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“What’s that?” I asked.
His eyes slid from the door to the statue. “Oh. Just a fountain. All of the big alphas have one similar in their courtyard.”
“Why?”
He sighed. “Stupidity, if you ask me.”
I arched a brow at him, waiting to hear more.
“Artemis and Orion,” he said. “The fawn’s symbolic. Artemis was the protector of young women, and that’s what it’s supposed to represent. They were gods of the hunt, so some wolves worship them. Some swear that they were the parents of our species. Werewolves, I mean.”
“That’s not in the lore. Artemis was a virgin.”
He lifted a shoulder. “You’re preaching to the choir. But who am I to shit on anyone else’s beliefs, you know?”
Fair enough.
“Anyway” —Declan closed his grasp around my waist and tugged me into him— “be careful in here, alright?”
“When have you seen me be reckless?
“I haven’t, but I’ve seen you run your mouth,” he said.
I shot him a look.
He laughed, but still firmly held my hip. “I love your attitude. But they won’t. Abe especially won’t, but neither will anyone else. Witches aren’t well liked as it is, and neither are Guardians. Unless you’re directly asked a question, don’t talk to anyone. And stick close. As close as we are right now.”
* * *
I knew bits and pieces about Werewolves. Their eating habits, their nature, their abilities. I’d met a few over the years. But growing up, Dad called them dogs.
He made them out to be uncivilized animals. Brutes. Heathens. Disgusting.
All with a cigarette between his lips and a glass of vodka on the table while his children ran barefoot over dirty needles and broken bongs.
It isn’t hard to imagine my surprise when my ballet flats met sparkling black marble.
Before me was a glorious wooden staircase, each spindle hand carved with small golden decals. A chandelier big enough to fit two of me inside of it hung from the ceiling, tiny refractions of light forming diamonds on the floor polished so smooth I could see my reflection in it. Each of the walls was home to some glorious piece of art.
They weren’t what I’d expected to find in the home of a Werewolf either. Rather than gory depictions of animals tearing apart the carcass of a bear, I saw nature. A magnificent waterfall. A stunning depiction of Mount Hood in the winter. Another of it in the summer, and a pine forest a few down. A white wolf gazing up at the moon, painted with such perfection that I was sure it was a photograph until I looked at the vibrant sunset of pink and orange behind it.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” Declan asked, voice low.
“Gorgeous,” I murmured.
“Wish I’d gotten that gene.” I tilted my head, and he smiled. “That’s my mom’s. It was a birthday gift for Abe.”
Damn, I wished he’d gotten that gene too. “She’s an artist?”
“She’s apainter,” he specified. “She claims they aren’t one in the same.”
I agreed with that. Artists work with more than just paint and brushes. But still… “Well, no, but being a painter does umbrella her into the term artist.”
“Tell her that,” he said. “But either way—”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a familiar voice said nearby. “Gotta say, I liked you better in the short skirt, princess.”
I turned that way, and my stomach whirled. Tommy. He looked a bit better today than he had last week. Instead of an American flag bandana, his bald head shined in the light of the sconces on the walls. He wore a polo and khakis instead of jeans and a Harley Davidson T-shirt.
