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“Kamal, who found Selene and Cara just inside our boundary line, said that Cara was unconscious and smelled of toxins, and Selene was bloody and badly injured.”

I chew the inside of my lip and try not to fidget as I feel the room collectively scrutinize me. It’s one thing to have lived through that night, another to hear it laid bare before an audience.

“We’ve all seen other indications that something sinister is happening on coven land. Lots of late-night movement, sightings of a seemingly living creature that doesn’t have a pulse or carry a scent.”

I start at that description. Could he be talking about that clay creature I destroyed that night?

“And of course the murders—murders that Selene here was considered a prime suspect in up until a few days ago.”

I feel my cheeks heat. I thought being praised in front of a crowd was uncomfortable; turns out that’s nothing compared to having to sit here while my dirty laundry is aired out to an avid audience.

Vincent continues. “Evidence indicates Selene was framed, which means the true killer is still out there, likely still hunting witches. This is all happening in our backyard. It’s important to me—to many of us—that those supernaturals who put their lives at risk to protect our pack mates are extended our protection, especially at a time like this, when their own kind are under threat.”

The Marin Pack alpha turns to me, and I think this might be it—Vincent will announce the pack’s friendship and the meeting will be over. I might even be able to scurry back to Henbane before curfew.

Instead, he says, “Selene, we would love to hear what you have to share about the night you saved Cara. Would you be willing to tell us about what happened?”

Right. Shit. Sitting up here and staring out at the crowd, I nearly forgot that this was the main thing they wanted to hear about from me.

“Of course.” I take a deep breath, collecting my thoughts, but Vincent holds up a finger.

“One moment, Selene.” He steps over to the massive, unlit fireplace behind me and grabs a vial resting on the mantel. A moment later, he shows it to me.

My stomach drops the moment I see the shimmery green liquid.

“This is a truth potion,” Vincent says, telling me what I already know. “Would you be willing to drink this before answering our questions?”

I hesitate.

They don’t trust witches, I tell myself,but they want to pledge their loyalty to me. I simply have to prove I’m worthy of it. But if I drink the potion, I will be compelled to tell the truth. I don’t have too many secrets, but Memnon’s warning still echoes in my head.

Don’t share what we’ve been talking about with anyone else.

I bite my inner cheek and nod. “I’ll drink it,” I say, taking the potion from the pack alpha.

I’ll just have to watch what I say.

Removing the cork, I bring the vial to my lips and tip it back.

It tastes like shit. Well, shit and rotten apples. I think someone attempted to flavor it as an afterthought, but they clearly sucked at it.

Almost immediately, I feel the press of magic; it coats my tongue like syrup, and as it makes its way down my throat, I feel it tug on my vocal cords. I grimace as the aftertaste lingers on my tongue.

Vincent steps forward and takes the empty container from me. I see him flinch a little as he catches a whiff of the stuff.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. Louder, he says, “Can you tell us everything you remember about the night you saved Cara?”

I squeeze my hands together and take a deep breath. “It began because I needed a job…”

I tell the lycanthropes the entire story as best as I can. And the truth serum must be strong, because even though they only asked about the night itself, I fill them in on everything—my memory loss, how I was approached by Kasey, and why I needed the money so bad.

I mention the clay creature that brought Cara in and the dark rites that I interrupted when I broke the circle and snatched the shifter away. I go into the minutiae of our escape through the persecution tunnels and out across the forest. I even admit my worry that I killed someone in the cross fire.

It’s a shameful confession, but no one in the room looks horrified. If anything, I see a level of respect from the faces I look at. I guess to lycans, who value pack loyalty and whose wolves drive them to kill creatures all the time, taking a life to protect another is the ultimate show of devotion.

I end with the dim recollection of the lycanthrope who collected Cara from me as I wove in and out of consciousness.

When I finish speaking, the room is quiet. My own magic sifts out through my palms, curling protectively around my midsection and over my shoulders. I feel split open in the worst way.