“Which is why it’s the ideal place to be,” the keeper says, his voice still calm. “Nobody will try to follow us. If they’re tracing our path, it will break here.”
Lucian stares at the keeper. “Yes. Because nobody messes with the pack that runs in this forest. Ever.”
Now, any threatening panic fades and a shiver of anticipation runs through me.
Yes, I’m not in a good place to face any kind of powerful pack, but this would be the first wolf pack I’ve ever encountered, and by fuck, I need to meet them.
Diavolo, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to be listening to Lucian anymore. His ears have taken on the shape of a wolf’s while his nose has elongated and thickened like a bear’s. His nostrils flare and he inhales deeply as he twists toward the forest behind him—the direction I’m facing.
I can’t hear or smell what he can.
Normally, I should be able to sense any threats from a distance, but my abilities are all messed up—numbed, it seems, along with my pain.
Lucian suddenly spins in the same direction the keeper is facing.
“Oh, fuck.” His face is deathly pale. “Too late.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Three wolves prowl toward us through the trees, their forms glowing an unexpected blood-red color. Their lips are drawn back from their sharp teeth, and their crimson-colored eyes are filled with what I can only interpret as anger.
The ethereal red hue of their fur is nothing like the color of my own pelt, or for that matter like the fur of any natural wolf, as far as I know.
What really surprises me is that their bodies seem to be insubstantial, a bit like ghosts. I can see through them to the trees and greenery behind them.
Yet they seem very much alive.
Dark saints, how would anyone kill them?
The keeper rises slowly to his feet, moving at a pace that tells me he’s warier than he let on before. He retains his blue-eyed, black-haired, dangerous persona while he places himself in a protective position in front of me. Thankfully, he doesn’t block my view.
Lucian surprises me by stepping in front of me, too, positioning himself in front of my feet, his movements fasterand more controlled than before. He must be regaining his coordination, which can only be a good thing in this situation.
Anarchy jostles past him, nearly upsetting his balance, but her glares and snarls are aimed at the approaching beasts.
All three crimson wolves stand at hip height, their bodies possibly slightly larger than Anarchy’s, but as they draw closer, I can make out subtle differences between them.
The middle one is taking the lead, a sleek beast, while the one on its left is a little bulkier, its jaw a little wider. The one on the far right has more bounce in its step and, even though it’s growling like a hound of hell, there’s a bright curiosity in its eyes that gives me hope these beasts won’t launch an immediate attack on us.
Lucian makes a strangled sound as if he’s about to speak, but Diavolo shoots him a warning look and my brother falls silent again.
The three wolves come to a stop a few paces into the clearing—about ten paces away from us.
That’s when three other figures become visible through the trees, these ones humanoid in shape.
One of them is a woman holding a little girl on her hip. The woman picks her way through the undergrowth while the remaining figure—a young boy—walks at her side, holding her hand.
The woman’s hair is as crimson red as the wolves’ fur and her eyes are a bright blue. She’s wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. Not exactly the garb of a warrior and yet…
Fuck me.
Even though my senses are dulled, the power radiating off this woman hits me with an intensity I can’t ignore. It’s reminiscent of the power I sensed in Vanguard, the old god. Which definitely makes me wary.
The little girl on her hip can’t be more than two years old, dressed in pink shorts with frills at the hems and a white T-shirt that has “wolves are fun” written on it in curly, pink letters. She watches us with big, bright, green eyes that remind me of the color of green apples I once saw in a book. Her hair is as crimson red as her mother’s. She may be little, and the blue ribbon tied in her hair might be slipping off, but the power she exudes is no less intense than her mother’s.
Likewise for the boy walking beside them. Unlike the two females, he has raven-black hair, but he shares the same crisp, green eyes as the little girl.
He reminds me of Elijah, Vanguard’s son—the son of an old god. Judging by this boy’s facial features, he’s a little older than Elijah. His quiet confidence as he calmly surveys us sends shivers down my spine.
