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  My good luck rolls right into dinner. It’s buffet style, which is perfect for werewolves. I know all the tricks for sneaking a third helping. You can’t do that with plated meals.

  The food is typical camp stuff. Fried chicken and lots of salads. Holly takes the latter, being a vegetarian. That leads to an awkward moment before she assures me she doesn’t mind her dining companion consuming meat. For a werewolf, vegetarianism isn’t an option—we need to hunt to satisfy our predatory instincts.

  I’m filling my plate when a guy says, “Whoa, someone has an appetite.”

  I look up and meet his gaze with a level stare. That usually silences jerks. This one grins, as if he’s caught the scent of challenging prey. Ugh.

  When I get a better look at him, that “ugh” doubles. The guy is a living advertisement for Abercrombie & Fitch. He’s blond, naturally. White, naturally. Blue-eyed, naturally. I’d make some snarky comment about him being a walking eugenics ad, except, well, as a white, blue-eyed blonde myself, I can’t really make that joke. Or maybe I’m the best one to make it.

  I add another chicken leg to my stack.

  The guy gives me an appreciative once-over. “I sure don’t see where you’re putting it.”

  “Down the toilet, obviously, Hayden,” says a brunette in a Team Witch T-shirt, who is clearly this guy’s shopping buddy. From the looks of the others clustered behind them, these two are the alphas of an Aberzombie mob.

  When the guy—Hayden—doesn’t understand her comment, she rolls her dark eyes and motions jabbing a finger down her throat. “Trailer-park Barbie here is obviously a fan of the binge-and-purge diet.”

  “Hey,” Holly says beside me, but they ignore her.

  “You don’t know that,” Hayden says. “She might just have a high metabolism.”

  Another eye-roll from his twin-in-fashion-sense. “Any girl who tells you that is full of shit. And not full of food. Look at her. She can’t be that skinny and even look at carbs.”

  “She’s not eating carbs. She’s eating protein. Lots and lots of protein. Because she’s not skinny.” Another appreciative once over. “She’s fit. Hella fit. She can eat whatever she wants. I’ll be first in line to help her work it off.”

  I love being talked about in the third person. I really do.

  I clear my throat. “Hey, I don’t think we’ve met.” I balance the plate on one hand and thrust my other at the brunette. “I’m Kate Danvers. And your friend here is totally right about the metabolism thing. I can eat whatever I want because I burn it off shifting into wolf form, running through the forest and slaughtering small animals. It’s kinda gross, but if it lets me eat this . . .” I pile three brownies on the edge of my plate. “It’s worth it.”

  Hayden’s face goes slack. “What?”

  “She’s joking,” the brunette says. “There’s no such thing as a female werewolf. Everyone knows that.”

  “Uh,” the guy says. “Isn’t the Alpha a female?”

  “She is,” I say. “Elena Michaels. Alpha of the American Pack. I call her Mom. My dad’s better known, though. Clayton Danvers.”

  “Holy shit,” one of Hayden’s friends breathes.

  “All the supernatural races in one place.” I turn to Holly with a little bounce. “This conference is going to be fun, isn’t it?”

  Holly bites her lip, hard, as she takes in their expressions. “It is.”

  “My brother and I are so excited,” I say. “Mom made sure we got our shots before we came, so you don’t need to worry. We’ll be just fine as long as we get enough food.” I lift my overflowing plate with a convincing giggle. “Gotta keep the werewolves fed so they don’t snack on their fellow campers.”

  Silence. Utter, dead silence, broken only by Holly’s stifled snickers.

  “See you around,” I say with another bounce. “Oh, and a word to the wise, I hear there’s a full moon coming up. I’d stay inside. Maybe lock your doors.” I wink. “Can’t be too careful.”

  As I walk away with Holly, I exhale and say, “Well, that was ill-conceived.”

  Holly laughs so loud half the dining hall turns. She claps a hand to her mouth and then says, “You have a way with words, Kate.”

  I sigh. “A bad, bad way with them. A way that finds them exploding from my mouth when I really need to keep it shut. Logan is going to kill me. I need to warn him.”

