9 - Heart of the Lion's Den

The woodland trail seeps with shadows as night descends over the valley. An icy gale twirls leaves into the air in a flurry of emerald, and trees hiss and sigh beneath its force.

Up ahead, Rowan, Morgan and the wolves wander onwards, glancing at me over their shoulders and attempting to make casual conversation.

I lag behind, absently messing with the throwing knives in my pocket as I watch them all warily. I keep checking over my shoulder, too, as we walk further and further from the lights and relative safety of the town, not at all keen on being snuck up on in the dark.

Out here, I'm in the middle of nowhere following a bunch of werewolves to their den, and I'm not entirely convinced they won't kill me the second we get there.

Hence the knives I've got clutched in my fists.

All the while, my thoughts are on fire with dread and anger and training techniques. There's a constant, steady stream of what are you doing why have you followed them if they kill you it's entirely your fault exploding in the back of my head, and it makes concentrating very difficult.

In other words, I've got absolutely no interest in upholding any sort of conversation with these people. My plan — hasty and foolish — is to study their ranks from within. Find out all I can about their rivalry and their numbers and their plans. Hunters have never infiltrated a werewolf pack before— we get our information through sneaking and interrogating townsfolk over months and months of careful consideration. I'm walking on uncharted territory.

But, being on my own, I'm fairly limited when it comes to planning out an ambush on two fronts. Besides, everyone in town has been helpless, and the alpha of this pack has invited me right into his home.

It's an opportunity I cannot waste.

It's one thing to plan my attack, to decide to count their numbers and find their territory boundaries— and it's quite another to actually do it. To follow werewolves to their home, and to be entirely at their mercy. I don't like it.

"What's your name?" Rowan asks, slowing his pace a little as he regards me over his shoulder. In the dark, his eyes fluoresce and shine a little.

I slow my pace, too, unwilling to catch up.

He releases a short breath. "I'm Rowan. This is Morgan—" He points to the woman, who inclines her head— "and these three are Lachlan, Kay, and Matteo."

As he speaks, he points to each wolf in turn. They all huff and flick their ears and regard me warily.

Lachlan. I know that one.

Rowan watches me closely, expectantly.

"River," I murmur.

He smiles; a soft quirk of his lips. "Hello, River. Are you sure you're alright? That looks like it hurts."

I follow his gaze as it dips to my chest. My stolen hoodie is ruined, but the cut itself doesn't hurt much anymore. It's a dull sort of pain— the sort I can lock away in a corner of my mind and forget about. I expect it's already starting to heal.

"I'm fine," I insist, a bite to my tone. I don't want to appear vulnerable in front of these werewolves— especially when it feels as though I'm walking on broken glass waiting for them to turn on me.

He shares a brief, inscrutable look with Morgan, who shrugs helplessly and trudges off into the dark.

"We're almost there," he tells me before following after her.

Obediently, the wolves trot along at his side. Crickets buzz to one another, making bets on the likelihood of my survival. Twigs snap and leaves rustle in symphony.

"Kay, Matteo," Rowan says, tipping his head back to admire the stars blinking stubbornly above the tree canopy. "Could you clear the way and make sure the pack house is empty?" His focus cuts, for a split second, towards me. "This discussion would be best without an audience, I think, if we can help it."

Two wolves huff and race off into the shrubs, nipping playfully at one another's tails and ears. Shadows swallow them.

The third watches me closely, a strange intelligence lurking behind its eyes. The wolf stays at Rowan's side, but its focus remains split between the path ahead and me.

It's not long before we emerge from the woods onto a small clearing. My pace falters as I take in the picturesque haven. Stone accents adorn a log cabin nestled amongst the trees and emerald rivers of ivy crawl their way up the walls. It's not the only house, either. There are trails leading to other cottages half-hidden in the woods, but this one is larger and appears to be the focal point. Flames dance in gas lamps lighting the pathways, giving the entire clearing an ethereal, serene glow against the shadowed woods and the star-speckled sky.

Mercifully, the trails and woodlands are empty, with nothing but swaying trees and flitting owls to disturb the quiet. Kay and Matteo and any lurking werewolves are nowhere to be seen.

I glance around fervently, just in case, checking for glowing eyes in the dark. There's no one. Even still, the heat of attention burns my skin. Or paranoia. The two tend to blur into one.

Rowan slows to a stop, idly surveying the place as he tucks his hands into his pockets. Morgan forges on towards the cabin, muttering something about fetching her supplies.

The wolf breaks away and trots for an old, gnarled and hollow tree stump, where it snuffles inside and retreats with a clump of clothes in its mouth. Without preamble, he starts to shift right there in the shrubs. Fur melts to skin; limbs stretch and contort; the man I saw in the alley emerges entirely naked.

I hear rustling as he shrugs on his clothes, but my gaze flits from the ground to Rowan with his shoulder braced against a tree trunk to the sky to the cabin. Anywhere else.

"What a night," he says with a sigh, wandering over and tugging his hands through his tousled blond hair. "Beau's gonna be fuming with you," he tells Rowan pleasantly, his decidedly Celtic accent clipping the words in a melodic sort of way. "He hates clean-up duty."

"He'll survive," the alpha werewolf retorts. His gaze finds mine; imploring and hopeful. "Shall we?"

