caught Kairi and Hallen out of the corner of her eye, following her silently. They were nearly as slick as shifters.
“Third, hello!” a man called from his front door as Charity passed. “I look forward to your—”
She didn’t politely stop to hear the rest of his words.
She really hoped she was overreacting. That the past was throwing shadows where there were none. She really hoped there was a good reason for Devon to have left her bed in the middle of the night. So why didn’t Kairi feel comfortable talking about it?
“You have my best interests at heart, don’t you, Kairi?” she called out as she jogged.
“Of course, Third.”
“If a big mistake was in progress, you’d say something, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Third. That is my job.”
“A big mistake is in—” Hallen started.
Charity didn’t bother glancing back. She wasn’t asking him. She still didn’t know why he kept hanging around. He didn’t make himself useful like Kairi did, nor was he on the same fighting level as either of them. She no longer needed his help with her magic.
Another dark thought wafted through her mind, stemming from her conversations with her grandmama. Little comments about suitable matches. About what status meant and how to achieve and maintain it. Approved smiles and knowing nods whenever Hallen accompanied Charity places…
Did her grandmama expect her to accept Hallen as a match? Not a chance. She had a love, and she would not settle for any other.
Period.
Devon had better be in the guest house. Or on the battlefield. He’d better not have run out on her in the middle of the night.
This had better be deeply ingrained paranoia.
“Which way?” she asked at the other end of the village, and guilt ran through her. She should know how to get to the pack blindfolded. She’d neglected them.
“Right,” Kairi said. When they reached the next corner, she said without prompting, “Left.”
The houses grew smaller and smaller, and Charity’s guilt mounted until she reached what looked like a collection of shanties. They were neglected, tiny dwellings shoved out of the way. The gardens were being beautified, her father’s signature touch obvious, so that was something, but other than that, they were barely fit for wild dogs.
Charity laughed sardonically as she registered the stillness of the ramshackle cabins. They felt abandoned. Her heart pushed up into her throat. Tears clouded her vision.
“Wild dogs,” she said softly, stalling outside of the closest shanty. The door stood open, but she already knew it would be deserted. “You put them in the backyard, like dogs. They were your guests, and you sequestered them here, in a shithole, while you celebrated the woman they risked everything to get to safety. And here you talk about politeness. About doing what’s proper. About the right way of doing things.”
Charity turned and threw out her hand.
“This is not the right way of doing things,” she yelled, and the first tear rolled down her face. “When I was in a tough time, they put me in Devon’s house. He bought groceries, protected me, welcomed me into his pack…and look how you’ve treated them in return. They brought you the Second’s daughter, and you put them here!”
She marched inside as another tear fell. Then a third.
“Why would they want to stay when they were welcomed with this sort of red carpet?” she said to herself. There was barely any furniture. A teeny communal kitchen, a common area with a little table shoved in the corner. Doors led to other sleeping areas, in which dingy mattresses littered the ground. All empty. The robes the shifters had borrowed from this place lay in piles or folded and cast aside. Left behind. Like her.
That was when the strange hollowness inside her finally worked into her awareness. The wrongness that she now realized had fired the paranoia. She could no longer feel the back-and-forth dance of her magic and Devon’s. Had Penny reversed her spell?
Distance.
The thought curled out of her mind. An assurance greeted it.
The connection Penny had forged didn’t work with distance.
“No.” Her stomach rolled. “Please no, Devon. Please…” She was begging. Pleading.
But he wasn’t there to hear her. None of them were.
A stark white square stood out on the dingy brown table. Paper.
She snatched it up, fumbling to open it.
It was from Macy, written in a clumsy hand.
Charity’s eyes flew over the words, and guilt threatened to consume her. She sank to her knees. Sobs heaved from her middle.
“Dillon was killed,” she choked out, her hands shaking so badly that she