  I look around to see my brother deep in conversation with Tricia and other counselors.

  “Looks like I’ll be making a group confession,” I murmur.

  Holly skirts into my path. “That seems like a serious conversation, and your brother doesn’t look happy about it. Maybe you want to wait until he’s alone.”

  She’s right. Logan’s face is dark, and whatever conversation he’s having isn’t making him happier. No one from the Aberzombie flash mob is racing over to tattle—they’re all still clustered around the buffet table, watching us. This can wait. I grovel better on a full stomach.

  “About what I said to those guys . . .” I begin.

  “You were having a go at them. Werewolves don’t change with the full moon. They don’t kill people unless they lose control from a lack of shifting. Even that’s rare because the Pack punishes man-killers, by death if necessary.” She glances over. “How am I doing?”

  “Very good. I’ll have to set that group straight later. Maybe show off Logan as an example of a calm, rational werewolf.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Seems like the girls have already forgotten. They’ve spotted fresh prey.”

  I look over to see the brunette making a beeline for a guy sitting at a table. While he’s not in a corner by himself, there’s an empty seat on either side of him. A guy who doesn’t know anyone well enough to join a group, yet his table-mates include him in their conversation.

  All that matters to the brunette, though, is those empty seats. And the fact he’s totally hot. Which isn’t the first time I’ve thought about this particular guy.

  He’s the one who negged me in the hall.

  “Poor Elijah,” Holly says. “Mackenzie isn’t giving up until she bags her prey.”

  “Elijah is the guy with the locs?”

  “Yep, and Mackenzie is the brunette you just took down. She’s the leader of that pack you heard down the hall. She’s also the one who set her sights on bad-boy Mason last night.” Holly pulls out a chair, and we sit at an empty table. “When he brutally shot her down, she homed in on Elijah.”

  “Another bad boy?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Nah. Elijah is cool. I was struggling with my luggage—I seriously overpacked—and he gave me a hand. Didn’t say much, but he seems nice.”

  “Very nice,” I say.

  She follows my gaze to Elijah and laughs softly. Before she can speak, a voice behind me says, “Causing trouble already, huh, Kate?”

  I look over my shoulder. It’s Allan, holding his plate and smiling, his green eyes twinkling. My gaze cuts to the buffet table, and he says, “Yep, I heard the whole thing. It was kinda awesome.”

  I sigh. “I have impulse-control issues.”

  That twinkle turns to a glint. “I seem to remember that.”

  My cheeks heat. “I, uh, I’d like to talk to you later if that’s okay. I was kind of a bitch when, uh, we were younger. I didn’t mean that. I just—”

  “No explanation needed. You weren’t a bitch at all.” He motions at the empty seat across from Holly. “Mind if I join you two?” He looks at me. “And you can say no. I’m much better at understanding that word now.”

  He smiles when he says it, but I flush deeper. “Sit, please. I’m not sure if you guys know each other. Holly, this is Allan. Allan, Holly.”

  She looks up, her gaze rising to his face. Their eyes meet, and she blinks—witches recognize sorcerers on eye contact and vice versa. I thought Holly saw Allan’s shirt but apparently not.

  “Yep, he’s a sorcerer,” I say.

  She looks flustered. “Of course. Sorry. Just
. . . always a surprise, you know.”

  “Is it a problem?” Allan asks. “I’ll sit elsewhere if—”

  “No, of course not. Sit. Please.”

  He does, and we dig into our meals.

  * * *

  As we eat, I keep glancing over to Logan, but one second he’s deep in conversation and the next he’s gone. I’ll catch up with him later and explain what happened with the Aberzombies. For now, I enjoy a very satisfying meal and equally satisfying conversation. Holly is totally cool, and Allan . . . well, I’m reminded of why I chose him for my first kiss. He’s as friendly and sweet as I remember, and he makes what could be a horribly awkward situation smooth and easy.

