“Me neither,” Sam says. “Obviously.”

We start to kiss again, this time a lot gentler, Sam’s hands slowly moving up my sides. When the wolf howls—loud, echoing, nearby—my first instinct is that it’s Nine spying on us from the house and making stupid noises. But then a second and third wolf make a howling chorus and I lean back to peer at Sam.

“What the hell is that?” I ask. “Wolves in the suburbs?”

“I don’t know—” he starts to reply, but then his eyes widen. “The Chimærae. They’re warning us.”

A moment after he says it, I hear the whup-whup-whup of at least three helicopters bearing down on us. If I squint, I can see their outlines approaching in the night sky. And then there are the blue flashing lights coming from the housing development’s only access road; the lights are attached to a caravan of black SUVs, all of them speeding in our direction.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

AT THE SOUND OF SCREECHING TIRES AND HELICOPTER rotors, Nine and I burst back outside, leaping over the house’s broken porch and onto the lawn. We’re just in time to see a lightning strike slice down from the sky, courtesy of Six. It’s a warning shot; the bolt erupts a piece of asphalt right in front of a black SUV that’s careening up the access road, causing it to swerve.

“The hell is this?” Nine growls. “I thought we were done with the feds.”

“Adam said they’re supposed to leave this place alone,” I reply. “Some deal with the Mogs.”

“I guess that ended when you killed them all, huh?”

There are three choppers overhead, circling like vultures. Some signal must pass between them, because they all turn on spotlights at the same time. One of them trains on me and Nine, another on the entrance of the house behind us and a third on Six and Sam. In the bright light, I notice Sam, unarmed, quickly climbing into the Skimmer for cover. Six, her hands splayed in the air, in the process of summoning some nasty weather for our uninvited guests, goes invisible before the spotlight can really get a fix on her.

Meanwhile, undeterred by the lightning strike, a parade of black SUVs files up the access road, blue lights flashing beneath their windshields. They skid to a stop next to each other in a tight formation, eventually creating a blockade of bulletproof glass and shiny, dent-resistant paneling. Their doors fling open and a bunch of agents in identical navy-blue Windbreakers leap out. The ones who aren’t yelling into walkie-talkies have guns trained on us, all of them hunkered behind their car doors for cover. It takes them less than a minute to have us pinned down in the cul-de-sac.

“Do they really think this will stop us?” Nine asks as he takes a step away from the house, almost daring the agents to try shooting him.

“I don’t know what they’re thinking,” I reply. “But they don’t know about the Chimærae.”