seat but left the door open. He couldn’t stop us from overhearing, but wanted at least the illusion of privacy. I could only imagine how uncomfortable that conversation must be for him.

“Are you…? What’s wrong?”

Marc used a tiny pair of scissors to clip the first stitch, then tugged it from my skin with tweezers. It felt weird but didn’t hurt. With any luck, I’d regained full use of my left arm.

“Nothing. Well, Brett’s dead.” Jace leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and stared at the bathroom wall. “Do you still want me to come home? For the funeral?”

“Of course. Will you, please? It would mean so much to…Melody.”

Jace sighed, and I heard genuine reluctance in the sound. I couldn’t imagine how nervous he must be. Nor could I imagine having a father figure who hated me, and openly lamented not killing me as a kitten.

“Is Cal okay with it? Did you ask him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jace,” Patricia snapped. “I don’t need to ask him if my own son can come home. You’re always welcome here. When can you come?”

Jace lifted his head and met my gaze as Marc pulled out the third stitch. I nodded, the best I could do to tell him he could back out if he wanted to. We could find another way. He shook his head; Jace was fully committed. “I’m already here.”

Patricia Malone burst into relieved, overwhelmed sobs, and Jace slid one strong hand over his eyes to hide the tears he didn’t want us to see. Marc busied himself with the fourth stitch, but I could tell by his determination not to look up—and by the fact that he pinched my skin along with the thread—that he was listening, too. And that he was not unaffected.

“Where?” Patricia asked, when she had herself under control. “Where are you?”

“I’m…around. I just…I wanted to make sure Cal’s okay with this before I come over.”

His mother clucked her tongue. “I told you he’s fine with it.”

“No.” Jace wiped his eyes and frowned at nothing. “You didn’t. I don’t want to make things worse.”

He was telling the truth. But he was also setting it up perfectly. Malone would be less suspicious if he knew Jace was reluctant to come in the first place. And it wouldn’t hurt if he thought his stepson was afraid of him. Malone could not know what a serious threat Jace had become, or he would never let his guard down enough to let Jace leave his sight.