Getting the word out was the easy part.
A mass broadcast pinged across the grid. Selene, the regional Alphas, Maren’s sprawling camp of Hounds, Anca’s Carpathian academics. Anybody who’d stood in that Montana lodge and sworn to hold the line got the exact same blunt memo. The Hunger isn't a myth. We have the gun. Iceland. Now.
And then we just sat around and waited.
God, the waiting. You'd think the cold would be the worst of it. The North Atlantic wind up there doesn't just blow; it claws at you. It wants to actively strip the meat right off your bones. Or maybe you'd think it was the dark. The sun barely bothered to show up, dragging a miserable grey smear across the horizon for two hours before giving up completely. But no. It was the blind spot. Sitting on our hands in the pitch bla
