MICHEL was bad. Almost-dead bad. And he wasn’t going to be telling anyone anything anytime soon. Alan had him on a hospital bed—in a cage in the basement of his house twenty minutes away. The cage was necessary because seriously injured werewolves, when not attended by more dominant wolves, tended to be violent.

It was probably not useful to go talk to him until he’d had a day or so to heal, Charles decided. Tomorrow then, he’d take one of the other French wolves with him to talk to Michel.

Anna looked sick and tired—sickened, he corrected himself. She had been right. The horror of the scene was lost on...