“What isn’t just Mercy?”

“The reason that my status in the pack has risen,” she said. “I thought it was just Mercy who was behind the shake-up in the pack organization.”

“No, Honey,” he’d told her. “It is you. It always has been you.”

“Bonarata has a pet werewolf,” Honey said.

“I know.” He waited for her to elaborate, because Honey didn’t do much casual talk.

“Lenka,” she said. “I didn’t know her very well, but she and Peter were lovers before I met him. His first, as human or werewolf. They weren’t in love, either of them, but he liked her, even after she picked her Alpha instead of Peter. It sent him wandering, though, until he found my pack. And me. I always figured I owed her for that.”

Adam put a hand on her shoulder. Werewolves need contact more than humans do. It had taken him a long time to understand how important touch was, but he didn’t forget it now.

“She was strong,” Honey said in a low voice. “Strong and brave and true. She had a moral compass that always pointed north. She was like Mercy in that, but without the sense of humor—Lenka took herself and the world very seriously.”

Honey closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his hand. “When Bonarata took her, we were in Russia. Peter was restless, and he liked to travel.”

Submissive wolves—and their mates—were welcome in any pack they chose to honor with their presence. Alpha werewolves practically needed a treaty drawn up to move around. Only Mercy’s kidnapping meant he didn’t have to bother with the politics that were usually a basic part of any travel plans he made.

“We didn’t hear about it for almost a decade,” Honey said. “How Bonarata killed the whole pack—Peter’s first pack. Most of the pack, anyway. He didn’t kill Zanobi or Lenka, and we heard how that was a lot worse. Peter was wild.” Her breathing was labored, as if it hurt to draw in air and let it out.

But she didn’t say anything about why Peter hadn’t done something—or if he’d tried and what had happened. Knowing Peter as he had, Adam couldn’t believe that Peter hadn’t tried something.

“Will Bonarata know you?” Adam asked.

“No,” she said. “We never met.”

Honey had pulled away from his touch then. She wiped her eyes with her thumbs, and he pretended not to see. She looked away for a moment, then met his eyes. “You think I can do this? I don’t know anything about vampires.”

“I think,” said Adam slowly, “that you’ve never let anyone down in your life. You won’t fail for any reason other than that old vampire is just too powerful or too smart—or because the rest of us fail you. I honestly believe that you are our best hope for winning.”

After a moment, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”

Bonarata had sent the second e-mail by then, the one Marsilia had predicted. It had come very early in the morning, just before the vampires retired for the day. The e-mail had been . . . a real piece of fiction.