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A familiar scent hits my nostrils. It's the one every wolf wears. Blood that stinks of brotherliness. A connection so strong I retract my fingers and let my hands drop to my side. Just then, a man steps out from the woods.
I size him up in one cursory look. The newcomer looks like he’s seen better days, his thin frame the resemblance of a man with an eating disorder. His collarbones stick out above the neckline of his blue shirt while his slim fitted jeans cling to the length of his spindly legs. His green eyes study me, nose flaring at the same time to catch my scent.
"Get dressed and come with me."
I pick up my clothes, cautiously keeping an eye on him. Who is he? Where’s he leading me? He turns in the direction he came as soon as I don the last of my clothes. I quickly follow him into the woods. He’s not someone I know but the known smell of a shifter surrounds him.
Werewolves, especially ones who want to keep their identity hidden, mask their smell by wearing enchanted perfumes. These perfumes are created by the North End witches, a generation of human sorcerers who have been working with the werewolves for centuries.
I used an enchanted perfume and the wolf walking in front of me must have prepared himself for it. That’s why I had been ordered to go naked. Being naked makes for a faster whiff of my wolf smell.
Without a perfume, Adeline and my brothers would have caught my scent. My plan would have ended before it even started. Adeline, on the other hand, doesn't use one. She isn't hiding from anyone. Other shifters know who she is. Her family controls most of the packs in the area. What's the need for an enchanted perfume?
The lanky wolf turns a corner and heads for a river. As I follow him, I tune out the noise of the woods and try to focus on him. Steady heartbeat. Measured footsteps. Brown hair that smells of the open air as though he’s been living in the woods all his life. I let my eyes trail his body, the pores of his skin, the muscles throbbing in…
"I'm Grindelvi," the lanky man interrupts, suddenly stopping and turning to face me.
I almost crash into him. "Sorry! Oh, hey, Grindelvi."
"You're reading me," he observes, his green eyes sharp.
Yes, I'm reading him, literally. That way, I can tell which pack he's from and possibly connect with his mind to know his real name.
Only a few wolves have mastered the art of reading another. I’m one of the special ones. My father taught me how to read other wolves without their knowledge. But if the wolf being studied is a special wolf too, they can tell when they are being read.
Grindelvi knew I was reading him. He’s no ordinary wolf. He's like me.
"Yes," I admit. "Someone must have taught you too."
A corner of Grindelvi's mouth stretches to a grin. He turns around and starts walking again. "Yeah, some of us have been attentive in class."
"Not all wolves can learn it."
"I know that Luke H.," Grindelvi replies. "That's why you and I are very special."
"Call me Luke. My name is Luke."
"Okay, Luke," Grindelvi says.
"Why do I have to meet with the group?" I ask him, trying to keep pace with him. "I already told you my story. Is there something I'm here to do?"
Grindelvi doesn't speak for a few seconds. He tucks a strand of his long brown hair behind his ear and answers, "Yeah, touching story but we need to know you. If you want to play the Game of the Night, you have to meet the other players."
This is more than playing an online game, I'm sure of it. Yesterday, I spent two hours chatting with the other players in the inner room, telling them the story about my pack, avoiding the details like my father's name and where my pack had been located.
Some group members said it's a sad story. They all admitted their hatred for the High Ridge Pack. I’d connected with that hatred. We had common ground. I’d started to think that I was in.
Then I woke up this morning to Grindelvi's message to meet the group followed by my ass baking in the sun. These people want to keep their location hidden, especially from the High Ridge Pack. Any sane group that hates them will do the same.
"Here we are," Grindelvi says, stepping into a clearing.
Sitting in the center is a campsite with a few werewolves and a single tent. Two women with matching pink hair, studded noses and lips, biker pants and jackets, sit on a tree trunk, watching me as I continue to follow Grindelvi into the place. Twins?
At the entrance of the tent is a buff male wolf, arms crossed and his milky eyes staring into nothing and I realize he’s blind. It’s impossible to imagine what I would be without my eyesight. Lost in eternal darkness. Unable to gaze upon Adeline's alluring face, only sensing her magnetic presence. At the same time, my blindness would have saved me from seeing the horrific slaughtering of my pack.
"This is Jack," Grindelvi says to me as we approach the blind wolf. "He's the camp's watch guard. Ironic, isn't it? He can't see shit."
"Yeah, how does he protect you?"
