DEMI
Agreeing to spend a week at Black Mountain had sounded reckless yesterday. This morning, staring at the disaster on my bed, it looked like evidence. Blood bags, suppressants, scent blockers, emergency cash, three shirts, two dresses, and one lip balm—because apparently, I intended to walk into werewolf territory prepared for death, diplomacy, and kissing.
Hannah called while I was trying to decide whether blood bags counted as toiletries. “Don’t forget the suppressants,” she said. “And there’s no mandatory luggage inspection at the border. If anyone tries, run.”
I pictured myself at the border with a bright, innocent smile while a werewolf guard pulled out a blood bag. Maybe I could put it in a wine box and call it emergency nectar. No. Absolutely not. Even I had standards, and
