Kill, v.t. To create a vacancy without nominating a successor.

―Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

chapter four

Two steaming ceramic mugs were deposited on the kitchen counter in front of Keller and Galen.

"It's the house special," Alma confided with a sly smile and a laugh like paper being crinkled. "My own concoction. Just a few herbs guaranteed to clear the mind, wipe away your troubles, and bring sweet dreams. Not to mention you'll sleep like a log."

The two teenagers dutifully wrapped their hands around the scalding cups, their fingers dancing across the surface to avoid being burned. Galen gripped the mug by the handle and leaned in to take a couple of tentative sips, draining away the topmost liquid lapping at the sides and threatening to overflow. Keller blew softly on hers before taking a deep drink, as if willing the tea to truly wash away the nagging worries on her mind. Both shapeshifters offered up their enthusiastic appraisal of Alma's brew along with contented smiles, and the old witch allowed herself a quiet glow of satisfaction. There were very few people impervious to Galen's charisma, but Alma also found that after their initial tense encounter she had a growing soft spot for Keller as well. The dark-haired girl reminded Alma of herself in a roundabout sort of way, all rough edges and good intentions. And with her own granddaughter missing, these two were excellent surrogates.

Silas leaned against the sink, staring broodingly into his own tea, a mixture that he had put together himself not for sleep but for focusing and sharpening the senses; he didn't intend on getting any rest that night. He had sent his wife home to their house a few blocks away in the company of his brother, his sister-in-law, and his niece to take solace in each other, to keep watch for Rory there, and possibly to sleep. But he had remained at the apartment to keep his own vigil and to protect his mother if danger were to return.

"It makes me nervous," he said to no one in particular, or maybe just to his mug. "The longer that she's gone, the more that could happen to her, and I feel so helpless just sitting around the kitchen drinking tea."

"It's not necessarily a bad sign that Aurora hasn't come back," Keller offered with as much conviction as she could muster. "If she's found a safe place for the night, it's better that she stay put until the sun's up again. The Council's vampires and 'shifters have an advantage over her in the dark."

"Not that the Council's prepared for any real maneuvers tonight," Galen tagged on hastily, trying to dispel any images of Rory cornered by a snarling pack of 'shifter wolves that Keller's last statement might have conjured. "They might do some basic scouting, a little reconnaissance, but they aren't any more prepared for a hunt than we are. They were dealt a serious blow this evening."

Alma was Silas's mother, and therefore was not required to be quite as considerate as the teenage Daybreakers. "Stop fretting, boyo," she commanded, whip-sharp. "I've told you time and again the girl will be just fine. She will come back to us when she's ready, and nothing we do will make that a moment sooner."

The thin, middle-aged man grimaced but didn't dare a full-fledged scowl. Alma's word was law among the family, and he would never go so far as to outright question one of her premonitions, but he had discovered a number of loopholes over the years. Alma had a particular fondness not only for her firstborn grandchild, but also for her firstborn child that he'd learned to exploit. "Even still," he murmured, a supplicant, "it would put me at ease as a father to know I had made an effort. Perhaps in the morning we could have our own small search―for my conscience."

Keller frowned at the inch or so of murky liquid remaining in her mug, already feeling the calming, drowsy effects and willing her sluggish mind back into motion. "Galen and I could be of some assistance. Not much, but it's something. We're designed for stalking not tracking, but we can pick up a scent and follow it a small distance. But if the trail's cold…" She shook her head bleakly, "We're only two shapeshifters and a grid search of a forest this size would take weeks, maybe a month or two."

"It's times like these that make you wish you had bloodhounds handy," Galen added in a half-hearted attempt at levity.

Silas stopped contemplating his tea and turned his eyes, oddly sharp and aware, on the golden-haired prince. "Not bloodhounds…wolves."

"You mean werewolves?" Keller asked at the same time Alma slammed her tiny fist into the counter with a resounding thwack.

"Absolutely not," the petite witch's voice rang out. "We will have nothing to do with them."

