The Blackmoon Pack grounds at two in the morning looked nothing like they had on the night of the ceremony.
No torches. No crowd. No white dresses and ceremony blacks and the particular electric anticipation of something significant about to happen. Just the flat dark of a winter night and the cold pressing down from above and the distant tree line standing at the edges of everything like it was waiting to see how this resolved.
Damien drove. I sat beside him and felt the pack.
That was the only way I could describe it — felt, the way you feel weather, the way you feel pressure changes before a storm. Dozens of points of awareness scattered across the territory in a search pattern I could read like a map. I could feel the gaps between them. The sectors. The methodical tightening arc of
