From my left came a soft thwuk—mechanical, cold, and discordant enough among the more visceral brutality to pull me from encroaching shock. I turned to find a tom on two legs cowering in the corner formed by the back porch, aiming a silenced pistol at the air. He fired again, and overhead, a thunderbird screeched, wobbling in midflight.

I raced down the steps and grabbed the crowbar I’d dropped earlier, then rounded the porch toward the coward, glad he couldn’t hear me over the general din or see me in the shadows. I rammed the straight end of my crowbar deep into his gut. The coward screamed and dropped his gun. I yanked my crowbar free, then kicked the gun beneath the porch and moved on, flexing my sore, sticky paw as I went.

I skirted the backyard battlefield, on the lookout for my mother, Calvin Malone, and other men with guns. On my left, Michael yowled, and I dashed forward to help him, then stopped when he clamped his muzzle over his opponent’s throat. He could handle himself.

“Faythe!”

I whirled around to find Jace racing toward me from near the guesthouse. I took several steps in his direction, then stopped when another thwuk sounded on my right. The shooter missed, but took aim again immediately. I swung my crowbar at his gun hand and his arm broke with a satisfying crunch. While he screamed, I bent for his gun and threw it as far away from the fight as I could.

Jace darted left around a rolling, snarling pair of cats and pulled me farther from the melee. “Are you okay?”

“Sticky. And pissed.”

He sniffed, and seemed satisfied to smell only enemy blood. “Dean?”

“Dead. The hard way.”

“Are you…” He fingered the edge of my torn shirt. “Did he…?”

“Not even close. Where’s my mom?”

“I told her to stay near the guesthouse, but…” Jace suddenly shoved me over and rolled out of the way as a dark form flew toward us. The cat thumped gracefully to the ground and swatted at Jace, claws unsheathed. I swung the crowbar at his left shoulder, and the cat hissed at me, ears flattened against his head. Jace’s Shifted paw arced down, and the cat howled. “Go find your mom!” he shouted, as he and the cat faced off.

“Thanks. Here!” I tossed him the crowbar—the bad guys were less likely to kill me than they were him—and took off toward the guesthouse with my folding knife in hand, dodging snarling bodies and assessing the carnage as I went.

We’d attacked before dawn so the night would cover our approach, but that had turned out to be a mixed blessing. The dark was working against the shooters, but it wasn’t helping the thunderbirds, either. They could only clearly see the bodies within the sphere of the porch lights, and when they swooped in, silenced guns thwuked.

We were outnumbered on the ground, and several of the fallen bodies wore orange tape around their front legs. And those who were left fighting now faced two and three enemy cats apiece, and many had been backed into corners and against walls.

The three allied Alphas had grouped near the side of the guesthouse, their backs to the walls, swinging makeshift weapons while a couple of allied enforcers fought alongside them, trying to protect them and being shredded for their efforts.

I veered toward them, knife held ready. “Uncle Rick!” I shouted, and he looked up.

“Faythe!” Then his eyes went wide. “Look out!”

Something heavy hit me from behind. I landed facedown in the freezing grass. Hot cat breath puffed against the back of my neck, and my attacker snarled. His claws sank through the remnants of my shirt and pierced my skin.

I froze. My breath stuck in my throat and refused to budge. My pulse raced. This was it. I was going to die, facedown in my own backyard, killed by some faceless, nameless enemy grunt.

Something thudded over me—flesh hitting flesh. Pain pricked several points on my back as the claws were ripped loose. Someone snarled. Someone else whined. The whine ended in a gurgle, and the scent of fresh blood thickened on the air.

I sat up, my pulse roaring in my ears. Ryan stood over the body of my attacker, blinking at me. He licked blood from his muzzle. The other guy gurgled, then breathed his last, blood pouring from his ruined throat.

Ryan nudged my hand with his head, then clamped his teeth closed over the tail of my torn shirt and tugged me away from the action.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded. But I knew the answer, even if he couldn’t say it. Mom had come, so he’d followed to protect her. And saved my life in the process. “Thank you.” I whispered, giving his head a quick scratch. “Now find Mom.”

His head bobbed, then Ryan was gone, off on the only mission he’d probably ever accept from me.

I knelt, groping for my knife in the dark. My fingers closed around cold steel just as a new growl rumbled behind me. I turned slowly, backing away in an awkward crab crawl. The cat followed me, snarling, baring his teeth. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know half these cats, and of those I did recognize, few of them were Malone’s men. His allies had sent toms, too.

“You want me?” I whispered, and the tom’s head bobbed. “What are you waiting for?”

He pounced, and I dropped onto my back. His paws landed on my shoulders. I shoved my knife into his stomach and dragged it through his flesh until it snagged on his sternum. Blood poured over me. He fell over sideways without another sound.

I stood and glanced around, counting the orange strips flapping in the predawn wind. Eight. There were only eight of us left in cat form. The others were all down, and though some were still breathing, they weren’t getting up. And Malone was nowhere to be found.