Silas laid down his mug, straightened his shoulders, and the injured parent transformed into an imposing presence. "Liam is not his father. He's a decent man, as decent as werewolves come."

The air around Alma positively crackled with restrained energy. "It does not matter what he may or may not appear to be. We both know what kind of stock the O'Connells come from. Old Ciaran O'Connell was banished from the whole of Ireland because his father was a man-eater. They're savages descended from savages."

Silas hung his head, whatever spirit of rebellion that had inhabited him deflated. He had no valid arguments; he himself lived with the intimate knowledge of how bad blood could haunt a family through the years.

"I'd be interested in hearing more about these werewolves," Keller persisted because she had no reason to fear Alma. "If they could bring us any closer to locating Aurora or if they've noticed anything out of the ordinary recently, Circle Daybreak would be very keen on speaking with them. And the only approval Galen and I would need would be from the Daybreakers," Keller inserted the veiled threat, regarding Alma steadily over the rim of her cup with glaciers in her gray eyes. Circle Daybreak's interests took precedence over any ancient witch's irrational fears, no matter how sweet and sincere she appeared to be.

"Perhaps now is the perfect time to let go of old prejudices," Galen appealed, his compassion a flawless counterpoint to Keller's argument. They were a team, the pair of them, attacking simultaneously from two different angles. "There is nothing quite like a crisis to bring people together. And the one thing we need more than anything else right now is cooperation, if we're to stand together against the end of the world."

"You don't even truly need to bury the proverbial hatchet," Keller commented with a wry smile, "You just need to refrain from burying it in each other's back."

"For Aurora's sake," Galen pleaded.

Alma sagged against the counter with a sigh. It had been a long time since she had been in this position; since she had become the family matriarch, there had been no higher authority than her to appeal to. But these teenagers were not hers to command as she pleased, and she could not risk alienating them because they would be pivotal in protecting her granddaughter from forces she could not. For the first time in her life, she felt old and tired and overpowered.

"The O'Connells live in the middle of the forest," Alma offered the information as if it pained her. "Silas will take you in the morning. If Rory hasn't returned by then, that is," she amended harshly as an afterthought. "Now, shoo." She flapped her hands in the teenagers' direction. "Go on to bed, children. It has been a long day, and tomorrow will prove to be longer still. Rest while you can."

°°°

Much to Rory's chagrin, Dillion insisted rather vehemently on carrying her up the stairs and gallantly escorting her to her room for the night. This decision settled upon not quite unanimously, the three other O'Connells exchanged knowing glances that foreshadowed jokes to come at the two teenager's expense once they were out of earshot.

At the door farthest from the staircase, Dillion gently lowered Aurora until her feet found purchase on the slick wood floor of the upstairs hallway, and she gingerly established her balance. She swayed, her injured foot tucked up behind her other knee in a flamingo-esque pose, and wondered numbly which would hurt more if she upended: her bruised skull or her bruised pride.

"You're sure you can―" he began.

"Yes," she affirmed without waiting for the rest, perhaps secretly concerned that she would be overruled like she had been downstairs. "I'm sure I can handle it from here."

Dillion appeared doubtful, but he handed over his other burden―an oversized shirt and a pair of soft running shorts loaned by Casey―without a dissenting word.

Rory accepted the bundle of clothes with a murmur of gratitude, then twisted awkwardly to look uneasily over her shoulder. "Are sure that Ulf―"

"He doesn't mind loaning you his room," Dillion interrupted her in such an identical manner to how she had him that it seemed impossible that it was coincidence. They couldn't possibly be that similar, could they? "In fact, I'd say he considers it an honor."

Rory snorted skeptically. "Ask him if it's such an honor in the morning, when his back's stiff from sleeping on your floor."

Dillion laughed as if she had caught him off guard and the sound had been drawn involuntarily out him. "Ah," he drawled appreciatively, "so our little witchling's witty to boot."

