They argued about the tribunal until dawn.
I sat at the edge of the clubhouse main room and watched Ironfang tear itself in half over it. Half the club wanted to refuse to ignore Damien's summons, fortify the compound, and let him choke on his own lie. The other half understood what Roan said quietly from the corner: that refusing a Founding Moon tribunal was, under the oldest law there was, a confession. Refuse to answer, and every pack in the region would treat Ironfang as guilty. Damien wouldn't have to prove the kidnapping. Ironfang's empty chair would prove it for him.
"So we walk into his trap," one of the younger wolves snarled. "Into his tribunal, on his neutral ground, and let him hang the President in front of the whole territory."
"Or," I said.
The room turned. I'd learned,
