With the Post rolled up in my fist and plans to fix Finnian rather than my face, I stepped off the tram and jumped on the shuttle north toward an event space called The Sanctuary, which had nothing to do with it being on pack-neutral ground and everything to do with it being tucked inside a historic human church. That’s right. Anti-shifter activists weren’t the only people who could hold their meetings on hallowed ground. Okay, technically, the Sanctuary was partly a bar now, but whatever.
I spent the shuttle ride stewing over the pack-wide conspiracy to treat me like a no-rank pup. This had already happened to me once before in the East Village when my family conspired to keep me in the dark about the rising tide of anti-shiftism, and now it was happening all over again. But this hurt wo
