“They can smell a lot of things,” Pearl contributed from the backseat. “Martha Claymore once told me I smelled of ‘posh upholstery.’” The cat sniffed. “I would have preferred the word elegant myself.”
“Does that mean Abby and I smelled of commoner upholstery?” Bo asked, momentarily distracted from his ongoing moping.
The Husky had been protesting his new diet with dramatic commitment, as if starvation was imminent. His sulking had reached operatic levels at dinner last night.
“You most certainly did,” Pearl responded with a sneer. “And you still do, mutt.”
Bo ignored the insult and pressed his nose against the rear window, his breath misting the glass. “By the way, is that a topiary wolf?”
Victoria followed his gaze. “It’s a topiary lion.”
Bo tilted his head. “It’s lopsided.”
He wasn’t wrong. One of the topiary bushes lining the driveway was listing at a worrying angle, like something had crashed into it and somebody had attempted a hasty repair. None of the other supernatural-creature-shaped hedges appeared to be claiming responsibility.
Victoria parked in a lot full of eye-wateringly expensive vehicles. The Den’s limestone façade rose before us, all Gothic buttresses and stern architecture. The obligatory gargoyles perched along the roofline, their stone grimaces surveying the grounds with the enthusiasm of bouncers at an exclusive nightclub.
Bo eyed them with his usual suspicion. “I swear, one of those things blinked last time we were here.”
“They’re made of stone,” I said pointedly. “Stone doesn’t blink.”
“That’s what they want you to think,” the Husky huffed.
I clocked the guarded look Victoria and Pearl exchanged and decided not to pursue the matter. My wolf was already on edge and I didn’t need everybody’s paranoia adding to my nerves.
The front entrance of the building was flanked by a pair of ornate columns and a brass plaque that readThe Den – Est. 1872, Members Only.A doorman in a tailored suit held the door open as we approached, his scent broadcasting his vampire origin.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawthorne.Miss West.” His gaze dropped to Bo, his expression betraying nothing. “And canine companion.”
“I’m part werewolf,” Bo corrected, puffing out his chest. “We think.”
The doorman’s blank expression wobbled a little.
The interior of The Den smelled like old money, floor polish, and generations of passive-aggressive warfare. Dark wood paneling lined the hallways and the portraits of previous Council members tracked our progress with painted eyes that radiated centuries of judgment.
I had been here exactly once before, during my first disastrous meeting with the Council. The memory still made my palms sweat.
We navigated the lounge and made for a sweeping staircase. A series of displays containing magical artifacts made my wolf’s senses tingle in a not unpleasant fashion as we headed for the Moonlight Room.
Victoria paused outside and straightened her already perfect posture.
“Right,” she said in a hardened battle tone that spoke of decades navigating social minefields. “Poise. Composure. Dignity.”
“And no breaking furniture or insulting anyone’s lineage,” I added with a nervous laugh.
Victoria narrowed her eyes in a way that told me my attempt at humor was being filed under pending etiquette violations. She opened the doors.
The Moonlight Room was long, shadowy, and designed to make everyone in it feel like they werebeing evaluated for crimes they hadn’t committed yet. An ornate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting just enough light to be atmospheric without actually illuminating anything useful. The table that dominated the room was set for tea service, bone china and silver gleaming against dark linen.
The Council of Elders was already assembled.
Priscilla Holt sat at the head of the table, elegant in navy silk and radiating the calm authority I’d come to associate with the de facto leader of this particular band of formidable werewolves. She rose when she saw us and crossed the room to greet Victoria with an embrace that carried genuine warmth and made several council members raise their eyebrows in surprise.
The two women’s relationship had shifted considerably since I’d exposed Camilla Lynch’s treachery and helped bring Arthur home. The matriarchs weren’t exactly bosom buddies—werewolf pack politics didn’t allow for anything that simple—but the frost between them had thawed into mutual respect dressed in careful diplomacy.
“Victoria, thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” Victoria murmured. “You look well, Priscilla.”
