“Greg, these are very serious charges,” Milo Mitchell said, from his seat next to Malone. Like we were unaware.

“Accompanied by very few details,” Nick Davidson added. “I assume you can provide both specifics and evidence?”

“Of course.” My father nodded, and this time, Malone’s slow blink was the only indication of his surprise. He didn’t know about the feathers. “I believe you all know that, last week, my Pride was attacked by a Flight of thunderbirds from a nest in New Mexico. Evidently they winter in the werecat free zone just to the west of my territory. We were hosting several guests at the time—” no need to mention that our “guests” were helping us plot an attack against Malone’s Pride in retaliation for my brother’s murder “—and between us, we lost two enforcers and sustained multiple serious injuries. But we also captured a prisoner, who told us that his Flight was attacking to avenge the death of one of their own—whom they believed we murdered.”

“And how exactly does this make Calvin Malone guilty of treason?” Mitchell demanded, while Malone sat silently beside him, apparently unfazed by our allegations.

“We have evidence that the thunderbird in question was killed not by one of my enforcers, but by one of his. But Calvin blamed the murder on us, inciting the thunderbirds to attack and cripple my Pride, while sparing his own.”

“The thunderbirds told you this?” Nick Davidson leaned forward, propping both elbows on the table. He looked considerably older than forty-two, but then, he’d had a rough few years. He’d lost his wife to cancer and was left to raise their seven children—including one small daughter—alone.

“Not initially.” My father frowned and his focus returned to Malone, who stared back as if none of this bothered him. “Brett Malone told us. Right after he asked for sanctuary. Less than an hour before he died.”

The room went completely silent. I think most of us stopped breathing. Even Paul Blackwell looked shocked, his wrinkled hands clutching the arms of his chair like he might fall over without it. He’d known we would accuse Malone of treason, but evidently hadn’t foreseen the blatant implication of murder.

Calvin Malone rose, brown eyes blazing. He leaned with both palms flat on the table, glaring at my father as if bold eye contact would be enough to intimidate him. “Are you saying there was something suspicious about my son’s death?”

My father stood firm, unruffled. “I’m stating facts. The conclusions you draw are your own.”

“Brett died during a training accident.” Milo Mitchell leaned forward in his chair, but was obviously unwilling to draw any more attention to himself by standing. “His death has been very hard on his family, and it is reprehensible of you to slander the dead, Greg.”

“I’m not slandering him, Milo.” My father returned his gaze boldly, and Mitchell looked away. “I have immense respect for Brett Malone. It takes a great deal of courage to stand up for what’s right, especially when that means standing against one’s own father.”

“Brett had nothing to fear from me!” Malone roared from across the table, and I couldn’t resist a tiny grin of satisfaction at seeing him lose his temper. Especially when Alex flinched on my right. He sat so stiff and tense that I was half convinced he’d explode if I poked him.

“And he had no plans to defect,” the Appalachian Alpha continued, softer now, but with no less vehemence. “Unless you have some evidence suggesting otherwise, I strongly suggest that you let my son rest in peace and move on with the more relevant parts of this discussion. Assuming there are any.”

Malone started to sit, then froze when my father turned toward the far end of the room, where Marc, Jace, and I sat interspersed with the Appalachian enforcers. “In fact, I do have some rather suggestive evidence.” My father smiled at me briefly, then nodded at Marc.

Marc stood and reached into the inside pocket of his coat as he crossed the room. All eyes were on him—more than half the gazes openly hostile—as he handed several folded sheets of paper to my dad.

“What’s that?” Milo Mitchell demanded, without acknowledging Marc. We’d been expecting some static over his unofficial reinstatement into the Pride, but so far no one had said a word. Neither had Malone even mentioned the covert ops we’d unleashed on his Pride, in spite of the fact that several of his men had been seriously injured.

My theory on his silence was that Malone was planning to throw consequences at us full force, once he had the power to overrule any objections. Which was one of the more critical reasons we had to keep him from being voted in as council chair.

“Calvin, when did Brett die?” my dad said, without answering Mitchell’s question or unfolding the papers. “Time and date, please.”

“This is completely inappropriate,” Malone insisted, as a vein in his temple throbbed visibly. “I’m not going to let you turn my son’s tragic death into the center ring of whatever circus you’re directing. We’re here to vote.”

“I don’t think we can afford to gloss over such serious accusations. And I would think you’d be eager to defend yourself.”

“There’s nothing to defend. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

My father raised one brow, still eyeing Malone steadily. “Then answer the question. When did Brett die?”

Malone sank stiffly into his chair, still pushed back from the table, and when Blackwell didn’t object to the question, he had no choice but to answer. “Last Monday night.”