“Conan…” I warn, my voice stern and final as I raise a hand. But of course, the arrogant son-of-a-bitch can’t stop.
“Maybe you can ask Damian for one!” Conan chuckles, ignoring my warning even as I make my way back to my seat. “You guys have something in common. Oh, wait! James is still alive, isn’t he?”
I stand behind my chair, looming over the table with my fists curling at my sides, my blood boiling, and no body of water big enough to let off the steam. Conan’s neck is across the table, and if I really wanted to, I could reach it before anyone could stop me and snap his head off.
But the last thing we need is to be at war with each other.
“My beta is still alive, yes,” I respond calmly, measuredly, as I uncurl my fists and reclaim my seat.
“But he’s not here with you, is he?”
I narrow my eyes at the dark-haired man, imagining him gurgling and struggling to take a breath as he drowns. But it’s just another fantasy; I wouldn’t dare to start a war with the Iron Breath Pack.
Not when we’re up against demons—a threat that all our packs face, forcing us to work together despite our differences.
“You know very well that he’s in hospital, Conan. That’s why we’re here,” I remind him, but again, the prick has to have the last word, even when we hear the footsteps of the council members approaching the cabin.
“Yeah, well, if it were Iron Breath, Agnes would have seen that attack coming, and James would have been safe.”
I shake my head slowly, irritated that we’re back to Conan believing that Iron Breath is the superior pack. Even with their own seer, Silver Stone hasn’t been entirely safe from the demon attacks, and they’ve lost wolves over the past two years.
In that time, Conan has only become more insufferable, as if he doesn’t have a shred of humanity left in him.
“This isn’t a competition, Conan,” I tell him flatly, just as the cabin door opens.
“It’s always been a competition, Damian. Survival of the fittest, remember?’
Heinrich leans over and snarls, grating out through gritted teeth, “You’re a fucking child, Conan. Grow up.”
“Silence!” comes Elder Bernard’s booming voice from the door, and he pauses there, throwing us each a disdainful glance.
Conan is the first to bow his head when his grandfather—Elder Bernard—turns dark eyes of warning on him. He enters the meeting den with a huff of irritation, followed by Heinrich’s father, Mortimer, and my uncle, Joel. The Valley Wolf Council Research Team enters next: a group of keen-eyed historians who preserve the archives and configure ways to remain hidden from the human world in the Bitterroot Valley, using ancient rituals to keep our packs protected.
But keeping us protected from humans is one thing. The research team hasn’t figured out a way to stop the demons or keep us safe from them.
The malevolent creatures have been slowly chipping away at our resolve, exhausting our energy supply with every attack we’ve faced over the last two years. The first attack came while my soldiers and I had been out hunting in the forest across the river. We didn’t know what we were facing back then, and it knocked the wind out of us, leaving us for dead. My right leg had been fractured in the fight, and our group had been discovered by the local authorities in Hamilton.
That’s how we’d ended up in the Hamilton Health-Daly Hospital, and how I met—
“We may have a lead,” Amos, the head of the research team, announces as he takes his seat, pushing his spectacles up as he scans the table. He scans the room not because he’s nervous in a room full of alphas and elders, but because he’s always been that way, keen-eyed and observant. It’s a personal trait, and one that has always allowed me to trust his judgment. But lately, that trust has been waning, because it’s been almost three years since that first demon attack—back when we didn’t even know what was attacking us in Hamilton—and still, the research team hasn’t uncovered much about the demons, or why they’re hunting us.
Or why we’re getting weaker.
It’s no wonder Conan clings to his false sense of supremacy. For nearly three years, the strength of our packs has been declining, and it’s almost as if we’re losing touch with our Goddess-given powers. Apart from shapeshifting, the packs in the Bitterroot Valley are different.
We have the ability to wield elemental magic—a gift bestowed upon our packs by the Moon Goddess, and passed down from our ancestors.
Silver Stone—Heinrich’s pack—can wield earth. Conan is the alpha of Iron Breath, and they can bend air.
Red Moon—my pack—can wield the power of water.
And apart from feeling slightly out of touch with our magic, we’ve been losing wolves on all three corners of the valley where our packs reside. The demons have been relentless, and we’ve been losing hope that there’s anything we can do except just accept our fate, that the most powerful wolf packs in the States will just…go extinct.
“Finally!” Heinrich exclaims with a sigh of relief that we’re all feeling. “Have you tracked the origin of the demons? Is there a way to take them down?”
Amos purses his lips and nervously shakes his head. “This isn’t so much about the demons that’ve been attacking us over the years as it is about you guys.”
“Us?” I frown, and Amos nods.