Every instinct is begging me to turn my back and get as far away from here as possible. This is the heart of a werewolf pack's home, and I'm running severely low on silver and vastly outnumbered if they decide to attack. Surely they have reinforcements hiding amongst the trees.

And yet, when Rowan and Lachlan head for the cabin, I find my feet taking me forward. Instinct wars with expectation; a bloody, brutal fight that leaves my nerves severed and thoughts set ablaze.

Yes, this is probably a mistake. But I want to know what Rowan's plan is. Why he's invited a hunter to his home, even after seeing exactly what I can do when provoked. It's a look into a world I've only ever seen through the peep sight of a bow— I can't help but be curious.

Besides, if it helps me gauge their numbers and their territory and their routines, all the better.

"So they're targeting civilians, now?" Lachlan asks his alpha in an undertone, his gaze flickering to me over his shoulder, calculating and watchful.

"This was Seb's lot. He probably wanted to make a spectacle of taking out a hunter to prove he could, and it backfired on him."

"Arrogant bastard."

"An arrogant bastard no more, it would seem."

Oh, fuck. Rowan's words are a punch to the gut. If Laura from the bookstore ever sets her eyes on me again, she'll probably try to kill me. Seb was her brother.

I know what it's like to lose a sibling. I wanted that wolf to suffer for biting Esme, but it's already dead. The heat of my frustration is torn between werewolves and Ferreus hunters. Laura has the unfortunate luxury of knowing I'm still alive. She'll probably sniff me out, plagued with vengeance. I can hardly blame her— even if Seb was an arrogant bastard.

Rowan leads the way inside the log cabin— where I find the interior is just as warm and inviting as the outside. There's hallways and doors branching off in different directions and a staircase hugging the wall, but Rowan walks straight past them all and further into the house.

We emerge into a lounge with huge plush sofas and a grand hearth still sputtering with embers from a recent fire. The air is thick with the scent of wood smoke and rain-soaked moss. Several lamps dotted about give off a soft, warm glow and every available surface is covered in either books or plants. Ferns, hanging vines, succulents— a mass of emerald. Huge windows run along the walls and cut into the ceiling, revealing a beautiful, uninterrupted view of the dark woods swaying in an idle breeze against a backdrop of grey mountains. It's cosy.

Hallways branch off from the room, as well as an archway leading into what appears to be a modern, sleek kitchen, and I get the startling impression of a maze. It would be easy to get lost in this place.

Rowan absently studies me, and when I catch his gaze, he gestures towards one of the hallways. "There's a bathroom that way. Let me get you some fresh clothes."

He leads the way and I hesitantly follow along behind him. I keep Lachlan in my peripheral, but he merely wanders further into the lounge without giving me a second look. Not a threat, for now.

Rowan disappears into a room and returns moments later with a folded pile of clothes. He hands them over, and I take care to avoid getting anywhere close to his hands.

He offers me a tentative, soft smile, gestures to the door opposite, and says, "It's just here. We'll be in the lounge when you're ready."

And he leaves me alone.

Once I'm inside, I lock the bathroom door behind me and melt against it, focusing on taking some deep, even breaths to settle my racing mind.

I'm in the heart of a werewolf territory in the wake of a brutal fight with their rivals, and I'm not entirely certain how the night has ended up this way.

Get the information, get out, get prepared. There will be a lot more fighting before my work is done.

With this in mind, I toss the pile of clothes onto the counter and pull off the bloody scraps clinging to my body. Getting naked in the enemy's home isn't ideal, but the thought of a warm shower to wash away all the blood and dirt and sweat is too tempting a call to resist.

Besides, I need to check myself over more thoroughly for injury. For bites.

The man that stares back at me in the mirror looks like a haggard mess. Adrenaline widens my eyes and blows my pupils— the rings of silver around them are stark and shining like mercury catching sunlight. There's blood streaked across my cheek and a bruise darkening my jaw. A substantial cut slices across my chest, half-healed already. Numerous slashes join it, dotted all over my body, though they're a lot less severe.

In short, I look as though I've crawled my way through battle and just about reached the other side— which isn't the impression I want to give these werewolves. Even if it is partly true.

In a grumbling reminder, nausea rolls through my stomach. I roll my eyes and get into the shower, messing with all the dials until warm water sputters out the shower head. I don't dare close my eyes and submerge myself — not here, in the lion's den — so I scrub all the blood from my skin and keep my eyes locked on the door, just in case.

All the while, my thoughts churn; a maelstrom of panic. What am I doing here? Why did I agree to this? Are they waiting to catch me off-guard before they kill me? Do they know I'll do the same?

It takes a lot of willpower, once I'm dried off and dressed in the clothes Rowan offered (jeans, a T-shirt and a jumper I leave off for now that all smell vaguely of cinnamon and musk and fit quite well), to unlock the door and emerge into the hallway.

I tuck away my knives and blades — close if I need them, but not on show — and clutch the jumper like a lifeline.

Their home is remarkably... human. Mundane. There's photographs adorning the walls and the doors I pass are open and revealing cosy bedrooms or quaint offices filled with bookshelves. It reminds me, vaguely, of the den back home — well, not anymore, I suppose — if only with less gruesome trophies and weapon displays.

It would be a comfortable, welcoming environment, if I wasn't currently fearing for my life. I find myself checking the windows overlooking the dark woods billowing in the wind, but they're all locked. Of course. I feel as though I've been tempted into a cage and the door is swinging shut behind me.

It seems I'll have to face the music.