Two weeks ago…

“Don’t come back until this woman, Lola Tarnvol, is dead.”

Russel sat across from his father in his favorite sitting room. Taxidermied animal heads of deer, bison, bear, and even a few humans, adorned the walls. A fire had been lit in the large fireplace next to them. Russel was taken in by the almost hypnotic dance of their flames. He swirled the glass in his hand, brought it to his lips, and then took a sip of the amber-colored whiskey his father favored.

He hated the stuff.

“Why…,” Russel started to ask but his father interrupted him with a harsh, vicious command.

“Do not ask questions,” he snarled. “Just do as I command. You are a fifth-born. It is not your place to question me.”

Russel glanced back at the fireplace, at the flames that ensnared his attention, and then took in a long, soothing breath. He looked back at the man so many in their kingdom feared. The King of the Oclan werewolves, Carter Polver, one of the wealthiest and most powerful werewolves in all the lands. Russel despised him. Despised his sharp, beak-like nose. His small, black eyes seemed capable of emoting only one thing, anger. Despite showing nothing but strength and power with his broad frame, powerful arms and legs, and hands that could wring moisture out of a stone, Russel always found him to be small. Small-minded, especially. All he ever cared about was retaining his seat of power, no matter who he hurt or who got in his way.

“Yes, Lord Father,” he finally said, not bothering to hide the hatred in his voice. There was no point. Russel feared him, he wasn’t a moron, but he had learned a long time ago that Carter’s moods were as swift to change as a gust of wind. Trying to please him was essentially a losing battle, a battle he’d long since given up fighting.

“Go then,” Carter told him, waving his hand dismissively.

Russel stood up and prepared to leave. Before he could go, his father stopped him again.

“Tell anyone else of this mission, especially the Elders, and I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth. Understood, boy?” Carter said, his voice eerily still. Matter-of-fact.

Russel made an exaggerated point to bow in as mocking a fashion as possible.

“As you command, Lord Father,” he said, letting his voice fill and then drip icy sarcasm.

Carter didn’t respond. He tipped back the rest of his whiskey, got up, and left the room. He didn’t spare a single glance toward his son. That was fine with Russel. The less he had to interact with his father, the better in his opinion. He looked at the wall of animal heads, particularly the human ones, an unpleasant feeling of dread filling him. The thought of hunting down some random girl and killing her held little appeal for him.

“Ah, Your Royal Highness, I do apologize for the intrusion,” a voice said from behind him.

Russel didn’t even flinch at the sudden noise. He’d both heard and smelled the man well before he’d gotten close. He turned to look at the small, slightly hunched-over man. He was old, his hair just wisps of white fluff, and wrinkles seamed almost every inch of his face and neck. His hands looked almost skeletal with long, bony fingers. Despite looking somewhat frightful, like an untethered shade haunting the palace, the man was actually quite nice.

“Sorry, Bartholomew,” Russel said. “What is it?”

“Your brothers returned from their hunt earlier than anticipated. They caught and killed an impressive bison that was used for this evening’s dinner. It is ready in the dining hall,” Bartholomew explained, bowing.

“Thank you, Bartholomew, but tell the rest of the family I will not be joining them this evening. I have been tasked with an urgent mission by my father. Send my regards, if you would please,” Russel told him.

“Aye, Your Highness,” he said. Then he bowed again and left.

Russel watched the small man go, wondering, and not for the first time, how the human had come to work in the palace. There were very few in their kingdom so it was rare to see one in general. What exactly was the old man’s story? He’d been working for his family since Russel was a baby and even as far back as he could remember, Bartholomew had always been old. He couldn’t even picture him young.