"Close that door."
One of the younger fighters looked at me, then at Petra.
For half a second, nobody moved. I could see the question on his face.
Since when was I giving orders?
Then his eyes dropped to the mark on my neck. He shut the door. The lock slid into place.
I tried not to think too much about that.
The shelter was built underneath the eastern side of the pack house, but calling it a shelter made it sound smaller than it was. There were two rooms, a narrow hall between them, reinforced doors, and a ventilation system Petra had checked three times since the fighting started.
Six of us were down there now. Four younger fighters Rhys had ordered away from the field before the attack started.
None of them had been happy about it. Neither had I.
Every few seconds, something hit outside hard enough that we could hear it through the walls. A gunshot. Then another. Then a howl.
One of the fighters shifted his weight.
"We should be up there."
"No," Petra said.
