A harsh, dry crackle bit through the air as Kershov’s curved talons raked down the side of an old tree, bark splintering between his toes. Music to his ears. He had marked his territory this way—bearlike—since he first marched into Abendrot as its long awaited King. There was nothing quite like the ragged aesthetic of long claw marks . . . it conveyed the pack’s aggressive nature and was a hell of a lot more satisfying than pissing in the dirt. Ker couldn’t help but unleash a rippling purr of contentment when his paws finally thumped back to the ground. He breathed deeply, drinking in the dizzying musk of fresh raw wood. Lovely. This earthy fragrance, despite its subtle tones, made up Abendrot’s signature scent as much as any soldier’s pelt.

Speaking of pelts . . . there was one in particular Kershov dearly wanted to see soon. Fur of cream and blood and ink. His darling puppet-turned-queen: Scarlet Nights. Another bastard challenger had disgraced himself by bawling for the Abendrot throne and Nights had accepted the fight with her glittering fangs bared in a smile. Ker had nothing but confidence in the bewitching demoness—of course she would return home with the cur’s filthy carcass to help decorate the border. Maybe she’d even help Kershov mount their enemy’s head on a branch. With that delicious thought in mind, Kershov allowed a smile to curve the handsome, un-shredded half of his maw, completing the permanent grin carved into the right half of his face. Skull on a stick. If that particular trick didn’t scare the shit out of anybody within a ten mile radius, nothing would.

The massive polar monster was just about to rear up to tear through another tree when a sweet, feminine howl purled beneath the clouds. Twin towers flicked up alertly, following the sudden tenseness of rock-solid muscle as Kershov strained to hear every last miniscule nuance of the song. He’d been rather paranoid lately . . . though not in the same fearful way one would expect from a less savage creature. Kershov’s nervousness manifested in dangerous bursts of violence—one might even say madness—but the things that triggered his unstable condition were no longer around to attest. Having determined that the voice he’d caught held no promise of a challenge or bad news, the frosted dragon forced himself to relax. Just a hopeful recruit wanting audience with the King. Not an enemy.

Kershov plunged into his forest like an avenging ghost, mist-pale pelt flitting with supernatural swiftness amidst the shadows. The howl had come from the other side of the kingdom, which meant that by the time he arrived to greet his visitor Hestia had thrown her own lyrics to the sky. Mentally, Ker added a little positive tally next to the femme fatale’s name; she’d just met her Pharaoh—and already she was diligently guarding the boundaries of her new pack. The scene that met Kershov’s singular onyx gaze was Hestia glaring half-deadly, half-playful at a stunningly beautiful Kalik wolfess reposed in the grass. He could have bitten the tension in the air with his teeth.

“My, my . . . hope everything is all right.” The alabaster gangster stepped calmly into the gathering, feathery banner waving high over his spine like a flag of indomitable pride. Light reflected from his single obsidian iris as if it were a soulless mirror; the other side of his face, the side where scars cut cruelly over his flesh and mangled his mask into a visage of gleaming teeth and a gaping eye socket, remained as impassive as rock. He nodded curtly to Hestia—a short gesture that meant worlds of approval—and then focused his attention completely upon the flawless specimen of a maned lady in front of him. Confidence shone off her glossy coat like sunbeams; an attractive smirk tipped the corners of her elegant mouth, as if she were holding secrets on her tongue; her eyes, molten, piercing, interested Kershov the most. Here was another fae that used her beauty as a weapon. How very intriguing.

“I am Kershov, Alpha of Abendrot. Show your throat darling: then we can talk.”