Rory smiled hesitantly and allowed her eyes to rest on her lone foot, the color rising in her cheeks. She had never known how to accept a compliment with grace. Dillion's hand stretched out to cup her chin tenderly, drawing her face back up. There was a slightly bewildered expression on his face. "Do you always do that?"

"Do what?" The air around her was thick and buzzing, like she had stumbled into a cloud of drunken honeybees, and she couldn't quite concentrate on the meaning of his question.

"Look at the floor. When you're embarrassed."

"Um." Her eyebrows drew together as she struggled to pull a thought out of the sudden whirlwind in her mind. "I guess so. Why?"

"No reason." He shook his head, and she got the sense that he could hear the drone of the honeybees as well. "It's…cute."

She almost allowed her glance to skitter away again, but his hand was in the way. Silence wrapped them with the efficiency of a blanket, muffling all her senses except the feeling of his hand on her skin, so intense that she could almost count the ridges on his fingertips. She coughed to clear the obstacle that had suddenly sprung up in her throat. "So…"

He grinned, which sent a fresh wave of heat through her body, but he also removed his hand, making breathing infinitely easier. "Don't act so serious," he admonished lightheartedly. "We're not getting married or anything. Our fates are only intertwined for the rest of eternity, that's all."

She laughed a little hollowly. She wasn't really sure what her opinion of this 'soulmate' thing was yet. It required a lot less energy to simply not think about it. "All the more reason I should try to make a good first impression."

"Oh," he said, smile widening and sarcasm thickening, "you mean the impression you made when I found you swimming in the underbrush…Or the impression you made when you christened me with that ingenious new nickname―what was it, puppy?...Or the impression you made crying hysterically when I tried to introduce you to my sister..."

"Okay, okay." She held out a hand in a mock attempt to fend off his teasing attacks, nearly touched him, and pulled back at the last second. "I get the point. But that's me, I guess. I'm not particularly graceful or tactful or anything like that."

"Yet somehow I find everything thing about you utterly enchanting and completely charming." He swept up her hand―the one not clutching her pajamas―and held it to his heart dramatically with the flair of a born showman. "Whatever spell you've cast on me, I'm afraid I'll never be in my right mind again―nor will I ever want to be."

She made a face at him. "Someone watches too many old movies," she accused, "trying to use lines like that."

He affected his most piteous expression. "Are you saying that you weren't impressed?"

"Yes―no―" she stuttered, flustered and unsure of what answer was expected of her, "I don't know."

Dillion suppressed another flashing smile and schooled his expression into some semblance of solemnity before sketching a gentlemanly bow over the hand he still had possession of. "I fear I will have to cut my losses and concede this assault on your affections." He glanced at her over the top of her hand, their eyes snagging, before adding forebodingly, "For tonight. It's been a pleasure, witchling." His lips brushed her knuckles in a chaste, feather-light touch that left her shuddering with the impact. "Now get some shut eye. You'll need it." And with that, he released her and padded smugly down the hall.

There was nothing left for Rory to do but hobble unsteadily over to the bed, nursing the suspicion that somehow he had gotten the upper hand over her after all.

°°°

Astonishingly, someone had found time to make the two twin beds in guest room with the crisp new sheets that Aurora had dropped off at the apartment before her ill-fated trip to the diner downstairs.

Keller stepped inside the bedroom, Galen following at her heel, and he hastily turned to shut the door securely behind them. Before Keller could even draw a breath, Galen had seized her by the wrists and pulled her into a bear hug. "I've been waiting hours for this," he murmured into the curve of her throat. She chuckled softly at the tickle his words elicited and tangled her hands in the short golden hairs on the back of his neck. I love you. It wasn't clear which one of them the thought came from, not that it particularly mattered. She surrendered herself to the moment, to the beauty of it, the security of it, the immensity of it. Surrender was no longer quite so intimidating as she once thought it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, hardly even recognizing she was speaking. They had entered that space where things like time and rational thought were abandoned. "I'm really, really sorry. I put you in danger again, and on top of that I was angry with you and―"

Galen relinquished his grip on her only enough to hold her at arm's length and shake her once, hard. "Stop that. If you're sorry, then I'm sorry too. I started it, trying to force you into a role that shouldn't be forced on anyone. I should have known that it will take time for you to see it how I do."

