The hall was suffocating now, too warm, the air heavy with scent and sound. He started down the corridor, his movements precise, predatory, each step deliberate. Wolves greeted him as he passed, bows of heads, murmured congratulations, nervous smiles, but their praise bounced off him.
At the base of the stairs, he paused. A woman brushed past him, her perfume cloying. “Congratulations, Alpha,” she purred. He gave a polite nod and moved on without breaking stride, into the busy main bar.
The room was his. Every person in it would bleed for him, obey him, die for him.
And yet, as he crossed the floor, such loyalty tasted like ash.
He reached for another drink, needing something to anchor the raging storm in his head. As he rattled through the bottles of top-shelf liquor, digging for something worth drinking, he caught movement at the edge of his vision. Lowering his arm, he turned to see Julian Rook leaning against the bar.
“Alpha,” he said, low and unhurried.
“What are you doing back so soon?” Dominic growled, crossing his arms. He had no knowledge that Rook was due back today. No warning.
Julian didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.
Dominic sighed. He’d always been more shadow than man.
“Tell me at least you’ve brought information,” Dominic replied, eyes still on the room.
Julian’s mouth tipped at one corner. “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”
Dominic turned to face him. Up close, Julian was a contradiction of sharp lines and blurred edges; black hair to his shoulders, eyes too dark to read, coat still dusted with hazy snow. A circular amulet, Lunarion’s sign, caught the light at hischest and went dark again. Some of the older pack members called him ‘priest’ as a joke. It wasn’t funny.
“Well?” Dominic said.
“Hybrids hit a caravan near Haines,” Julian said. “Three wolves dead, one vampire gone to ash. Same tactics as the Anchorage raid. Fast, coordinated, no prisoners. They’re testing borders, not hunting for food.” His gaze skimmed the room once, measuring, then returned to Dominic. “You won’t like the rest.”
“Try me.”
“A scout from Severny claims he tracked a band moving west through the taiga and then vanished. Rory Byrne sent a message. The last tracks point toward our side of the range. Closer than before.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. Music surged, and someone shouted his name from across the room. He didn’t look.
If Rory Byrne, Alpha of the famously reclusive Severny, thought it wise to send word…
“Any sign of a nest?” he asked.
“Nothing that holds,” Julian said, “Caves scoured clean. Villages abandoned too early in the season. Someone’s marching in, erasing their tracks, and marching out again.”
Dominic folded his hands behind his back to keep his fists from flexing. “Patterns?”
“Triangulation suggests a base beyond the Chilkat range, Volnoye territory, or just shy of it.” The name cooled the air between them. “If Leonid knows something, he isn’t sharing. Or he’s sharing with the wrong people.”
Dominic sneered at the second mention of the once-favored heir of the Volkhov, now Alpha to the splintered Volnoye. “He’s ambitious,” Dominic said, “but not a fool.”
Julian’s eyes were unreadable. “Ambition and foolishness tend to keep company.”
“What do you think?”
“That the hybrids won’t care which banner hangs over a pack when theybutcherit. They’re moving like an army. It’s different from any reports from the last five hundred years. Something’s changed. Evidence suggests someone’s controlling them.”
“Who?”
Julian looked up toward the carved rafters, like the ceiling might answer. “I’ve only heard rumors, and nothing strong enough to stick.”
“And within our borders?”
“I’ve frightened most of the rats back into their dens,” Julian said, “but fear doesn’t last forever. There’s been…activity.” He paused, his eyes carefully guarded. “You asked me to look for witchcraft. Consider me looking.”
