small gesture, one that would have been unremarkable in anyone else. But Fenrir knew what it meant, and what it cost her.
And he knew that she did it for him.
Pack. The warmth of the pack bond filled his heart. He had to lick his nose several times in quick succession, overcome by that show of loyalty. Pack.
“The man you met yesterday was our friend Fenrir,” Stone Bitch said, looking The Bitch straight in the eye. She pointed at him. “And he’s sitting right there.”
Chapter 10
“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Darcy said, doing her best to keep a level, calm tone. “You’re claiming that your dog is a werewolf.”
“Oh, no,” Edith said earnestly. “Not a werewolf. He’s a hellhound.”
“Sorry, yes, of course.” Darcy pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting back a hysterical chortle. “A hellhound. Because that makes so much more sense.”
She’d invited the hotshots into her cabin, and made coffee. Because really, when a bunch of improbably muscular firefighters turned up on your doorstep claiming to be magical shapeshifters, who wouldn’t hear them out?
Right now, though, she was beginning to wish that she had something a lot stronger in her cup than coffee.
“We call ourselves shifters,” Wystan said from the other side of the kitchen table. He was eying her with a somewhat cautious air, as though concerned she was about to have a meltdown. To be fair, it was a valid concern. “There are indeed wolf shifters—they’re fairly common, actually—but even they don’t tend to use the word werewolf. Too much cultural baggage.”
“Forget what you’ve seen in movies,” Rory added. He leaned back against the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the countertop. “We’re not monsters. We don’t howl at the full moon, or run around hungering for human flesh. Most of us are fully in control of our inner animal. We choose when and where we shift.”
Darcy stared down at the dog, who was lurking next to Edith’s chair. “So why doesn’t he turn back into a man and tell me all this himself?”
The dog’s head drooped. He whined, licking his nose.
“He wants to,” Edith said. She put her hand on Fenrir’s back, like someone might squeeze a friend’s hand in reassurance. “But he can’t. He’s never turned human before this. He didn’t even believe he could shift into a man. He thought he was a wolf.”
“Though the rest of us knew that wasn’t actually possible,” Wystan said. “Most shifters are born that way, but hellhounds are different. In one respect, they are like movie werewolves. You can only become a hellhound by being bitten by one. And animals can’t be turned. Only humans.”
Rory glanced at Fenrir, one tawny eyebrow quirking. “We did tell you, you know.”
The dog’s upper lip wrinkled, exposing the tip of one enormous fang. He let out a low, disgruntled growl. Rory chuckled, and Wystan smiled.
“Fenrir just said that you can’t eat yesterday’s rabbit again, so there’s no point chasing down old trails.” Edith said, grinning as well. She scratched the back of Fenrir’s neck, fondly. “He always has a way with words.”
It did sound like something the man she’d met yesterday would have said. But Darcy was still having a hard time believing that the dog was actually communicating with the firefighters telepathically.
“So you claim he’s a shapeshifter, but he’s stuck as a dog right now, so can’t prove it.” Darcy took a sip of coffee, watching them all narrow-eyed over the top of her cup. “Seems awfully convenient.”
Rory grimaced, running a hand through his blond hair. “I know, I know. I’d be suspicious too, in your shoes. Fenrir, I think you’re going to have to show her.”
The dog’s ears flattened. He hunched in on himself, turning his head away.
“Show me what?” Darcy asked. “You just said he couldn’t shift.”
“He can’t shift into a man,” Wystan corrected. “But he could show you his hellhound form. Rory, Fenrir has a point. Perhaps it would be better if you or I shifted as proof instead.”
“What point?” Darcy said, looking between them. “Why doesn’t he want to show me?”
“He’s worried about scaring you.” Edith stroked Fenrir’s head. “But you won’t, Fenrir. How could she be frightened of you? You’re her—”
Rory broke into a loud and very obviously fake coughing fit. Edith cut herself off, her face flushing. Her hands jerked, fluttering in an odd, sudden movement.
“Edith is right,” Rory said. As he spoke, his fingers brushed Edith’s shoulder in a brief, reassuring caress. Edith’s hands stilled, and Darcy realized that the pair were