Marybeth
The border situation was getting worse. Not dramatically. Not yet. That was what made it so frustrating. Every attack felt calculated. Small enough to avoid triggering open war. Serious enough to keep everyone on edge.
The result was an endless stream of meetings. Reports. Patrol reviews. Strategy sessions. By the time I arrived at the joint command centre that morning, I already had a headache. My father claimed that was what happened when someone spent too much time around politicians.
I was beginning to think he might be right. The large conference room was crowded. Blackridge wolves occupied one side of the table. Calloway wolves occupied the other. Maps covered nearly every available surface.
The air smelled like coffee, paper, frustration, and far too many werewolves.
