“Here’s the soap, you walking bag of goblin stench.” He tossed an unopened bar of Imperial Leather at me. “Make yourself presentable, in case they want to talk to you about my application to the Royal Wolf Guard.”
With that, he wrenched the handle for the showerhead all the way to the right, hitting me with a spray of cold water thatfully woke me up and made me scream words that were strictly forbidden in theWolfNet Gazette’s style guide.
“I’m giving you ten minutes!” Albie called over my outraged shrieks and vows of fratricide.
He stomped out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
Albie loved me, he did. And I loved him back.
Which was why, after the water warmed up, I stripped out of my soggy clothes and actually put some effort into looking halfway decent for the meeting with my royal aunt and uncle.
Not that I fully approved of Albie’s months-brewing plan to drop out of uni to join Faoiltiarn’s Royal Wolf Guard, with the eventual goal of working his way up the ranks to follow in his birth father’s footsteps and become the Kingdom Enforcer.
Our maem would not be happy when she found out my baby brother was dead serious about his summer sentry internship and had no intention of returning to the University of Edinburgh to finish up his business degree.
The stepfather I’d called Da—the wolf Albie never got to meet—had died serving as Faoiltiarn’s Kingdom Enforcer, far away from his pregnant new wife who, despite their short time together, never truly recovered from his loss.
But there was zero chance the Irish Wolves would ever return to raid our village for she-wolf brides again—at least not within our lifetimes. And Albie was my baby brother. If his biggest dream in life was to stay right here in our frozen-in-time Highland village, doing the exact same job his long-ago ancestors would have done, who was I to stop him?
I’d moved to North America in search of a thoroughly modern life, and what had that gotten me? Back in my childhood bedroom at the age of thirty-two with no job, no mate, and no money. I hadn’t thought I’d wanted or needed the last two whileliving for my job. But I’d learned just how empty my life was after getting summarily dismissed from theWolfNet Gazette.
I was prepared to praise Albie to the high heavens if that was what it took to get him whatever he wanted. After growing up with a shadow of the maem I once had, it was the least he deserved.
However, our aunt and uncle by marriage barely acknowledged Albie for bringing me to them before announcing that I would be dispatched to Ireland—a country that had issued a travel ban on all wolves from or associated with Scotland after the Bloody February Battle that took Da’s life two decades ago.
Apparently, they wanted me to serve as our kingdom’s diplomat for possible peace talks with Naomi, the Queen of the Irish Wolves.
Despite the fact that I…
1. Had only recently gotten back to Scotland after going to college and working in North America
2. Had never met Naomi, the younger sister neither Aunt Tara nor my maem had talked to in over two decades, and probably most importantly
3.Had no idea how to diplomat.
Diplomat-ing was a job that required loads of face-to-face contact and negotiation skills. In other words, the exact opposite of a holoscribe—a faceless journalist who delivered all their immersive news stories through digital avatars. Mine had been a purple baby koala named Kiwi that I hadn’t been allowed to take with me after I was scrubbed from theWolfNet Gazetteroster.
Hence, my first follow-up question to their unexpected pronouncement: “I’m sorry, but… why me?”
I shook my head at the King and Queen of the Scottish Wolves, who sat in thrones on a raised dais that allowed them topeer down their royal noses as they informed me I’d be heading to Ireland to broker peace talks with the Irish Wolves. In less than two weeks.
King Magnus had been a rugby player when he met Aunt Tara, with a reputation for never backing down from a fight. But suddenly, he was more interested in picking a piece of lint off his belted plaid, which was draped over an old-fashioned tunic jacket.
Leaving my Aunt Tara, who looked extra-queenly today in a diaphanous draped silk gown and golden stilettos, to inform me, “The missive that was couriered to us specifically requested you at this date and time.”
I glanced over my shoulder at my brother, who was doing his best impression of a true sentry—eyes trained straight ahead, like he wasn’t hanging on every single word of the conversation we’d both assumed would revolve around him.
Albie did not meet my gaze. I suspected he believed this still might be some kind of test, and that his application to the Royal Guard depended on me passing it.
Just in case he was right, I asked, “Can Albie—” I cleared my throat, remembering what he’d told me about wanting us to use his full name now that he was technically an adult. “Can Alban the Second join me?”
“No,” Aunt Tara answered, nearly before I’d fully gotten the question out. “Obviously, I’d rather send our twin sons to handle this matter. Rory and Cormac have trained all of their lives to act as our kingdom’s representatives.”
She cut her eyes to the side, visibly fuming, before letting out a sigh that somehow managed to be imperious and long-suffering at the same time.
“But as I said, it can only be you. You—and you alone—must meet with the Irish Bears, who will then escort you to talk with my little sister, the Queen of the Irish Wolves.” Hervoice took on the same tone Maem’s did when dealing with the kids who sniffed glue in the schoolhouse where she still taught. “You specifically coming alone was part of Sadie’s conditions for facilitating these talks.”
Sadie…
