Curse of Ferreus

9 - Heart of the Lion's Den

The woodland trail seeps with shadows as night descends over the valley. An icy gale twirls leaves into the air in a flurry of emerald, and trees hiss and sigh beneath its force.

Up ahead, Rowan, Morgan and the wolves wander onwards, glancing at me over their shoulders and attempting to make casual conversation.

I lag behind, absently messing with the throwing knives in my pocket as I watch them all warily. I keep checking over my shoulder, too, as we walk further and further from the lights and relative safety of the town, not at all keen on being snuck up on in the dark.

Out here, I'm in the middle of nowhere following a bunch of werewolves to their den, and I'm not entirely convinced they won't kill me the second we get there.

Hence the knives I've got clutched in my fists.

All the while, my thoughts are on fire with dread and anger and training techniques. There's a constant, steady stream of what are you doing why have you followed them if they kill you it's entirely your fault exploding in the back of my head, and it makes concentrating very difficult.

In other words, I've got absolutely no interest in upholding any sort of conversation with these people. My plan — hasty and foolish — is to study their ranks from within. Find out all I can about their rivalry and their numbers and their plans. Hunters have never infiltrated a werewolf pack before— we get our information through sneaking and interrogating townsfolk over months and months of careful consideration. I'm walking on uncharted territory.

But, being on my own, I'm fairly limited when it comes to planning out an ambush on two fronts. Besides, everyone in town has been helpless, and the alpha of this pack has invited me right into his home.

It's an opportunity I cannot waste.

It's one thing to plan my attack, to decide to count their numbers and find their territory boundaries— and it's quite another to actually do it. To follow werewolves to their home, and to be entirely at their mercy. I don't like it.

"What's your name?" Rowan asks, slowing his pace a little as he regards me over his shoulder. In the dark, his eyes fluoresce and shine a little.

I slow my pace, too, unwilling to catch up.

He releases a short breath. "I'm Rowan. This is Morgan—" He points to the woman, who inclines her head— "and these three are Lachlan, Kay, and Matteo."

As he speaks, he points to each wolf in turn. They all huff and flick their ears and regard me warily.

Lachlan. I know that one.

Rowan watches me closely, expectantly.

"River," I murmur.

He smiles; a soft quirk of his lips. "Hello, River. Are you sure you're alright? That looks like it hurts."

I follow his gaze as it dips to my chest. My stolen hoodie is ruined, but the cut itself doesn't hurt much anymore. It's a dull sort of pain— the sort I can lock away in a corner of my mind and forget about. I expect it's already starting to heal.

"I'm fine," I insist, a bite to my tone. I don't want to appear vulnerable in front of these werewolves— especially when it feels as though I'm walking on broken glass waiting for them to turn on me.

He shares a brief, inscrutable look with Morgan, who shrugs helplessly and trudges off into the dark.

"We're almost there," he tells me before following after her.

Obediently, the wolves trot along at his side. Crickets buzz to one another, making bets on the likelihood of my survival. Twigs snap and leaves rustle in symphony.