The thing about fighting mutated rogues is that no one ever warns you about the smell. Not the normal wolf scent—that I was used to—but the chemical reek of whatever Victoria had done to these creatures. It clung to everything like supernatural napalm, making my eyes water as I sprinted toward the perimeter.
The east border of our territory had transformed into something out of a horror movie. Trees splintered like toothpicks, earth churned into mud, and the grotesque shapes of Victoria's science experiments lumbered between defending pack members with unnatural, jerky movements.
I spotted Riley immediately—his emerald birthmark pulsing beneath his skin as he faced off against a rogue with what appeared to be a second, half-formed head sprouting from its shoulder. The creature's movement
