Curse of Ferreus

10 - Tentative Truce

I hear muffled voices coming from down the hall and falter my pace to listen. By the time I've reached the end of it, I glance around the corner and find the werewolves all standing in the lounge, speaking in soft, hushed tones. Beau's back from cleaning duty, and he looks far happier for it. They don't look my way, so for the moment I stay quiet and still and just listen, falling into the instinct of eavesdropping like a moth drawn to a flame.

"What if he tries something?" Morgan demands, pacing before the extravagant hearth. There's a bag set on the coffee table that wasn't there before, and I watch as she falters in her pacing to rifle through it. I hear glass vials clinking and rustling and figure it must be some sort of first-aid kit.

"He won't," Rowan assures her with an aloof shrug, bracing his hands on the back of a sofa. "Not yet, anyway."

The confident tenor of his voice and his relaxed stance baffles me. How could he gamble the lives of his pack based on one walk through the woods? Does he know how much self-restraint it took for me to keep my knives strictly tucked away?

"Maybe you've gone mad," Beau muses, crossing his arms and studying the alpha closely. He settles on the arm of another sofa, as though equally keen to relax but eager to keep his guard up.

Lachlan hums tonelessly from where he stands before the window, arms crossed, considering. He's like a stone sentry, or an Anubis cursed to watch and protect for all eternity.

I expect Rowan to snap, to glare, to wrestle back some respect. But he merely rolls his eyes lightly and says, "Maybe I have. But I couldn't just leave him there." He wanders around the sofa and collapses onto it with a heavy sigh. "He's hurt, and he's alone, and he's scared. We all know what that's like."

Scared?

I narrow my eyes. I was doing perfectly fine before they came along playing hero.

But his words strike a chord in them. At once, they back down with conceding shrugs and fall onto a second sofa.

"He's got good aim," Lachlan notes, a hint of worry lacing into his lilting voice.

"I've got fast reflexes," Rowan retorts, resting his arm over the back of the sofa, his posture exuding a casual, refined grace.

We'll see about that.

He's got sleeve tattoos, I realise. Swooping, graceful swirls of ink caressing his arms. I find my gaze sliding down my own arms and the evidence of my kills lurking stubbornly there. The sight of the markings summons an uncomfortable lump in my throat.

I want this day to be over. I want to lock myself in my car and let sleep dull my hazy, racing thoughts for a while.

So, with a steadying breath, I step forwards. "If your rivals are the Duskland pack, what do you call yourselves?"

"Fucking hell," Beau manages, a startled hand on his chest as he whips round to face me. His eyes flicker with golden flames for a moment— there and gone. "How long have you been there?"

His reaction has my lips twitching with a private smile. I was taught to walk silently, to settle my heart rate and tread softly and blend into my surroundings— and it seems my training holds up even in the heart of a werewolf pack. Good to know.

He's not alone. The others conceal flinches and their gazes snap towards me.

And they continue to stare, and stare, and stare.

But they're not looking at me— not in general. They're looking at my arms, and the swirled lichtenberg markings lurking beneath my skin. A map of chaos and blood; tangled roots of runes and symbols and streaks of lightning. Absently, I wonder if they know what it means.