“She was already working hard on infamy, so I’m not sure this really makes that much difference,” Marc quipped.

My mother frowned. “It makes all the difference in the world.” Her warm, thin hand slipped into mine. “I’m proud of you, Faythe. Your father would be, too.”

I blinked back more tears. How long would it be before we could talk about him without crying?

“I can’t… I don’t think I can be what he was.” I swallowed thickly, and her hand squeezed mine. “At least, not yet. But Marc and Uncle Rick promised to serve as advisers, and I was hoping you would, too, when things settle down a little.”

She actually managed a half smile at that. “I’m even prouder of you now.”

“So, no one can come to the funeral?” Owen said, and I nodded, leaning over the back of my father’s armchair. I couldn’t bring myself to actually sit in it, but I had to assume some physical position of authority. It was expected. Sometimes people recognize leaders based on subconscious clues, and standing near my father’s traditional seat of authority was the simplest, most seamless way I knew to reinforce the idea of me as his successor.

But since Owen and Parker had sworn their loyalty and no one present had questioned my authority yet, I couldn’t help wondering if I was really trying to convince myself.

“No one who isn’t already here,” I qualified. “But once this is all over, we’ll have a true memorial. He will be properly remembered.”

“But not inviting people seems so…cold,” Brian said, from the couch where he sat with Parker and Marc.

“Quite the opposite, really.” My mother spoke softly, but had no trouble capturing everyone’s attention from her perch on the love seat next to Manx. “It will be intimate. A small, closed burial will give us a chance to mourn him in private before we have to put our grief on display for everyone else he ever knew.”

And just like that, it was settled. Thank goodness. I was in awe of my mother.

“Then we fight?” Eagerness bled through Vic’s voice like spilled wine through silk.

“Yes, and we don’t leave the Appalachian territory until I personally verify that Calvin Malone is no longer breathing. Colin Dean is the secondary objective, and while I’d love the chance to give him a slow, agonizing death for what he did to our Alpha, we can’t afford to be that picky. I’ll take him dead if taking him alive doesn’t look possible.” And if I knew Dean, he’d make us kill him rather than be taken prisoner.

“Is there a specific plan, beyond kill, maim, and capture?” Parker asked, looking grimmer than I’d ever seen him. He was taking the news about his father very badly, and I could smell the whiskey on his breath even from across the room. I’d have to talk to him about that.

“Yes, actually. Obviously, Patricia and Melody Malone are completely off-limits, though you have permission to protect yourselves from them as necessary.” And I was living proof that an angry tabby could be just as hard to handle as a tomcat. “As for everyone else, kill only if you have to. We’re trying to whack off the enemy’s head, not hack him into a million pieces, and a little mercy can go a long way.”

“It can also get you killed,” Parker said.

“Yeah. Let’s try not to let that happen.” I blinked and forced my eyes to refocus as I glanced around the room at all the faces watching me. “In addition to all that, we’ll have backup from the East Coast, the Midwest, and the southeast Prides.” Uncle Rick, Aaron Taylor, and Bert Di Carlo’s men, of course. “As well as air support from a Flight of thunderbirds. At least, that’s the plan.” Though we had yet to actually secure their help, because they could only be contacted in person.

When the mumbles of surprise subsided, I continued, unable to completely bury my grim smile. “I’m hoping all of that turns out to be major overkill, but this is our last good shot at taking Malone out, and we are not going to mess it up.”

That time, the general sentiment was approval, and a palpable surge of bloodlust-tinged anticipation.

When I’d answered the rest of the questions and outlined the basics of the private burial, I dismissed the meeting with a suggestion that everyone get some sleep. There’d be little time to rest after the funeral the next day.

“Well done,” Marc said, as the last of the toms filed into the hallway.

I was exhausted, mentally and physically, and I really wanted to sit. I glanced down at my dad’s chair, and Jace chuckled. “You can sit there, you know. I don’t think he’d mind.”

I shook my head. “I’m not ready. It feels weird.” And there was nowhere else in the room to sit without looking like I was taking sides; Marc sat on the couch, and Jace sat on the love seat.

“So, are you going to stand up for every meeting?” Marc grinned like he was joking, but he wasn’t. And what he really wanted to ask was if I intended to stand, rather than choose between the two of them.

“Maybe. At least until I figure out…what works best.”

“Are you hungry?” Jace asked, and Marc scowled.

“No. I’m fine. Listen, guys…” I released a long exhale and finally sank onto the arm of my father’s chair, one foot on the ground for balance. “You don’t need to wait on me. I don’t want you to. I can cook my own food and get my own coffee.”

Marc actually laughed. “Faythe, you don’t cook worth a damn.”