"32 Graymoor dead," Callum said it quietly, but there was no way to make that number easier to hear.
I stood in the lower field looking at the bodies laid out beneath clean sheets. Some had died fighting Warwick's people. Some had turned after the curse reached them and had to be put down by their own pack.
That part was going to stay with everyone.
"Wounded?" I asked.
"Twenty-one. Five serious. Your brother's still unconscious."
I looked toward the pack house.
"And Warwick?"
"Gone. Scouts followed what was left of them to the border, then stopped like you ordered. We don't know how many they carried out."
"Don't care."
Callum glanced at me.
I rubbed a hand over my face.
"I care. Just not right fucking now."
He nodded.
The sun was up, and Graymoor looked worse in daylight.
