His twin materialized from the kitchen area, a sandwich forgotten in his hand as he took in Conall’s appearance.The bond between them flared with concern, a different kind of connection from the raw, jagged thing that now tied Conall to Nadine.
What happened?Quinton was already moving, sandwich tossed aside as he rushed to support Conall’s weight.You’re burning up.
Trank dart,Conall managed, his voice rough as sandpaper.Eastern border.Ambush.
Quinton helped him to the couch, his movements efficient, familiar.
They’d patched each other up countless times, a consequence of their role as pack protectors.But this was different.This wasn’t a training injury or the result of breaking up territorial squabbles.
Who?Quinton’s face hardened, the rare shift from his usually more reserved demeanor revealing the depth of his concern.Hunters?
Conall shook his head and immediately regretted it as the room tilted sideways.
Military precision.Specialized equipment.Each word required effort, pushing through the tranquilizer’s effects.Targeting shifters specifically.
Quinton disappeared into the bathroom and returned with their emergency medical kit.The twins kept a better-stocked first aid setup than most humans would find reasonable, but it had proven necessary more than once.
Show me the entry site,Quinton ordered, slipping into the rhythm they’d established years ago.In medical situations, Quinton took the lead.In combat, Conall.They’d never needed to discuss it; the roles had simply evolved naturally, like two halves of a whole.
Conall gestured to his shoulder, where the dart had penetrated, and Quinton hissed through his teeth.
This isn’t standard.He examined the wound closely.The skin around it’s red, and there’s a darker color spreading outward—looks like a spiderweb.What else?You shouldn’t still be conscious with this kind of reaction.
Counteragent.Conall’s lips felt numb.“She gave me something…slowed it down.
Intruder.On our eastern border.Conall took a shuddering breath.Said she’s Gregory Torrance’s daughter.
Quinton’s hands stilled.Gregory Torrance had a daughter?How did we not know about this?The man was Vincent’s right hand for years.
Apparently.Conall grimaced, both from the physical pain and the unwelcome revelation.Must have kept her away from the pack.Maybe she grew up somewhere else.She smelled like high mountains, pine forests—nothing like our territory.
Vincent kept tabs on everyone’s family connections.Quinton resumed cleaning the wound, his movements betraying his agitation.If Torrance had a daughter, Vincent would have known.Which means he deliberately kept that information from the pack records.
She thinks we killed Gregory.The words came out slurred as another wave of dizziness hit.Says he’s dead.
That’s impossible.He was exiled, not executed.Quinton reached for a bottle of antiseptic.Malcolm and Larissa would never—
I know.Conall winced as Quinton cleaned the wound.But she believes it.And she’s…
He trailed off, not ready to voice the connection aloud.
She’s what?Quinton asked.
She thinks we’re traitors,Conall finally said.That we’re working to destroy other packs.
What?Quinton’s hands stilled again.Where would she get that idea?
No idea.Conall fought to keep his eyes open, to maintain focus.Didn’t have time to discuss it before we were attacked.Professional hit team with tacticals, specialized tranks.
Chimera?
Maybe.Conall shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t send shock waves of pain through his system.Or whoever Gregory was working with after his exile.
Quinton worked in silence for a moment, applying a poultice to the wound—one of Dr.Weiss’s special blends designed to counteract silver poisoning.Not a perfect match for the tranquilizer chemicals, but the closest thing they had.
You need to report this,Quinton said finally, his tone making it clear this wasn’t a suggestion.To Malcolm and Larissa.Tonight.
Tomorrow.Conall shook his head.Pack meeting.I’ll be more coherent then.
