Something wet lands on the front of my tank top.

Because Max spit on me.

“Ew.” I gasp, disgusted, but before I can—I don’t know, spit back?—Lowe’s hand presses against Max’s chest and pins him to the couch.

“What the fuck did you just do?” he grunts.

“She’s a Vampyre!”

“She’s my—” Lowe’s hand jerks up to clutch Max’s jaw. “Apologize to my wife.”

“Sorry. Sorry. Please don’t— I’m sorry.” Max starts sobbing.

Lowe turns to me. “Do you accept?”

“Accept . . . the spit?”

“His apology.”

“Oh.” Oh my God. What is happening? “Sure, why not? It was so . . . sincere and spontaneous. Just, hold his head still, and don’t let him move—yes, hands on the chin. Okay, this will take a second, don’t let him wiggle away.”

I start with my thumb at the base of Max’s nose, and my index and forefingers on his forehead. Then I wait for Max to calm down and meet my eyes.

At the fourth attempt, I get a lock. Max’s brain is soft, and overagitated, and easy to sink into. I stitch his mind to mine and then scramble it a little—a temporary interference. I don’t stop until I’m extra sure that my hold on him is tight, and when I pull back, his body relaxes at once, pupils suddenly blown wider. Behind me, I hear some murmurs and a soft “What the fuck?” but it’s easy to push it out, just as easy as it is to let my eyes do what they’re supposed to.

For the thrall.

Humans say that we have magical mind-control powers. That our souls can body-snatch theirs and tie them up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Much like everything else, though, it’s simple biology. An additional intraocular muscle that allows us to shift our eyes at high speed and induce a hypnotic state. Vampyres who are talented thrallers, like my father, can do it without touching their victim at all, and much more quickly. But they are rare, and for the mediocre ones like me, who need someone to be restrained to initiate a thrall, it can be an unwieldy practice.

There are some caveats, too. The thrall only works on other species, and not every brain is equally responsive. And, of course, entering people’s minds without consent is an act of violence, and deeply unethical. Just because we can, it doesn’t mean that we should. But Max did try to hurt Ana, and he might do it again. Plus, my morals are just not that solid.

“Okay.” I lean back, vigorously rubbing my eyes. The thrall requires a lot of energy. “He’s all yours.”

Everyone stares at me open-mouthed. And my mind might be playing tricks, but I’m almost positive that they’ve all taken a step back from me.

Except for Lowe, who’s almost too close.

“You guys might wanna hurry. This will only last ten minutes or so.” I point at Max’s state of unresponsive stupor. “He won’t just word-salad his life story at you. You need to go ahead and ask him questions.” No one speaks. Did I accidentally thrall them, too? “Something like, ‘Why were you trying to take Ana, Max?’ ”

“I was tasked to take her to the Loyals, where she could be used as leverage, to force Lowe to step down as Alpha,” he recites tonelessly.

The room explodes in a flurry of panicky, suspicious mutters that have nothing to do with Max’s answer. In fact, I’m pretty sure I catch a “Microwaved his brain.”

“The thrall,” Lowe murmurs.

“Yup. That’s it. No deep-frying involved.” I stand and grimace at the spit on my shirt. It’s starting to seep through—gross.

“I thought it was a myth,” Cal whispers. “That our elders used to scare us.”

I can relate, since I grew up fairly sure that if I misbehaved, a Were would crawl up the toilet to eat my ass. “It’s not. I’m not really good at this, actually.” It seems best not to disclose what someone like Father could do.

“You look plenty good to me,” Cal says. He actually sounds admiring, while Ken is glaring suspiciously, and Mick frowns, and Gemma shakes her head, and some other Weres exchange looks, and Juno seems, as ever, worried and angry, and Lowe . . .

I’ve given up on understanding Lowe.

“How do we know you’re not planting lies in his head?” Ken asks.

I shrug. “Ask him something I wouldn’t know.”

“What happened when you asked Mary Lakes out for a date?” Juno says.

“She said no,” Max drones.

“Why?”

“Because I had a huge blob of snot coming out of my nose.”

It’s funny, but no one laughs. The group seems to have gotten over the initial incredulity, and Cal starts grilling Max. “Did Roscoe’s mate send you to take Ana?”

“I believe so, even though I did not talk to Emery directly.”

Cal shakes his head. “Of fucking course.”

“Stop.” Lowe interrupts, and the room falls silent again. He turns to me. My breath catches as his arm reaches inside the hoodie he put on me. His palm briefly fits on my waist, then moves north to brush against my breast, and oh my God, what—

He slides his phone out of the inside pocket and pulls back.

My cheeks are on fire.

“Take her to her room, then come back,” he orders Mick. To Juno: “Check on Ana, please.”

I’m escorted out. I must really be at my most busybody, because I’m tempted to ask if I can stay. Figure out what this strange war within the Weres could be about. Instead I meekly follow Mick up the stairs.

“I hope I didn’t get you in trouble,” I tell him, “but I saw Max take Ana, and I know you guys don’t believe me, but he’d attacked me, so—”

“No one doubted you,” he says kindly.

I look at him. “Lowe sure did.”

“Lowe knew Max had attacked you first. He is very good at smelling lies.”

“Oh. As in . . . literally smelling?”

Mick nods but doesn’t elaborate. “He knew Max was up to something, knew it had to do with Ana, and wanted to get as much information as he could out of him. It’s a tightrope to walk, for Lowe. He won’t go about interrogating every person he doesn’t like, or he’ll be the same as Roscoe was toward the end. But the Loyals have been hurting their own, and they must be stopped.”

“He sure seemed ready to let the others torture Max.”

“That was a show, meant to scare Max. And it would have worked, we could all smell it. But you did make it easier with your . . .” He smiles and gestures at my eyes. “Just promise you won’t do it to me, okay? You were scary in there.”

“I would never. You’re my most beloved jailer.” I smile, close-lipped and fangless. “Besides, I’m the one who should be scared.”

“Why?”

I point to the scar on his neck. The row of teeth marking his collarbone. “You’re the one rolling in here with that, like your favorite pastime is getting into fights.” I cock my head. “Is that how you turned into a Were?”

His eyebrow quirks. “We’re a legitimate species, not an infectious disease.”

“Just making sure that if someone bites me I won’t turn into you.”

“If you bit someone, would it turn them into a Vampyre?”

I think about it for a moment. “Touché.”

He laughs softly and shakes his head, suddenly wistful. “This is my mate’s bite.”

Mate. The word, again.

“Do they have one, too? Your mate.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have I met them?”

He looks away. “She’s not with us anymore.”

“Oh.” I swallow, unsure what to say. I hope it wasn’t one of my people who did it. “I’m sorry. It sounds like mates are a big deal.”

He nods. “Mating bonds are the core of every pack. But I don’t think it’s wise for me to discuss Were customs with you.” He gives me a look that manages to be chiding and soft all at once. “Especially if you’re chatting with your brother in a language no one else speaks.”

Oh, shit. “It’s not . . . I just missed home. Wanted to hear something familiar.”

“Did you?” We come to a halt in front of my door. Mick opens it, and gestures for me to step inside. “How curious. You don’t strike me as the type who ever had a home.”