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“Come now, she’s pretty and just your type.”
“Even before I was bonded to Charlotte,Mrs.Wilson’s looks did little to quell my dislike for her. She always looks like something smells bad and treats me like your lackey.”
“Youaremy—”
A true growl filtered through Frank’s throat then. “Don’t say it, don’t you dare. We’re partners.”
I chuckled. “Yes, we are. I’m just stirring you up.”
“And it’s working.”
“I know,” I said, grabbing my jacket and briefcase. “It always does.”
Before the business meeting, I had a stop to make, and while there would be no real harm in Frank being in on the Macintyre account, I didn’t want him present for the more personal business I had to take care of.
The metal of the chair legs scraped against the pavers on the side street pathway, drawing the attention of the man already seated opposite me and the waitress inside. Sliding into my chair, I smirked as the man continued to look down at his hands folded on the table, the slightest twitch of his ears betraying him. He would have heard I was close long before he saw me round the corner.
Werewolves’ hearing was impeccable, even in human form.
Dante kept his black hair around shoulder length, constantly looking as though it were in need of a good comb. His hands were tanned and calloused, the hands of a working man, and they folded over each other, never quite motionless even as he mumbled his coffee order to the waitress when she approached. I was about to wave my hand to dismiss her when Dante grunted, and I took that to mean he had something to discuss with me beyond a friendly check-up, so I ordered myself a coffee. Black, extra-large.
Friendly check-ups weren’t exactly Dante’s style anyway.
His green eyes were blazing when he met mine, and he said nothing until our order had been delivered and the waitress had left us alone. It was an awkward time, after the morning rush and before the lunch hour, and we were alone at the tables outside.
“There’s trouble within the pack,” he grunted out, grabbing his coffee and taking a large gulp without waiting for it to cool. “You’re no longer welcome.”
While my hand stilled, paused in the movement between the table and my lips to taste my coffee, I moved past the moment of distraction and sipped delicately at my drink before returning it to the table, the mug clunking loudly against the glass after a slip of my control. He used the wordpack, but werewolves were solitary creatures and very rare. They came together once a month if they could, to let off some steam and for tradition, I supposed, although the full moon had no effect on them. Perhaps it made them feel like they weren’t so alone in the world, but at all other times, they moved and lived alone, staying apart from other weres and humans alike.
“Why?” I asked.
Dante looked at me and held my eye contact for a beat before he rolled his gaze away from mine and surveyed the street. His movements were rarely calm, always looking and listening at what was happening around him, his ears and nostrils twitching with movement that wouldn’t be noticeable if I weren’t looking for it. In its own way, a wolf-like motion.
I knew my scent bothered him. Werewolves and demons were natural enemies, but Dante and I had an understanding—a truce.
At least, that’s what I thought. Apparently, things were changing.
“New members.” His smile was cold, and we both knew what those people had gone through to become members. “They do not want to be associated with a group that hangs around a demon, even if it is for…” he traced his tongue around his lips, a hint of amusement in his eyes before it passed, “… therapy.”
Despite popular belief, werewolves could not be created through the bite of another. It wasn’t a curse passed down through generations, nor a fable told to children to keep them out of the woods at night. A human could not be turned into a were by an existing werewolf, and they didn’t attack humans anyway.
A werewolf was a soldier of God, a human cursed to live out the remainder of their days until death with the were curse. But it was a saving grace, a small price to pay to avoid an eternity in Hell. A human who had not earned their place in Heaven but cemented their place in Hell could be offered a chance for redemption by an angel. If the angel saw something in them, perhaps a small spark worth saving, they could accept the curse of the werewolf, their soul would be redeemed, and they would be spared from an eternity in Hell.
Werewolves went by another name in popular lore.
Hellhounds.
They served a dual purpose on Earth. They were used to track down human souls that wouldn’t cross over and demons who refused to play by the rules and drag them both back to Hell. When demons didn’t want to get involved with their own kind or take the time to track one who was doing the wrong thing, a were could be called to do the job for them. It was a brutal act for a demon to be taken down by a werewolf. A demon would simply drag you through the gates of Hell, whereas a were would send you there by killing you and destroying your mark at the same time, so you could never return to Earth from Hell.
After my loss of control a few years ago when humans were killed and my skin was stained with blood, I was surprised the weres didn’t come for me.
There were cities like this one where the demon population was so rampant that werewolves no longer lived within the city limits. But they weren’t far, and when they were needed, they’d receive the call, a voice in their head telling them where to go, and they’d change form and track down their prey—the scent filling their nostrils, ready to be followed.
I often wondered what Dante had done to be offered the curse as a form of redemption, but it was not my place to ask, and he had never told me. By instinct and law, weres and demons were enemies. But I had been allowed to be around them to enact my therapy to keep my demon under control, and it was only through an act of submission that I hadn’t been killed when I first approached the pack.
But it seems those days were over.
“I understand you were taking a risk, even allowing me to be within the pack for those nights once a month.” My mouth was dry, and I attempted to swallow but found nothing, so I took another sip of coffee. I was barely keeping my hand from trembling. The idea of losing the one outlet I was comfortable with to keep my demon under control would force me to take part in more traditional outlets. I would need to fight more often—something Frank would be happy about—but it meant giving into the violent nature I had tried so hard for so many years to deny. The denial of which I had down to a fine art, yet I felt it was teetering on the edge of taking control of me again. I had been so used to my pattern that to change it could have devastating effects.
