Page 26 of Seared Fates
“I know exactly who I am and have little patience. So stop wasting it. Why is your whelp of a Direwolf summoning me?”
Shock flickers across her face, then morphs into a flared nose and gritted teeth. “You owe the Direwolf respect.”
Arms crossed, stance wide, I dryly inform her, “I owe him nothing.”
The current Direwolf and I actually have no problem, but I can’t deny that I enjoy watching silver eclipse her brown irises. My eyes might be a light grey, yet they’re nothing compared to the pure disc of shining silver that comes when a werewolf fights to maintain control.
She sucks in a sharp breath, realising she’s on the verge of shifting into a wolf and physically takes a step back to wrestle the predator prowling under her skin back into submission. Within a few seconds, the silver bleeds away.
“The Direwolf of the eight British packs summons you to discuss the recent blood mage events,” she says, squeezing each word out between pursed lips.
Any other time, I’d rudely decline and slam the door. While my pride prickles to be summoned by a man who’s only one hundred and ten years old, mostly it’s because…
Her eyes bleed into silver again while I pretend to consider.
An old vampire has to get his fun somewhere, and I so enjoy pissing off werewolves.
“Hurry up then, I don’t have all day,” I tell her before she starts spouting fur.
Not expecting my cooperation, she startles, before shaking it off like a wet dog and hurrying toward a dark four-wheel truck. I follow, ignoring the back door she holds open and her little growl, as I slip into the front passenger seat.
She slams the door with more force than necessary and scurries around to the driver’s side to hop in. The werewolf starts the car, gripping the steering wheel so tightly I wonder if she’s imagining my throat instead.
‘What fun,’ I think, as we drive off.
As much as I’ve been playing with the young wolf, I am curious why the Direwolf, who is the most connected supernatural leader, is interested in a fight between vampires and blood mages. As long as we keep under the human population’s radar, no one cares how much blood is shed. But if the Direwolf knows anything about Emma and her location, I’ll need to draw it out.
I’d be an idiot to assume Emma hasn’t discovered she’s got the wrong spellbook by now, and no doubt she’s hunting the one in Kai’s possession, and if Emma dares touch a hair on Kai’s head, I’ll see just how much she’d enjoy being skinned alive.
We pass sparse, skeletal branches as our long drive takes us deeper into the countryside. Only when we turn onto a bumpy road cutting through a mass of evergreens—the tyres crunching over icy mud—does the werewolf release her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, relief clear at being back in home territory.
I glance out the window as we follow the winding path, a thin layer of snow dusting the ground, and for a heartbeat, I’m a young boy on his first hunting trip again. There was more snow and no evergreens or cars, yet the crisp air is nearly identical, and suddenly I’m homesick for a place that in my youth, I couldn’t wait to escape.
The memory fades as we drive into a clearing and towards a wooden four-story home, smoke billowing from a stonechimney, a glass wall at the front displaying a fire surrounded by elegantly placed armchairs.
“You held your temper well, wolf,” I praise my driver. “It’s a feat for a young wolf to keep their emotions in check.”
My voice startles her. She whips around, glaring at first, but when my words settle, her face brightens. “O-oh, thank—”
Before she can say more, I’m out of the car, slamming the door in her face and chuckling when I hear a muffled growl.
My boots brush through the scattered brown leaves as I stride towards the front door, already being opened by a slight man with a muscular build and hair kept short with a smattering of facial hair.
He could be any normal man on the street by looks alone, his scent no different from the ozone and fresh grass of other wolves, yet it’s his gaze that marks him as something else. Something powerful. For the Direwolf isn’t like other werewolves who wrestle with control—his predator is always on full display, and the silver in his gaze is as clear as a full moon on a cloudless night.
“Direwolf Grey Kobayashi.”
“Vidar Haraldsson, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Grey says, casual as if he didn’t send one of his wolves to drag me here and slips his hands into his dark slacks. Paired with a black turtle neck, he looks like a boring architect.
“Why are you suddenly so interested in my family business?”
“Didn’t a whole warehouse burn down? That’s pretty interesting.”
I level him with a look. “Hardly noteworthy. So why the invite?”
He pushes the door wide, and I follow behind him as he strolls inside. The landing is a large, wooden space, which leads into the living room and further into the house.
“Things change, Vidar.”