Con scanned the room. Anticipation glittered in every warg’s eyes, as though they already smelled blood in the air. “Eidolon needs her to find a cure or to develop a vaccine.”

“Then perhaps we should involve the Justice Dealers now,” Raynor said. “If she’s held in prison, she will have no choice but to submit to Eidolon’s tests and treatments.”

“You’re suggesting she’ll run?” Con asked. “She won’t. She’s committed to ending this epidemic.”

Skepticism laced Valko’s voice. “You have one week.”

“One week is not enough—”

Valko shoved to his feet. “You will stick to her like glue for the week, and after that, you will bring her in. If Eidolon is still seeking a cure, we’ll let the Seminus Council decide what to do with her. But she willface justice for this.”

Cursing, Con headed for the door, refusing to stay in that room for one more minute. Those two societies were ticking time bombs. And with a disease spreading faster than the Black Death had, the last thing the world needed was a werewolf civil war.

Valko and Ludolf remained behind in the conference room after everyone else had left. Valko trusted all the pricolicimembers of the Council, but he’d been raised with Ludolf in the Botev pack, and there was no one he trusted more than the ruthless bastard who had killed their clan leader and then handed control as pack alpha over to Valko.

Ludolf sat back in his leather chair, his heavy-lidded gaze sweeping between the closed door and Valko. “You think they fell for it?”

“Fell for what, Dolf?” Valko asked innocently.

Ludolf snorted. “Don’t play that way with me. I know you too well, and you’re too cunning. Once you heard that only the varcolacwere affected by the plague, your wheels started spinning.” He kicked his feet up on the tabletop. “So? Did they fall for it?”

There was a long silence while Valko considered the intelligence level of each member. Most turneds were half-wits with pathetic instincts, but one couldn’t underestimate them, especially not Raynor. And Con, as a dhampire, definitely wasn’t stupid. “The varcolacdon’t want to believe that we possibly care about their plight, but yes, I think they believe my proposal was genuine. They’re aware that I dowant Eidolon put down, after all.” Oh, yes, Valko’s hatred for Eidolon was well known, so no one would suspect that his suggestion to involve the Justice Dealers and Sem Council was about far more than punishing Eidolon and his sister.

“And Sin?”

Valko had nothing against Sin. Not now, anyway. In fact, he’d like to thank her for starting the epidemic that was killing the varcolac. But he had a plan for her.

“Are you still in contact with your brother?”

A slow smile stretched Dolf’s thin lips. His half brother had been in hiding for three decades for crimes against other wargs, but they wouldn’t have lost complete contact. “I can be.”

“Good. Tell him that if he sends Sin’s head to Eidolon without anyone discovering who was responsible for her death, the Warg Council will forgive his past transgressions and give him a place on the council. If Con is caught in the cross fire, even better.”

“You are devious. The turneds will be blamed for taking revenge.”

“And we will sit back and watch them be destroyed, if not by the virus, then by us, with the full cooperation of the Seminus Council.” Valko couldn’t contain the hum of anticipation in his voice.

“You truly believe the Sems would go to war over the death of one female half-breed?”

“Of course not. But they’ll be angry enough to side with us when the war starts.”

“And why will a war start?”

“Because,” Valko said, “we’re going to leak the fact that the disease affects only varcolac, and once the lowlife turneds start up with their conspiracy theories and assume that we are responsible for the disease—”

“They’ll attack us.”

Dolf grinned. “And we will finally have the excuse we’ve needed for centuries to destroy those abominations.”

“And,” Valko added, “depending on which side the dhampires fall on, we might be able to take them out, as well. The canine were-world will finally be cleansed.”

As he exited the rear of the Warg Council building, Con sensed the presence of another dhampire. The parklike grounds spread over half an acre, the copse of trees near the far wall of the property concealing the only Harrowgate in a two-mile radius. The scent of warg was strong around the gate; any species with a halfway decent sense of smell would hightail it back into the Harrowgate or away from the Council building immediately.

Unless they were there for a reason, and as Bran emerged from the forest shadows, Con knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Bran was, as many dhampires liked to say, a scary motherfucker.

Standing seven feet tall and built like a bull, the guy didn’t have to do anything to get people to move out of his way. But it was his missing right eye and the scar that ran from his right temple to the left side of his chin that sealed the deal. Well, that and the full tank of crazy that gleamed in his good eye.

He kept his long, silver mane pulled back in a ponytail so none of it obscured the mess that was his face.

“Conall.” Bran’s rough voice vibrated deep into Con’s chest. “We need to talk.”

Con crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t think you came all the way to Moscow because the vodka is so good.” Probably not the smartest way to talk to a senior Dhampire Councilmember, but Con hadn’t bowed and scraped to anyone in a long time.

“Aisling has gone to the night.”

A chill shivered over Con’s skin. What happened to dhampires when they died was a strongly held secret among his people—the biggest secret, in fact. Speaking about it was forbidden, even within their own species. Outside their own kind, they were compelled to silence.

Compelled, in the mystical sense of the word. Every dhampire possessed an inborn inability to speak in specifics about “going to the night.” The words simply would not come, and no amount of torture could force a dhampire to discuss it.

“Aisling was so young,” Con murmured. He’d been fond of his three-century-old second cousin, a strong voice in the shrinking dhampire community who had borne two babes and was carrying a third. “The baby—”

“Dead.”

“How did it happen?”

“Human road rage.” The vicious curl of Bran’s upper lip said that the driver had gotten a taste of dhampire justice. “We were fortunate to have retrieved her body—her car went over a cliff and into the ocean.”

“I’m sorry about Aisling, but why deliver the news in person?”

“Because I wanted to be the one to tell you that you’re taking her seat on the Council, and that you will participate in the upcoming breeding season.”

Con’s curse dragged out on a long breath, and damn, he wished he still smoked. But smoking had gotten boring, no matter what he’d put in the pipe or rolled in the papers.

How long had he wanted this very thing? To take on the duties of his father, to lead the clan to prosperity and good hunts? But not this way. Not because they had a seat to fill and he was the last adult in his father’s royal line. They were supposed to ask him to come back because they wanted his input, his experience. Not because they needed his genes.

His stomach did a few somersaults as he leveled his gaze at Bran. “No.”

Bran’s fist snapped out, catching Con in the jaw. It was a light blow, a punishing nip by wolf standards, but it stung. “Whelp! You do not tell your alpha no.”

Very slowly, so as not to provoke Bran, Con dropped his arms to his sides and widened his stance. “I have a seat on the Warg Council, a job at Underworld General—”

“You’ll give them up,” Bran barked. “Yordan will take your seat on the Warg Council, and I doubt the demon hospital will miss you.” The big male crowded close, so close that if Con breathed deeply, their chests would touch. “You willcome home and take your place in dhampire society. We have been patient with you, letting slide your absences during the breeding seasons, letting you run loose outside our range, but it’s time for you to settle down and fulfill your duties as dhampire royalty.”