The full moon was a despot. It drained the blood, whetted the sharpness of intellect, and rendered the carefully maintained silence of Lupus Haven a rattling sheet of glass. The moonlight pouring through the tall, steel-strengthened windows splashed the common room in harsh hues of silver and obsidian. It was an evening when instinct vibrated just below the surface, and the civil masks that the pack wore were brittle and devious.
They sat together, as they often did, but there was no easy quiet companionship. There was tension lying hidden for weeks over the secret code, the immune man, and the constant possibility of treachery. The full moon brought no comfort, but exaggeration.
It started with nothing. Marek, a young wolf and speaking in a tone of nervous tension, was laying out a peri