One corner of her lips quirked upwards. Some detached part of her mind recognized that they were both a little hysterical, shell-shocked; it hadn't been too long ago they had faced yet again the possibility of losing each other, and they were still dealing with the reverberations of that. "It seems we're at an impasse. Neither one of us can prove we're more sorry than the other."

Galen looked hopeful. "If this is a contest, is there some kind of prize awarded to the winner?"

She laughed and shook her head. "I don't know. I don't care. I just want to put it behind us."

He liberated her arms in order to reach out and brush away a strand of hair that had fallen forward into her eyes. "I agree for now, but we're going to have to talk about it eventually." He fixed her with a look from his gem-bright eyes, serious yet sympathetic at the same time; his stare told her that they didn't have to be on opposing sides of this argument.

"I know," she admitted bleakly. "Now's not the right time, though. You're here with me, healthy and whole, and that's all I want to think about. We were having too nice a moment to ruin it by being serious."

"You know," he mused after a few seconds had gone by, scheming smile taking form on his face, "the summer solstice would be the perfect opportunity to start talking about it. That is, if you consent to spend it with my parents and me."

"I'll think about it." She paused for effect. "But it's going to have to be on my terms."

"You are absolutely, positively not wearing one of your jumpsuits," he protested fervently, reading the hint of a smile in her eyes.

Her lips twitched, betraying her amusement. "I will if I want to. There's nothing wrong with my jumpsuit."

"Of course, there's nothing wrong with it, but…this is kind of an elegant affair. I―Goddess, Keller, I'll make you a dress out of 'shifter skins if you'll just promise me you won't wear a jumpsuit."

The smile she'd been wrestling with emerged. "Remember, Galen, you're in no position to negotiate. I have the leverage in this situation."

The teasing glint in her glance erased all concern he had for what she was or was not wearing. One eyebrow rose. "Leverage, huh? And just how do you intend to manipulate me?"

She balled one of her hands around the material of his shirt, yanking him forward. She sunk her lips into his just long enough for his toes to curl and his hands to creep up to her sides, then she freed him and skittered out of reach. He regarded her a little dazedly, regarded the distance that had sprung up so suddenly between them, and he laughed out loud―a white flag.

"You're the devil," he accused with a broad smile. He took a few steps backward and flopped down on one of the beds.

"That's 'demon'," she corrected with a playful growl, and tumbled after him.

°°°

"Something's wrong." Ulf stepped up behind his older brother, crossing from the light spilling out from the living room into the shadows on the front porch.

Dillion glanced sideways into his younger sibling's unreadable dark eyes, so much like their father's. He remembered with a twinge of nostalgia a time when he had been able to look down on that thatch of red hair. "I know," Dillion answered simply. If the situation hadn't been quite so serious, he might have taken a moment to feel pride in Ulf. Ulf had always been the brightest of the three of them, sharp, intuitive, and wise far beyond his years.

"I can sense them out there, too, Dillion," Ulf confided with an expansive gesture at the woods ringing the house. "Two of them close by, no more."

"For now," the usually effusive Dillion managed stiffly.

"This isn't about territory, is it?" Ulf edged closer as his voice lowered. "It's about her."

"Yes." Dillion nodded gravely. "Whoever they are, they're following her trail, for some reason I'm not sure of."

Ulf briefly touched his brother's forearm in a comforting motion. Werewolves communicated just as efficiently by physical means as they did with words. "And you're planning on sending a warning message to any others that might be coming after these two?" Ulf already knew the answer, but he transformed the statement into a question at the last second, just for the reassurance.

"Yes." Dillion was the only one of the three siblings who could lie convincingly with any degree of skill, but he didn't relish the talent and now was no time to deceive Ulf as to his true motives.