  After dinner, it’s time for small-group sessions. While the conference is about fostering interracial relationships, they also want to give attendees a chance to chat within their own races about problems specific to them. That’s great except that it means Logan and I will be talking to each other. At least it gives me a chance to discuss an issue we might currently be facing after my impulse-control failure at the buffet table.

  I go in search of my brother. That’s my plan, anyway. But as I’m leaving, I notice Elijah up ahead, telling another half-demon to start without him—the chicken didn’t agree with his stomach and he needs a restroom pitstop. That alone wouldn’t get my attention, especially when he does, indeed, pop into the restroom. But then I get stalled talking to Tricia for a few seconds, and as I’m breaking away, Elijah is already slipping from the restroom. He casts a furtive look around and jogs off in the other direction. Apparently someone is ducking the small-group sessions.

  Not wanting a repeat performance from earlier, I hang back to avoid him. He pauses at the stairs going down to the first level, and his tensing shoulders warn me he’s about to turn. I flatten myself into the recessed doorway, but he only glances around. Then his footsteps continue on, past the stairs, heading into a hall clearly marked Staff Only.

  I give a quick look around. Then I follow.

  Chapter Nine

  Logan

  In my quest to find Mason, I ask a few people whether they’ve seen him. Of course, I first need to introduce myself. As I slog through the “Hey, you’re new? What race are you? Ooh, a secret, huh?” I find myself wishing I could be more like Kate, who’d plow past the small talk in a situation like this.

  Two campers don’t know who Mason is. Another two curl their lips and say that thankfully they haven’t seen him, and then they launch into a speech about what a jerk he is. Clearly this is not a shortcut to finding my erstwhile roommate.

  The obvious answer is to track Mason by scent, and I return to our room to pick up his trail.

  His scent tells me he walked to the stairs, turned and headed out the door, then veered left. I spot a storage shed in that direction, jog over and bend to check. His trail continues inside.

  The door has a padlock, but it’s been left ajar. I push it open. This is a more traditional camp building. It even has windows, and I step into a quiet, still space that smells of fresh wood and canvas.

  There’s not much in the shed, and all of it is new, bought for this conference. Tents mostly, along with maybe a dozen sleeping bags. Presumably there’s a small-group camping component to the conference. I’ll have to tell Kate. She’ll like that.

  The tents and sleeping bags have been numbered so recently I can still smell the Sharpie fumes. One of each is missing. At the empty spot, I detect Mason’s scent.

  I could drop the matter here. If solo tent-camping is against rules, that’s no concern of mine. I certainly won’t tattle on him. Yet this isn’t a state park campground. We’re deep in the Appalachian foothills, and if you don’t have a werewolf’s tracking ability, it’d be easy to get lost. I smelled black bear earlier, and that won’t be the only predator out there.

  Mason isn’t a little kid. If he makes stupid choices, that’s on him. But if he’s made a stupid choice because of me, I need to be exactly the kind of guy I suspect he despises—the overgrown Boy Scout compelled to warn him of the forest’s dangers.

  I follow his trail from the shed. As I do, I glance at the conference center. It’s as silent as when we arrived. They should be out here, enjoying a late spring evening where they can make as much noise as they want with no one to disturb. Instead, they’re locked up in a windowless box.

  This can’t be what Paige intended. Until she arrives, though, being alone out here is to my advantage. There’s no one to stop me from slipping into the forest.

  Tracking Mason is easier outdoors where I don’t have to worry about someone spotting me with my nose in the dirt. I don’t snuffle along like a bloodhound. Mason has followed a rough path into the forest, and I only need to drop every ten paces or so and make sure he hasn’t left it. When he does, a half mile from camp, I can follow the trail of broken twigs and trampled undergrowth.

  After that, I smell him on the breeze. He went maybe fifty feet off-trail before he found a suitable clearing and erected his tent. Or, I should say, he attempted to erect it. The structure lists to one side, and it’ll collapse once he’s in it. Clearly, Mason is not a guy with extensive camping experience.

  Sitting on a log is the wannabe survivalist himself. He’s eating a granola bar, water bottle in hand, his gaze down. When I approach, he doesn’t even look up as he says, “Turn around and go back, mutt.”

