As the last few notes of his jagged howl were swallowed by the harsh rumbles of thunderclouds, Kershov tried to physically wrestle his own anger away, concentrating with all his might on taking the blizzard fire tormenting his insides and turning it into a controllable bar of ice. He glared blackly at the warped and darkening sky, panting breaths transforming into fog before his ruined muzzle. Gradually the alabaster gangleader became aware of his own body; he felt each minute bead of water threading itself down the slick wetness of his drenched pelt; the earth seemed soft and malleable under his massive paws; his jawbone throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the bruise Kobato had slammed upon him slowly starting its healing process. When he bared his teeth in a murderous snarl, Kershov sensed that the worst of his dangerous killing rage was starting to subside . . . though its echoes still howled against his ribcage.

When someone said his name, the ivory King had to take a deep breath to steady himself before craning his neck and directing his baleful demon’s gaze upon his packmate. It was Grey Wind, a newer addition to Abendrot’s army and as ambitious as they came. Kershov chose to view Grey’s ambition as a positive attribute; the dusky warrior burned with an energy that the Alpha knew would fuel him to greatness on and off the battlefield, forever striving for perfection and power. At the moment, Grey Wind’s passion was subdued, the hungry fire in those amber eyes muted to a more respectful light. Ker watched the soldier sit without saying a word. He was trying silently how to accept the large male’s polite compassion.

“There are many things you could do for me,” the pallid Pharaoh growled at last, “but I cannot think of any that won’t instantly result in war, so I shall keep them to myself.” The comment wasn’t meant as an insult toward Grey; Kershov honestly had no idea how to soothe his own rage without assassinating every creature that had ever dared cross him—and most of those offenders belonged to packs that might not take kindly to Abendrot killing them. “You never knew him, Grey Wind, but I’ve banished Abendrot’s last prisoner. He was . . . and acquaintance of mine a long time ago. I hate him.” And that wretched bitch he’s run away with. Ker left Kobato’s name unspoken as he did not know her title; as far as Vladya was concerned, someone would have to rip out Kershov’s kingly tongue before he spoke that loathed name any time soon. An abrupt, savage brightness entered the cold-hearted Czar’s obsidian windows. “If you ever catch his scent outside of Abendrot, feel free to pursue and destroy. I believe his putrid stench is still lining a cave somewhere in the territory, if you can stomach the smell of failure.”

While he spoke another lupine made her entrance. Once Kershov beheld the flaming form of Aerten, the contorting anger still attempting to resurrect itself inside him shivered and cooled. The femme wore quietness as if it were a luxurious cloak, wrapping herself within it like a duchess in her robes. Her shaded eyes held gravity; the mask she donned was a thing of mystery and knowledge. Like Enigma, Aerten was capable of calming her Alpha without really having to do much—she simply existed and reassured Kershov that intelligent wolves still walked the earth. “Lady Aerten. What a welcome surprise,” frigid lyrics purred under the steady drum of rainfall. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m currently distraught. As I’ve told Grey Wind, our newest soldier, I was forced to send that disgusting little punching bag of ours on his way.” Ker doubted Aerten had ever met Vladya personally, but surely the femme fatale had encountered some clue to his existence within the territory. A tuft of torn white fur, perhaps. Or a splash of cowardly blood. “I shouldn’t be so upset, really. It’s disgraceful. But you see . . .” Here a ragged snarl spiked in Kershov’s voice, and his ears smashed themselves against his skull as shimmering hackles rose to attention. “He has insulted Abendrot—and I cannot accept that.”