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had broken into the lab and stolen similar specimens. Shit. Specimens…he meant eggs. There had been more Thrall eggs somewhere in that lab, and somebody had stolen them. Oh, this was so bad.
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    I sat squirming in the uncomfortable wooden seat most of the afternoon. I couldn’t keep my mind on the trial. I was too distracted from the questioning by Cook and Martinelli. Fortunately, they didn’t call me up to the stand to testify. I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have sounded coherent. My mind just kept going over the same two questions again and again: who the hell would steal Thrall eggs and why?
    The obvious answer was the Thrall. They were sentient, thought of eggs as their unborn children, and were facing a crisis. Tané hadn’t been wrong in his assessment that morning in the conference room. Thrall hives had been decimated throughout the world. They had to be worrying about extinction. While I wasn’t thrilled by the notion that they had recovered some of Monica’s eggs, at least that explanation made sense. But the moment I’d learned of the missing eggs I had dropped my shields and actually tried to hear what was going on in the hive. Instead of the usual angry buzz of the queens and hive there was utter silence. They were blocking me out. While a part of me really did appreciate their absence, the more sensible part knew that it couldn’t be good. The witness stood and left the stand. I hadn’t heard any of the testimony, but my attorney had one of those smug little smiles he wore when he felt we’d scored major points.
    The judge glanced at the clock. He leaned forward to speak into the microphone in front of him. “We’ll adjourn for the day. Court will resume tomorrow morning promptly at eight.”
    He gave a brisk nod of his head, and the bailiff called out. “All rise.”
    We rose. As soon as the judge exited the room through a door behind the bench people began gathering up their belongings and leaving the courtroom. Tom and I joined the general flow headed toward the door. When we reached the hall people herded toward the exits, flowing steadily around the construction debris. Tom was helping me into my coat when a voice called out his name, the sound echoing off the stone floors and cream-colored walls.
    He turned abruptly, automatically putting himself between me and any possible danger. I turned to see Jake and Rob, a pair of teenage boys who were members of his pack, approaching at a fast walk from the direction of the stairwell. I knew both boys.
    I’d met Rob in July. At the time he’d been painfully thin, with straight blond hair and a penchant for chains and leather. I realized looking at him now that he’d grown. Regular meals had put meat on his bones. Daily workouts had given him bulk and definition. More than that, there was a confidence in his bearing that hadn’t been there before. He still wore all black, but instead of the biker jacket I’d seen before, today it was an expensive full-length trench coat. He was living with his girlfriend in one of the apartments in my building for free, and an uncharitable part of me wondered how he could afford the coat and not afford rent. I clamped my mouth shut, because while I think Rob needs to develop more of a sense of responsibility, my saying so wasn’t going to help today’s situation. I’d also met Jake during the crisis with the Thrall. He hadn’t liked me much then, and he didn’t like me now. He was still whipcord thin, with noticeably long arms and legs that ended in oversize hands and feet—both common traits of lycanthropes that Tom didn’t share. Anger flashed in the dark eyes that weren’t quite hidden beneath a fringe of dark hair.
    “I was afraid we’d miss you,” Rob admitted. “Traffic was a bitch.”
    Neither boy greeted me. I wasn’t surprised. Rob and I get along well, but he’s not big on good manners. Jake is of the opinion that even being civil might give me the mistaken impression that he