  “I’m not a mutt. I’m a Pack werewolf.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, that’s right. You’re a werewolf prince. Can’t mistake you for one of the plebs.”

  “Prince would imply a hereditary leadership, which we don’t have. Admittedly, we do have an archaic system, though, given that we refer to non-Pack werewolves as mutts, which is meant to be as insulting as you implied. Mom would like to get rid of that word, but there’s resistance even among those it refers to. Especially among those, actually. They see it as a badge of honor.”

  “Did you come out here to discuss werewolf politics?”

  “We could,” I say as I lower myself to the ground. “It’s a favorite topic of mine.”

  He finally looks at me then, as if to see whether I’m kidding. He catches my eye, snorts again and shakes his head.

  “Go away, Teen Wolf,” he says. “Is that more politically correct?”

  “I’m not sure politically correct is the right term but—”

  “Fuck off, Logan Danvers. Better?”

  I wrap my arms around my knees. “It is. And the answer is ‘no thank you.’ I understand the request, and I decline to comply.”

  His face hardens. Then he looks at the forest behind me. “How’d you find me?”

  I arch a brow. “I’m a werewolf. I track scents.”

  He nods, slowly, as if assimilating this.

  “I’m sure you realized that,” I say. “What you actually meant was how did I track you when you shouldn’t have a scent.”

  “Of course I have one. Everyone does.”

  “Not vampires.”

  There’s a split-second delay. Then he takes a big bite of his bar, teeth bared as he rips it off, chews, swallows and pitches the rest at me.

  “Check the wrapper,” he says. “One hundred percent plasma-free.”

  I take out the last piece and pop it into my mouth.

  “Hey!” Mason says.

  “I missed dinner. You wouldn’t happen to have more, would you?” I sniff the air, rise and find a stash beside the tent. I grab one and rip it open. “Thanks.”

  “That’s my food, asshole.”

  “I think we already established that you’re worried about me getting hungry. I don’t want to scare you with my grumbling stomach. So, you’re a vampire. Interesting.”

  “Did you just see me eat that bar?”

  “Vampires can eat food. They just prefer not to because they have trouble digesting it, being dead.”

  “Do I look dead? Do I smell dead?”

  “You are very pale, and you have the brooding-vamp persona down pat. If you
’re trying to hide your racial identity, you might want to act more cheerful. However, you do have a scent, and that stash of granola bars suggests you eat voluntarily, not just to fit in with humans.”

  “Weird, huh? It’s almost like I’m”—he meets my gaze—“not a vampire.”

  “True. Except you are. Which makes this very odd.”

  He glowers at me. “I’ve heard of people being smarter than they sound, but you’re the first person I’ve met who sounds smarter than he is. Let me guess. Private school?”

  “See, here’s the logical conundrum I’m trying to work out. You have a scent. You eat food. Your heart beats. You clearly are not dead. Yet I can tell you’re a predator, and the only two supernatural predators are vampires and werewolves. I suppose I might not be aware of some minor predatory race, but that’s highly unlikely.”

  Mason rolls his eyes. “Because you’ve read the Encyclopedia Britannica of Supernatural Races cover to cover.”

  “There is no such thing. However, I’ve read most of the interracial council’s library. While I’d never rule out the possibility of a third predatory race, they’d be exceptionally rare, and the counselors know all about yours. They also commented on the danger of putting us in a room together. As predators, vampires and werewolves are naturally wary of one another, but it isn’t the historical animosity of sorcerers and witches. I suspect the counselors have seen too many movies if they presume we’re natural enemies.”

  “Or . . . I’m not a goddamned vampire.”

  “Vampires aren’t damned by God. They’re just another hereditary evolution.”

  He glowers at me.

  I continue, “Vampires are the only race that other supernaturals hate and fear as much as werewolves. The counselor’s comments suggest you and I fall into the same category. Ergo, since I can tell you’re not a werewolf, by process of elimination, you must be a vampire.”