Silver in Her Veins

1 | Of Claws & Silk

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Elodie

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I had learned very early on that the real trick was to look weak or dumb. These were a winning combination when hunting. Key: Never Look Like You're Hunting. Predators can sense other predators and their prey by the tension that coiled in a body. Slow, sharp movements meant competition; hunters searching. Loose, easy movements meant you were a target.

So, I kept my shoulders loose and my smile small, hands wrapped around a glass of something I only pretended to drink. When I made myself the target, my nights got a whole lot simpler. I was just another ordinary woman in a dark dress, lonely and desperate and drinking.

The place was called The Lantern Room, even though it had been lanternless for decades now. The exposed brick climbed the wall, reminding me of just how trapped we were. There were windows, tall and narrow, but they were high above us, like we were standing in a basement looking up to see the outside. All I could see was the darkness pressing against the glass, light from the nearly full moon shone dimly in silvery streaks.

I hated The Lantern Room. It smelled like brick-dust and dampness which I knew was from fights that haunted the walls. People had died there... slaughtered, actually. The Lantern Room was a place where nightmares became reality. I hated it, but I chose that place each month for one simple reason; we were on the edge of Viktor Karrow's territory.

He liked for his wolves to feed close to home, so it had become an unofficial werewolf club. They came to stalk, to torture, to feed or in rare cases, recruit. I'd seen it all because I watched it all. I was good at blending in and they never noticed poor little Elodie. Well, not never, but the ones who did take notice found themselves taking their last gasps of air in the alley outside.

The man three stools down had been watching me since I came in. He thought he was being subtle, letting his gaze slide away when I turned, pretended to study the label on his beer, acted like he wasn't measuring the distance between us.

But I saw him for what he really was. I saw the way he watched my hands, stared at my throat when I swallowed. I watched him lick his lips as he stared at my bangs brushing along my collarbone. Wolves loved the collarbone; the pulse that thrummed beneath, the warmth within the body.

At least he was handsome with a careless ease about him. His dark hair fell into his eyes, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms, a scar along his jaw that caught the light when he smiled. It was a practiced smile, social, meant to be social and suggest easy company. Harmless.

I knew better.

I let my gaze meet his and he tried to look away, a beat too late.

There was always this moment I struggled with, just before the dance began, when I wondered who they had been before. I looked him over again and thought about the boy with scraped knees. He must have had a family. Had he ever cried, or loved?

Then I remembered the monsters.

I remembered the little girl in the yellow raincoat. She had been missing for three days before they found her by the river... or what was left of her.

I smiled at him, the monster who was no longer truly man. That was always my favorite part— when the hunter became the hunted.

He took the bait and slid down the bar with the easy confidence of someone who had nothing to fear. He smelled faintly of pine and smoke, like a campfire burning its final embers. The smell made me sick, swirling old memories through my mind. Through a deep, measured breath, I steadied myself.