Victor Corvinus had learned many things about survival since inheriting Blackwood Manor, but the most important lesson was simple: If you cannot hide the disaster, frame it.
"Indeed," the wolf said. His voice was like dry ice sliding over velvet. "We were told this facility offered... dignity."
Lord Greymane stood at the foot of the stairs. He leaned on a cane topped with a milky moonstone. Three Highborn werewolves flanked him. They wore bespoke Italian suits that cost more than Victor's life insurance. Their fur was silver. Their claws were manicured. They smelled of cedar, old leather, and compound interest.
They were staring at the front yard.
It was a reasonable thing to stare at. To the left, the Goblin Commander was screaming profanities. He was still stuck halfway out of the ta
