He nods. Walks out.
I read the summons again. The charges are precise. Brenna Corvus is a careful lawyer for a woman who isn’t one — she’s listed dates, amounts, corridor routes that match every record in my father’s ledger. She didn’t guess at the numbers. Someone inside the compound fed her this, or Conner handed over the ledger itself. Both options produce the same outcome.
I set the letter face down on the desk. My wolf has been strange today. Not pacing. Not the restless animal that dragged me to a mate who doesn’t want me. Quiet, the way a guard dog goes quiet when it’s listening to something the human can’t hear.
I don’t examine it. I have a hearing to prepare for.
I call the lawyer the Forresters have kept on retainer since my grandfather’s time. A man named Holcomb, in San Antonio, old-school, the kind who answers his own phone. I tell him what’s coming. He’s already seen the summons — Bern’s network moves fast. He comes to the compound by Wednesday afternoon with a junior associate and a legal pad, and we work for three days.
The statement Holcomb builds is tight and precise. Good faith. A program inherited from a prior generation. Assurances from a network that presented itself as a legitimate placementservice. The respondent operated under the understanding that magic-blooded wolves were being relocated to supportive communities. Upon learning of the program’s true nature, the respondent began a process of internal review, which was interrupted by the recent raid. The respondent cooperates with the council’s inquiry and is prepared to provide testimony against the principal actor responsible for the network’s criminal scope, one Elder Bern of the Southern Regional Council.
It’s all technically true. None of it is honest.
“This is survivable,” Holcomb says on Friday evening, packing his briefcase. “You walk out of there with a censure, a monetary penalty, and a two-year bar from inter-pack governance. The Forrester name takes damage but the pack survives.”
“And Bern?”
“Bern takes the hit for the architecture, which he’ll probably wriggle out of. You’re the wolf who didn’t know what he was participating in and cooperated as soon as he did. It’s a clean narrative.”
“Clean.”
“Garrett.” Holcomb sets the briefcase down. He’s my father’s age. He knew the family before Maren died. He’s not pretending this is academic. “I’m going to tell you something. I’ve been defending alphas in this region for thirty years. The ones who survive their own mistakes are the ones who understand that the council doesn’t want truth. It wants a manageable story. Give them a manageable story, and they’ll take it. Refuse, and they’ll take everything.”
“And if the story is a lie?”
“The story is always a lie. Yours is less of a lie than most.”
I don’t answer. He picks up his briefcase. Shakes my hand. Drives out.
Dawes stands in the doorway after the truck’s dust has settled.
“You’re going to use Holcomb’s statement.”
“That’s what I should do.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me.
“Dawes.”
“Your call, Garrett.”
He walks out, and I sit with Holcomb’s three pages on the desk in front of me until it’s dark, and then until it’s late. Then I fold the statement and put it in the drawer, and go to bed, where I don’t sleep.
Sunday morning, another family leaves.
I’m at the barn when I see the pickup in the yard. Household goods in the bed. A mother loading boxes. Two kids on the porch, sitting on their duffel bags with the patient stillness of children who’ve been told to wait quietly while the adults do something they don’t understand.
The husband is carrying a box from the house. He sets it in the truck bed. Stops. Goes back inside.
I know the family. Rayburn. Jed Rayburn was on the junction crew for four years — drove the truck to the pullout, loaded families, waited for the handoff. His wife, Marsha, worked at the pack store. The kids are named Jory and Lillian.
I walk across the yard. Marsha sees me coming, and her hands stop moving on the box she’s securing. She straightens up. Doesn’t step back.
“Marsha.”
“Alpha.”
“You going somewhere?”