Keith

I get Camille’s message late at night, three days after Hope and I made it back from the Hunting grounds.

The smooth grain of the expensive paper lies between my fingers, and my hybrid growls at Camille’s scent.

Relax. We can not like him later; for now, he is our ally.

He huffs and turns from me, disgruntled by logic.

I open the missive, blank of all expectations.

Short, sharp, urgent, the words were scrawled across the page.

Keith, get Clinton and meet me in the last place I’d seen you. I have something. You’ll want to hear this.

My stomach knots.

After that trip, we took to the...