Chapter 6: Westpoint

He came out of the lodge slowly, with his coat open and his eyes already on me.

The wolves parted for him, but not like Lake Shore's wolves had parted for Nolan.

They stepped aside with their mouths tight and their shoulders turned.

Nobody greeted him.

Nobody called him Alpha.

"Kinslayer," a man muttered, low, as he passed.

Caleb didn't turn his head.

"Lilia," he said, and stopped three feet from me.

"You don't get to say my name in front of them."

"All right."

"You were on my lawn."

"Yes."

"I want to know what you did there."

"Not here."

"You keep saying that."

"Because there are forty people listening," he said, very quietly, "and one of them is carrying every word back across that ridge."

I looked past him.

The wolves had gone still and blank.

I couldn't tell which of them was a spy, and neither could he.

Behind him the lodge door banged open.

A young woman in a torn denim jacket came out at a jog, short sandy hair sticking up on one side.

She had a mug of coffee in each hand and a freckled grin that took up half her face.

"So you're the one who set the funeral on fire," she said.

"Hattie," said Caleb.

"I'm Hattie, his sister."

"I've wanted to meet you since last night, when he came home with a mouth like he'd been chewed."

She held out a mug.

"Black. You look like a black coffee person."

I took it, because it was easier than saying no.

"Hattie."

"He bled all over the porch and wouldn't say how."

"I brought him a washcloth. He said thank you to the washcloth."

She looked at me with wicked delight.

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