impure. To be honest, Iâm surprised you have the gall to face us.â
âAnd after last week, Iâm surprised you donât know any better than to watch what you say to my mate,â Jeremy snarled as he took an aggressive step forward, looking more than ready to knock the racist Elder on his ass. Brody knew just how badly Jeremy wanted to take Drake apart, piece by satisfying piece, and he didnât blame him. Under the Elderâs orchestration, an attempt had been made on Jillianâs life the previous week, and it was only by some clever thinking on the part of Eric Drake that Jeremy hadnât killed the bastard in a murderous rage. If he had, the Silvercrest penalty would have been death, and Brody and the Runners would have lost a man who was more like a brother to them than a mere friend.
âAre you threatening me?â the Elder demanded of Jeremy, the sinister gleam of triumph in his chilling gaze revealing his ploy. He wanted Jeremy to make a move on him tonight, so that he could retaliate with the full force of the pack, using his position to strike out against the Runners.
Before Jeremy could react, Mason placed a cautioning hand on his partnerâs shoulder and Jillian stepped into his side, putting her arms around his waist. The group held their collective breath as they waited to see what he would do. Finally, Jeremy shook his fisted hands out at his sides, and draped his arm around his fiancéeâs shoulders. âI donât make threats,â he said in a quiet drawl, flashing the Elder a contemptuous smile. âI make promises. Iâd tell you to speak to my mate with respect, but the truth is that youâre not good enough to speak to her at all.â
Drake looked round at the pack. âAre you going to allow him to address his betters with such lack of respect?â
âStefan,â Dylan Riggs softly muttered, speaking for the first time, while the other Elders remained silent, their expressions tight with concern.
âThe pack knows who deals with its trash so that it can sleep in peace at night,â Cian called out, his words crisp with the lilting notes of his Irish accent. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his black leather jacket, placed one between his lips, and cupped his hand over the tip as he flicked open a silver butane lighter. After the first long drag, he lifted his head and sent the Elder a lazy grin. âIf I were you, Iâd worry about keeping on our good side, Drake.â
âYouâre not a member of this pack,â the Elder spat, glaring at Brodyâs partner. âNone of you are.â
âBy choice,â Mason rasped in a low slide of words, which were true. Nearly all of the Bloodrunners had achieved their required number of kills to rejoin the Silvercrest pack, though they chose not to. âItâd be wise of you to remember that.â
âItâs time now,â Fuller announced, stepping forward, sending an apologetic look in their direction. Graham Fuller may have been the best friend of Masonâs father, Robert, but he still held the position of Lead Elder among the Silvercrest League. As such, he carefully walked the line of neutrality when dealing with the ancient bad blood that existed between the purists, like Drake, and the crossbreeds. Even Dylan, who Brody personally didnât like, but was a close friend of the other Runners, had his hands tied when dealing with his fellow Elders. If he showed too much support for the Bloodrunners, Drake would demand a vote on his removalâand there was too much prejudice among the Silvercrest leaders to think Dylanâs position was secure.
Which meant the Runners were left on their own, same as always.
Wishing like hell that there was something he could do, Brody watched the guards pull Max to the center of the clearing. The boy stood silent and still, his head bent toward the ground, but Brody could see the thick sheen of sweat covering the young manâs skin. The veins in Maxâs arms thickened with the heavy flow of his blood, the tendons at the side of his neck, leading into his shoulders, rigid with strain, while his hands fisted at his sides, his chest rising and falling as he took each breath harderâ¦and harder.
âDo you know whatâs happening?â he asked in a rough whisper, brushing his lips against Michaelaâs ear. The enthralling scent of her skin filled his head, and he clenched his jaw, determined to ignore its devastating effect. âDid Wyatt or Mason explain to you what will happen?â
She nodded mutely, and then quietly whispered, âHeâs terrified.â
Taking his gaze from Max, Brody looked down to see her pulse rushing beneath the fragile column of her throat, so slender and pale and delicate. His tongue felt thick against the roof of his mouth, and in his head, he could hear the beating of her heart in perfect tempo with that wild rush beneath her milky-white skin. Then suddenly, like a blast hitting from out of nowhere, her words sank inâ¦and he remembered a crucial element that had somehow slipped his mind during the chaos of the evening.
Michaela Doucet was not your average, everyday human female. No, she held powers, talents that had yet to be completely explained to him, but which suddenly seemed like a massive tactical error on his part to have forgotten. She could read people she was physically close to, he recalled Torrance telling them one night over dinner. Like peering through a window, she could sense their emotions, their feelings.
He was a goddamn idiot! The last thing in the world he needed was to be here, holding her, giving her the opportunity to nose around inside his head! His fingers released their hold on her hip, the muscles in his arm flexing, ready to pull away from herâwhen in the next instant Max Doucet threw back his head and let out a bloodcurdling scream of horror that echoed through the quiet night like a sound torn straight from the bowels of hell.
âIt hurts,â she gasped, her voice cracking, and with a surge of fury at his inability to help, Brody realized it wasnât his head she was in. No, it was Maxâs. She was sharing her brotherâs terrorâ¦his pain!
âHeâ¦he feels like somethingâs trying to claw its way out of him,â she stammered, the words husky and broken, while her body arched against him, her lean muscles rigid as agony tore through her. âLike itâs going toââ
âStop it,â he growled in her ear, gripping onto her side with his free hand, his other arm still wrapped across her front. âGet out of his head, Doucet! I donât want you in there. Get out of it!â
She jerked, her head shooting back to slam against his collarbone, and Max fell to the ground, his expression ravaged, a broken scream pouring from his throat as his body contorted, seizing, spasm after torturous spasm clenching his strained muscles. The change rolled through him, rippling beneath the dark gleam of his skin, while blood pooled beneath his hands and razor-sharp claws pierced their way through the tips of his fingers. He threw back his head, his back arching as a throaty chuffing sound surged up from his thickening chest, through the muzzled shape of his mouth.
In Brodyâs arms, Michaela trembled, silent tears streaming down her face, and something sharp and agonizing slashed through him like remembered pain, making him grimace.
Son of a bitch. He couldnât stand watching her cry.
The night had turned brutal, the wind angry and vicious as it ripped through the trees with a snarling vengeance, lashing against the flames of the fires. Her long hair whipped across his face, and he couldnât hold itâthe devastating combination of her scent and those tears screwing with his head.
Against his better judgment, knowing it was going to land him in hell, Brody
