My father sighed and finally looked up from the dead tom. “My guess is that he saw them coming. Didn’t you say they flew out in that direction?” He pointed toward the trees to the east.

“Yeah. So they killed him to keep him from warning us?” I glanced from face to face in disbelief, but the question was largely rhetorical. We all knew the answer. “Why didn’t he call?”

“Reception’s spotty in the woods, but it looks like he tried.” My father gestured to something in the grass behind me and I turned to see a cell phone lying on the ground, smeared with blood, already flipped open and ready for use.

“They couldn’t have gotten to him in the woods. Their wingspan has to be twelve feet or better. They’d have broken both arms trying to flap in there.”

Marc’s frown deepened. “They waited until he came into the open, then attacked.”

“And they must’ve done it fast to keep us from hearing.” Di Carlo shook his head. “This was planned. They want something.”

“What could thunderbirds want with us?” I wondered aloud, as Vic and Parker appeared from around the barn, one carrying a large black bundle.

“We’ll find out when Big Bird wakes up,” Marc said.

My father shook his head. “We’ll find out now. Wake him up and make him sing.”

Four

Marc and I headed for the house while Vic and Parker took Jake to the barn. On the way to the basement, we passed the silent office, where Ed and Brian Taylor were seated on the couch with their backs to us. Jace met my gaze briefly from the love seat, and I shook my head, confirming what he’d already guessed. What the Taylors surely already knew. That we’d found a body, not an injured tom.

I felt guilty walking by them without a word, but it wasn’t my place to tell an Alpha that his son was dead. Thank goodness.

The kitchen was empty, but I could hear Kaci talking with Manx and Owen in his room as I jogged down the concrete basement stairs after Marc, only pausing to flip the switch by the door.

Two dim bulbs inadequately lit a cinder-block room almost as large as the house overhead. The thick blue training mat was scattered with huge feathers the thunderbird had lost on his way down the stairs, and most of our outdated but well-used weight-lifting equipment had been shoved into the far corner near where the old, heavy punching bag hung. The door to the small half bath stood open, and a weak rectangle of light from within slanted over a folding table holding stacks of cassette tapes and an ancient stereo.

The room was damp, grimy, and one of few places in the house that my mother had attempted to neither clean nor decorate. It was strictly utilitarian, and well used.

It was also a prison.

The corner of the basement nearest the foot of the stairs was taken up by a cage formed by two of the room’s cinder-block walls and two walls of steel bars. The cell held only a cot in one corner, with no sheets or pillows. Just outside the bars stood a water dispenser and a single plastic cup, narrow enough to fit through the bars, if held by the top or bottom. A coffee can—serving as a temporary toilet—sat next to the water dispenser.