Chapter 17: Cold Ridge Claims Her

Twenty black trucks rolled into the yard behind the Ironwood hall, and the engines cut off one after another.

Alasdair stood on the steps with Padraig at his shoulder.

I stood one step below him, in yesterday's jeans and his borrowed jacket, and my wolf pushed hard against my ribs.

My grandmother had come up the hill in Padraig's truck.

She leaned on her cane at my side and said nothing at all.

The doors opened, and men and women in dark coats climbed out and formed two lines.

Between the lines walked an older man with a grey beard cut close and a gold ring on every finger.

Imogen walked at his elbow in a white dress.

The gold locket lay at her throat.

"Cold Ridge," Alasdair said under his breath.

"Imogen's father," Padraig said. "I've never seen him come to anyone's door with more than four wolves."

The man stopped at the foot of the steps and looked up at Alasdair with mild, flat eyes.

"Ironwood," he said. "I trust you've kept my daughter well."

"She left on Thursday," Alasdair said. "I didn't hurt her. I didn't hear from her either."

"Alasdair!" Imogen's voice cracked. She pressed a hand to her chest. "Please don't do this in front of everyone."

"Do what?"

"Pretend you don't know me."

A murmur went around the yard.

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