The Great Hall of the Nightshade pack was a cathedral of granite and firelight. It was late, the rest of the pack having finally retreated to their dens after the celebration of their return. The air here was thin and sweet, smelling of roasting meat and the cold stone of the mountains.
Rhiannon stood near one of the massive floor-to-ceiling mirrors framed in iron, a gift from some long-dead mountain king. She was alone, or so she thought. She had shed the heavy woodland cloak, and the collar of Fenris’s charcoal tunic had slipped, exposing the pale skin of her shoulder and the jagged, blackened brand at the nape of her neck.
She reached up, her fingers trembling as she traced the raised, angry lines of Gorgon’s mark. In the South, this was a signature. It was the stamp on a deed. Eve
