The knock at the door nearly had me dropping my soup bowl into my lap. Gregor was already halfway to wolf-growling again, stalking toward the door like he expected Black Fang assassins to be waiting outside. Nonna, however, didn’t flinch—she just smacked his arm with her spoon.

“Sit, lupo. If death was knocking, he wouldn’t be so polite.”

Gregor yanked the door open anyway, and instead of a squad of killers, a drenched teenage boy with a mop of curly hair stood there, holding a ...