at Heather—so pretty and lean and smart and nice, yet still unmated.
Before the conversation continued, the Cosantir’s deep voice rose over the noise. “Daonain. It’s good to see you here tonight before the rising of the moon.”
As the room quieted, Calum started the meeting. He talked about humans encroaching farther into the territory. About hellhound sightings. He reminded them to stay inside and safe on the dark of the moon.
Finishing up, he told of births and deaths and ended with, “We welcome a new shifter to the North Cascades Territory. Margery, originally from Dogwood, is a server at Angie’s Diner. She’s also a banfasa and is working with Donal. The clan increases.”
The crowd in the room echoed back, “The Clan increases,” and Margery was the recipient of a myriad of smiles.
Donal was used to people not being completely honest.
To his littermate, everything was black or white, and lying was wrong. Period. Many law enforcement people had that mindset.
But, truly, dishonesty came in many shades. Lying to a healer was common, and his patients misled themselves as much as they did him—and for the same reason. Fear. They wanted to deny anything was wrong with their bodies, their minds, their loved ones. Understandable enough, although not something he would allow.
However, malicious lies about another person fell into a whole different category.
If he’d been in cat form, his claws would be unsheathed right now.
After talking with Margery last Monday, he’d dropped in at the B&B and the Wildwood Lodge. On Gathering day, there were always a few Rainier Territory shifters in town. Donal had sniffed out any Ailill Ridge shifters who’d been tended by Margery—like the two cats after a wolf-cat brawl—or had relatives or friends who’d been her patients. They all said she was excellent. Were appalled she’d left. Wanted her back.
Self-reproach nipped Donal’s conscience. He should have asked Gretchen and Caleb more questions. They’d out-and-out lied to him about the little banfasa, and he now had proof.
Now he could play with them.
His gaze turned toward the bar and the two lying weasels.
The meeting was over. Seniors, lifemated adults, and children were heading home, leaving the tavern to females of child-bearing age and single males.
Donal strolled up to the bar and halted behind his prey who sat on barstools. “Gretchen, Caleb. Just who I wanted to speak with.” His voice was loud enough to attract attention, and curious gazes turned his way.
“Donal, how nice to see you.” Gretchen leaned forward to give him a view of her breasts.
Pretty breasts. Not interested.
Gretchen’s outer appearance might be perfection, but inside she was pure ugliness.
Beside Gretchen, Caleb growled at what he saw as competition. “What d’you want?”
“Last Gathering, you told me about a banfasa named Margery.” He moved within sniffing distance. The moon hadn’t yet risen so the air was mostly free of the scents of testosterone and heated females. If he made Gretchen or Caleb nervous, everyone around would be able to sniff out their lies.
Gretchen sneered. “What about Margery?”
Behind the bar, the Cosantir silently moved closer.
“You said Caleb almost bled to death because the banfasa insisted on caring for her friends first.” Donal tilted his head in consideration. “Yes, that’s exactly what you said.”
Gretchen frowned. “So?”
“Where were you injured that night, Caleb?”
Caleb scowled. “None of your fucking business. I’m not—”
“I’d like to hear the answer, as well.” Tynan joined Donal.
Scars like white tattoos running up his forearms, Thorson stood on Caleb’s other side. The old werecat had a deadly look in his eyes.
Alec took the stool next to Gretchen. Owen, his fellow cahir, stood beside him.
“Caleb? I’d like an answer, please.” Donal kept his tone polite, his claws sheathed. Mustn’t kill the prey too quickly. “Where were you injured?”
“My arm. A cat clawed my arm.”
“Ah. Show me where. Exactly.”
Scowling, Caleb curved his fingers and motioned down the outside of his left arm.
“There are no arteries there.” Donal put a snap in his voice. “Were you really in danger of bleeding to death?”
A long growl preceded the answer. “No.”
“So, Gretchen lied to me, and you backed up her lie.”
Another growl, that of a trapped dog. “Aye.”
When Tynan growled back, Donal shot his brother a shut-it glare, before turning his attention to Gretchen. “You told me the banfasa was terrible at her job. Is that a lie, too?”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t—” Gretchen faltered when Donal and the others lifted their noses and sniffed. The air held the foul stench of a lie. “Fine, yes, I, maybe, stretched