Amber’s eyes darkened as she set her cup down deliberately. A pregnant pause followed—the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator and our racing hearts. Then, in a voice laced with reluctance and defiance, she spat, “Well… she may be dead…” The words dripped out like a laugh.
Aaron’s expression twisted into incredulity. “May be?” he echoed, disbelief mingled with amused irritation. “Do I need to pop champagne?”
She shifted; for a split second, regret flashed in her eyes before they hardened. “Not yet—it’s too early for champagne—but yes, she’s dead. I know she’s dead. Francine killed her to offer her body to Hecate; she just didn’t have time to do it properly.” Her tone was flat, as if she were discussing the weather rather than the brutal end of someone once pivotal to our pack.
And a
