MARCUS
The Ashford pack territory smells like death and flowers. Someone's trying to cover up the scent of their dead Alpha with rose water and incense. It's not working.
I stand at the back of the gathering hall with forty other wolves from different packs. We're all here for the same reason. Alpha Ashford died three days ago, heart attack at seventy-eight, and now his pack needs a new leader.
Democracy in action. Supernatural style.
"This is a farce," mutters the wolf beside me. Thomas, from the Southwark pack. "Everyone knows Parliament already chose the winner."
He's not wrong. Elections in the supernatural world are about as legitimate as vampire tears. The votes happen, sure, but the outcome was decided weeks ago in closed-door meetings between Ancients and power brokers.
Still
