Ears perked to attention atop a noble white skull at the soft sound of music, a femme’s song twining gently around his own snarls until Kershov was forced to fall quiet. His gaze sliced in the general direction of the border; obsidian lanterns narrowed as if he could part the forest with the force of his iron will to see the songstress’s face, see who dared interrupt him while he worked. The sinister growl that had been silenced by the plaintive howl thundered back to life when the Ice King turned viciously toward the cowering lump of beaten fur before him. The unlucky male—Vladya, once loyal gangmember of Kershov’s tundra band—whimpered pitifully and started to shiver. “I have business to attend to, Blood-Eye. Don’t think this means we’re through with our little chat.” Kershov clicked his bloodied teeth together in Vladya’s face, feeling more than a bit satisfied when the battered male flinched away. “If you move from this spot, I shall break your legs.”

Normally, the alabaster Czar would never experience such irritation at the call of a newcomer. Ker always appreciated new recruits because they were easier to handle than prisoners, and didn’t waste his time with feckless griping; however, the arctic dragon had been tainted by the edge of aggression as of late. He couldn’t look at the mask of his former gang thug without experiencing a nearly overwhelming surge of anger. Vladya, in Kershov’s merciless eyes, had committed the greatest sin a soldier could commit: desertion. The moon-white monster did not take kindly to his warriors abandoning their positions. The last Abendrot member to do so had been relegated to the lowly position of prisoner until he’d sufficiently proved himself to his Alpha. Marx now co-commanded the army.

Vladya might not live to redeem himself, though . . .

Even as he neared the border, Kershov wore a ferocious scowl, pitch-black eyes narrowed into splintered slits and torn muzzle creased in a snarl. The result was more or less terrifying: savaged by a past foe, the right half of the winter-demon’s maw had been shorn away, velvet curtain destroyed to unveil glittering rows of serrated teeth. He forever appeared to be grinning at some sick, dark joke. Pair that permanent humor with real rage, and Kershov might as well have been a phantom conjured to reap the souls of the damned.

“Why Enigma, I am ashamed—were patrolling a game, I fear you would win.” Kershov unfolded his massive pale frame from the midnight shadows around him until he stood at Abendrot’s invisible fence. As usual, his trusted Beta had beat him to the punch; a dove-colored fae lay prone by Enigma’s paws. The frigid Pharaoh had caught the girl’s name just as he entered. Some of the fury slipped like snowmelt from his frightening visage. “Madame Ivev. What brings you to Abendrot?” Suddenly, Kershov’s thoughts untangled themselves from their knot of anger. One of the musings he’d long been nurturing stretched to the surface of his calculating mind again. Of course. That damn cur Blood-Eye had wrongly distracted him. With a much softer voice, Kershov crept closer to the blue-eyed wolfess. “Do you have any talents our pack would want? An assassin’s finesse? A healing touch, perhaps?”