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SEVEN
“How the helldid you know to buy these?” I asked Ford, glancing over at the wolf and gesturing to the cabinet. “This is completely insane. This entire place—this entire world I’ve been dragged into.”
Ford stepped forward, and the way he moved toward me told me he intended to lick my face. I held up a hand, and he stopped immediately.
“Thanks for respecting me, I guess, but seriously, Ford. This is weird.” I grabbed a nail polish, holding it toward him. The wolf moved his shoulders in a gesture that reminded me of a shrug.
I wasn’t going to get anything out of him.
With a groan, I put the nail polish back in the cabinet, and shut the damn thing.
Standing up, I strode back to the bedroom, and sat back down with Ford’s journal. His human self could be pissed at me for breeching his privacy later; for now, I wanted to know what else he’d been up to.
And… when else he had mentioned me in his journal.
I flipped back to the beginning. The date at the top was about three years ago. Now that I’d mostly learned how to translate his crappy handwriting, I was able to slowly pick my way through it.
The first page described him…
Writing a book?
My gaze jerked back to the spare room, and then dipped back to the journal to keep reading.
The next few pages were about his pack buddies, and his family. He seemed close to them.
Then his book was mentioned again.
Insurrection.
I dropped the journal again, and crossed the hallway yet another time, stopping in front of the bookshelf.
My eyes scanned the many, many books, until…
Insurrection.
Bingo.
I grabbed the paperback off the shelf, and my eyes scanned the cover. It had a snake and a skull, and looked kind of epic, definitely something fantasy related.
Flipping the cover over, I scanned the blurb on the back.
It actually sounded pretty good.
And the author?
L.F. Welsh.
The F had to stand for Ford, and though I didn’t know his last name, I would’ve put money on it being Welsh.
Damn.
Human Ford was an author. A fantasy author. With many books published, if the paperbacks were anything to go off of. And a successful fantasy author, if I was judging his house and car and whatnot.
I set the book down.
I was starting to teeter on that ledge of seeing the werewolf as a real person with thoughts and feelings and shit, and that was dangerous.
Really dangerous.
