GRAY
Dawn breaks cold over the Magnolia, frost turning the parking lot into something that glitters like broken glass. I've been awake for three hours, running surveillance patterns around the perimeter while most of the pack sleeps. Old habits from seven years with Interpol—check the fence line, mark the sight lines, calculate how long we'd have if someone came in hot.
The motel's main building shows light through the kitchen window. Someone's up early, moving around with the kind of quiet efficiency that speaks of years learning to be invisible.
Samira.
I find her elbow-deep in dishwater, scrubbing pots from last night's dinner with the same methodical precision she probably used at Bloodthrone. She's wearing clothes Lucy found her—jeans that actually fit, a sweater that's only sligh
