Igor

The silence in the sacred grove was wrong. Not peaceful—dead. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, unwilling to draw the attention of the beast that stood panting over what remained of Elder Matthew.

I pressed myself against the rough bark of an ancient oak, my heart a dull, steady thud against my ribs. The red moon hung overhead like a weeping wound in the sky, its crimson light painting the carnage in shades of rust and shadow.

Nikolai lifted his blood-soaked muzzle to that ...