Page 65 of Dark

“Is there one here?”

“No. They’re no good for the people living in them or the community. The day I became a peace officer, I swore an oath to protect the public, human and shifter alike. This pack has helped rehabilitate shifters struggling with control and will continue to do so. But the only way that works is making them members of the community—providing extra support and structure until they’re ready to be back functioning on their own and fully independent.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, sick at the thought of what could be happening to my bandmates. “Do you think they’re still alive?”

“Probably,” Ethan said grimly. “They can’t be changed until the full moon. Most likely they’re being held somewhere. I keep coming back to those track marks on Topher’s wrists. We’ve been operating on the assumption that we’re dealing with another pack that’s gone off the grid, that someone’s been picking up runaways. Addicts. Young people on the move between cities—”

“Cases never likely to see the light of day.” Brody looked down. “Whoever’s behind this knows what they’re doing.”

“Yeah. But what if those aren’t track marks at all?”

Brody cursed under his breath. I turned to Ethan, who quickly continued.

“You remember August thought he scented a human trying to get into Ellie’s car? Vamp blood is nearly odorless. It’s their one natural defense against weres, and why Tracers have such a hard time tracking them. But when the prickheads feed, they give off the scent of the blood they absorb for up to seventy-two hours.”

“So one of them could have smelled human?”

“Pretty much.”

Brody stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows down at the street. “There’s a long, bloody history between vamps and shifters where they’ve held us as blood slaves. When vamps drink from us, not only do our healing abilities allow them to temporarily withstand sunlight, but combine their strength and speed with our ability to regenerate and you can create a pretty much unstoppable army. Trouble is, there’s a catch.

“The lycan virus is incompatible with their blood. We don’t know if it alters their genetic structure or repeat exposure eats away at the myelin sheath protecting their nervous tissue, but drink from us enough times and fang-heads lose muscle coordination, can’t move, swallow or breathe, and eventually die.”

Ethan jerked his chin. “They force the lowest castes in their houses to drink from captured shifters and send them out to attack rival covens. Between the caste revolts, vamp infighting, and the Council sending in Tracers to clean out houses where shifters were being held, entire covens have been wiped out. That fang-head who outed us all to the human world three years ago? There was a rumor making the rounds he was from a lower caste, forced to drink our blood so many times neurological effects were already setting in. He knew he was dying. This was his eff you to the people who’d used him as a pawn in their war for power.”

“A cease-fire was signed shortly after that dashcam footage went live.” Brody rubbed his stubble. “If you’re right and one of the covens is trying to reignite the Blood Wars—"

I rose to my feet. “This isn’t going to end until we end it ourselves.”

Ethan held my eyes. “What’s your plan?”

“We do this on our terms. Control the variables. Announce a benefit concert for the last weekend of the Harvest Moon Festival. Blast it out over social media.”

“That’s in four days.”

“It’s last minute, but I’ll ask around, see if there’s anyone willing to drive up here and play.”

I felt his flare of protectiveness through the bond. “What makes you think whoever’s after you will bite this time?”

Turning, I met his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

* * *

The final morning of the Harvest Moon Festival dawned unseasonably warm. Pulling into the empty field that had been reserved for parking, Ethan cut the engine.

“You sure about this, Daisy?”

I closed my eyes. He’d spent the past four days retreating further and further into himself. Our conversations had been stilted, our silences in comparison seeming to scream. I knew on some level he believed this was his fault, whether because it was his world I’d inadvertently stepped into, or because we’d failed to apprehend Topher out at Bluff Point. And nothing I said could convince him otherwise.

But as much as the thought of Ethan hurting tore me up inside, I couldn’t worry about that right now. The police had no new leads on my bandmates. And Ellie was getting hang-up calls from a blocked number.

Which meant we were out of time.

Taking one of the pens he always kept in the cup holder, Ethan uncapped it and outlined a tiny daisy at the base of my palm.

“Anything happens out there today—"

“You’ll Devils-Food-mocha-muffin me back home?”