Idleness was not a pleasant state of existence for most predators. For Kershov, leader of gangs and commander of armies, idleness was downright poisonous. He needed to do more than catch his meals and mark his borders; a plan had to occupy his thoughts at all times to keep those secret inner monsters at bay. Grandiose plots were like bones from Kershov’s demons to gnaw on. Moving pawns around meant directing savage attention away from his own deficits and shortcomings, keeping himself safe and, by extension, everyone else out of harm’s way. Because when the beast that lived beneath Kershov’s self control had nothing holding it back, all souls were its fodder . . . and it did not care who it destroyed to play its sick games.

Unfortunately, one didn’t simply invent schemes to keep one busy. It’s not as if Kershov could knock on Bright Moon’s door and kindly ask if they wanted a war. Instigating anything of that nature himself without a very good reason would be suicide to his ferociously maintained reputation as a brilliant battle strategist—not to mention a waste of perfectly good warriors. There was nothing the frozen King could gain from antagonizing any other pack, either. Unless a different Alpha made a move against Abendrot first, or if he somehow caught wind of Scarlet Nights being imprisoned somewhere, Kershov was at a loss. He had to learn to bide his time and sharpen his fangs on helpless prey instead of the more interesting toys scattered throughout his toy box. If any whispers of a mad Ruler leaked their way through this land . . . it would only be a matter of time before a firing squad showed up to dispose of the problem.

The only pastime possibly keeping Kershov from doing anything reckless was his newly acquired love of art. He’d been experimenting with a few new techniques as of late: namely skinning rabbits. Ker found that if he managed to strip the flesh from those tiny corpses and stretch it taught over low-hanging tree branches, he could create a sort of canvas. Quite striking to look at, really. The only problem was that he hadn’t yet found a way to preserve the skins once he mounted them . . . they inevitably rotted away, taking his creative vision with them. Maybe he just needed better quality skins? Today the alabaster gangster had resolved to find out. His enormous bleached hide slithered through Abendrot’s shaded passageways, quiet paws barely kissing the terra as he traveled. He kept away from the bright beams of sunlight that splashed their ways through the canopy, avoiding all those places he knew his wolves usually haunted. Like any tortured artist, Kershov preferred keeping his projects a secret until they were ready.

“STOP!”

The distant voice came from somewhere to the west of Kershov. His crown jerked upright, ears at attention. Who . . . ? No one had ever visited Abendrot to join and shouted such a statement. Immediately Ker suspected a botched trespassing plot. Well—time to rip some heads off.

He charged toward the border, tail waving like a battle flag behind him. Fury transformed his ruined face into the mask of a devil. He might have galloped straight for the kill, if it weren’t for a familiar silhouette already keeping the potential intruders at bay.

Kershov’s lonely obsidian orb saw the shadowy knight inside his gates—and for a sickening moment of confusion the glacial Czar honestly could not grasp his name. Bone-colored hackles spiked. The permanent half-snarl etched into the right half of his face completed itself, teeth glistening as they caught the light, before Ker blinked in surprise and realized he did know this wolf. Sebastian: one of the lower ranked soldiers. Hadn’t he gone to Saw Tooth? Was there a mission involved? How the hell had Kershov allowed this gladiator to slip through his claws? Never had the ivory Pharaoh been so out of touch with his own kingdom. He growled softly at the impossible, disturbing thought that perhaps he’d missed more than he should have.

“On the ground,” barked the Alpha as soon as the she-wolf gave out the requisite titles. He did not bother slowly introducing himself to the circle—he just barged right through the undergrowth, tail lashing and onyx eye flashing. Not in anger, you understand. No one had done anything to infuriate the white wendigo. Yet. In fact, the little family situated outside the walls gave every impression of good manners, right down to the young lad who seemed he might be a handful given the chance. Giving a dip of the head to acknowledge Sebastian’s honorable handling of the situation, Kershov assumed authority with ease.