Greyson flicked his golden eyes at Hector, who slightly inclined his head as he backed up a step or two.
When Greyson shifted from an amused stance with his hands tucked into the pockets of his pants, to a more formal stance with his hands clasped behind his back, the entire atmosphere of the room shifted.
The wolves leaned forward, their eyes set on their leader as they listened with their whole bodies.
“A group of hunters have been dispatched by the Midwest Regional Committee of Magic,” Greyson said. “The feral wolf’s death was ruled unavoidable given the circumstances, and Pip and I are mostly cleared. However, the Regional Committee of Magic decided an official investigation was necessary due to the unfamiliar magic we could sense on the wolf.”
He paused, but no one moved. No one besides me, anyway. I juggled my box of microwavable popcorn from one hand to the other and shifted in my chair—which made a very loud, grating noise on the wooden floor.
Greyson flicked his eyes in my direction, a glitter of amusement briefly shining there.
It’s so aggravating that he seems to find whatever I do funny, while I find most everything he does annoying!
“The hunters are all from the Fletching family, and they’ll be led by Amos Fletching. He’s the older brother of the family’s leader, Carrianne Fletching.” Greyson peeled his eyes away from me to look out over the Pack. “They will arrive tomorrow. They will not interfere with Pack business—they’re here to track magic. If asked, you should answer any questions they might have, but avoid them if possible.”
From the way Hector was watching me, I was sure that last line went for me, too.
I could handle that. While the hunters would need to question me about what I’d observed, it was pretty unlikely their investigation would lead them to the Timber Ridge Welcome Center.
“Any questions?” Greyson asked. “Concerns or statements?”
No one moved a muscle—of course.
I wracked my brain for anything I could say—it’d be good for Greyson and the Pack as long as I didn’t push them too far.
Since Mama Dulce and Papa Santos had died, my position in the Pack was…uncertain. Puppy pheromones or not, things wouldn’t go well for me if I pushed too much.
It’s all about balance.
“If the wolf’s death was unavoidable, why is the committee sending hunters?” I asked. “Wizards or fae would be a better choice given that they are far better at sensing magic. Even a third-party werewolf would be a better choice.”
Hector smiled benignly as he casually crossed his arms so his hands cradled the elbow patches of his suitcoat. “Hunters were chosen given the delicate nature of the events.”
There’s something they’re not saying…
“Delicate?” I asked. “I’d think they’d want the best on hand, not passable magic trackers.”
“The feral werewolf was from the Low Marsh Pack.” Again, when Greyson spoke every eye in the room turned to him, but Greyson was studying me, his eyelids at half mast, which would normally make a person look dopy, but he carried it off with his model looks. Figures. “Alpha Dolph is irate over his death. The hunters are to placate him, so he’ll let the matter drop.”
I frowned—concerned about this detail. Because Dolph didn’t seem anywhere near placated when I’d seen him just a bit ago. “And if he isn’t placated?”
Greyson leisurely tilted his head back in a relaxed look of absolute assurance. “Then we’ll teach him to be placated.”
I couldn’t really say anything to that. Werewolf Packs would frequently work together, but when a less powerful Pack did something stupid—like, for instance, try to pick fights with a much larger and stronger Pack—there was often some correction involved.
I swear, sometimes living among werewolves felt like being perpetually stuck in a clique-y high school.
“Sounds fun,” I said.
Greyson’s smile was more than a little dangerous, and Hector speedily took over the meeting.
“The hunters will be staying in town…” Hector continued.
I only half listened as I clutched my box of popcorn.
Hunters, huh? Seems to me things are going to get a little spicy around here.
*
I leaned against the tree trunk as well as I could as I looked through the scope of my rifle. I mentally focused on the bullseye target I was aiming at while I tried to keep my balance so I didn’t fall out of the tree I was perched in.
I am inherently lazy. I didn’t like training, and I really didn’t like sweating. But the werewolves dragged me into combat training no matter how I felt on the issue. If I wanted a fighting chance at surviving their training methods—which could get pretty rough—I had to practice my hunter skills separately.