"I want to go with you."

The statement hung between them in a sudden surge of silence. Dillion wanted desperately to feel shocked or incensed or even mildly surprised, but somehow he had known this was coming all along. He effortlessly forced one of his toothy smiles and an infectious laugh. If there was something he never wanted to do, it was to wound Ulf's fragile pride with his answer; it was best if he eased into with his most jovial manner. "You've got puppy love bad, kid. You only just met the girl and you're already trying to become her knight-in-shining-armor. Next thing I know, you'll be challenging me to a duel over her honor." He adjusted his tone, unconsciously imitating Liam's unyielding intonation in a glimpse of the alpha wolf he was destined to become one day. "No. I have to do this alone. She's my soulmate; I'm the one responsible for her safety."

There was a faint tinge of red in Ulf's cheeks where his face was backlit by the artificial light escaping into the night through the open door. "If she's your soulmate that makes her pack, doesn't it? And we're all responsible for the safety of the pack."

"You're too clever for your own good, you know that? If we hadn't been home schooled you would have been a shoe-in for the debate team." The joking note faded just as swiftly as it had come. "But you're only fifteen. I can't ask you to take part in something like this."

"You're not asking, and I'm not asking permission. 'Sides, a wolf shouldn't hunt alone. Especially not a quarry like this one."

Dillion gave his brother a thin, unhappy grin. There was a sickness inside him, a sadness for what was about to happen. "I can't dissuade you, then?"

Ulf shook his head resolutely. "Should I go get Papa or Casey? We might need the extra help."

"No, someone should stay here with Rory in case they move in on the house while we're gone." He shoved the uneasy feeling deep within himself, squared his shoulders, and shot his brother a look full of unspoken meaning. "You ready?"

Ulf smirked savagely with his own private victory in a way that chilled Dillion's spine. "Yes."

Dillion began to undress, quickly and efficiently, as Ulf did the same. His bare skin shivered in the chill of the night air and in anticipation of the transformation to come, the freedom of his second form. Ulf unleashed an unconscious howl as the change ripped through his body. In a matter of minutes, two wolves descended the steps in unison, one dark as the shadows and the other ruddy and bright. Dillion and Ulf left behind their human skins just as simply as they did their clothes folded neatly on the welcome mat.

As a werewolf, Dillion possessed a few more contradictions than the average eighteen-year-old. Dillion the person was a compassionate soul, even-tempered and bighearted with a free spirit and a free smile. He was intelligent, brimming with profound thought, and he had always been appointed the judge of his younger sibling's squabbles for his ability to sympathize with both sides of the argument and for his inherent fairness. Dillion the wolf had no conscience because he didn't need one. There was no malice in the heart of the wolf; it was a born predator―a killer, not a murderer. It had no remorse because it lived simply by the laws of nature, killing to eat and to live and to protect its pack.

And Ulf was right, as usual. Rory was pack now. Which meant that Dillion could have no scruples about what the wolf was duty-bound to do.

°°°

The Council's operatives discovered their former scouts in the gray hours before dawn in a grisly scene, lying no more than a few hundred feet apart. The kills had been made with human hands―or not-quite-human hands with more than average strength. The necks of the two shapeshifters, a pair of mountain lions, had been snapped from behind; it was clean, efficient, and strangely enough, merciful. They'd probably been dead before they realized what was happening.

The killers hadn't bothered to disguise the abnormally large paw prints around the perimeter of the area, a sign which seemed to indicate this was a territorial execution. These deaths would serve as a warning to anyone else who might encroach on the werewolves' swath of the woods. Or at least that's what the vampires investigating the incident concluded, since their prey was normally lured to them and their heightened senses of smell were ill-equipped for sniffing out Aurora Dustin's faint trail. If a shapeshifter wolf had been present, he would have immediately recognized that this was not simply the aggressive action of overprotective pack staking a claim.

But as it was, the team that had been tasked with retrieving the Dustin witch made note to give the werewolves a wider berth in the days to come.