Ravensblood Forest Death and all her friends

The fading light does not reflect off the rogue’s matte, colorpoint fur; it is swallowed up and lost within the shadows and smoke that define her. Teaghlaigh’s boughs are thick with Olive’s scent — the druid’s time is very near, and the closer it gets, the more Lotte realizes there is a certain unkindness within her young and reckless heart, as wicked as Doe and Szymon’s blue goddess. Banríon is jealous, for although she is certain of her own pregnancy, her sides do not swell and the fur has yet to thin on her abdomen. She watches herself obsessively, and the constant lack of overt change frustrates her. She has grown taciturn and still, though she always has time and affection enough for Chusi and Arturo. Tonight she wanders — and finds a storm.

Lotte Ansbjørn Fearghal does not cower. She emerges from the underbrush with brambles in her fur — she will never be a sleek, kempt debutante; she has literally and figuratively never been groomed for such finery — but her coal-colored tail arches high and proud over her lower back. She calls upon Solene’s stoicism and Kitku’s ruthlessness, kicking timid Kaniini to the curb. Mirthless silver eyes pass with a hard, cold stare over the approaching throng; she is outnumbered, but that’s never stopped her before. Her daughter lives within these woods. Her husband sleeps beneath these trees. Black-taloned paws are sure and supple as they brace lightly on her toes, prepared to move if she is offered physical harm, and her broad muzzle dips to protect her throat as she advances. Bitterly she wishes for her brothers and sister — for wolves who can hold their own in a fight — for wolves who have sense enough not to trespass on a pack of assassins with a personal vendetta and a taste for blood — but she doesn’t have these things.

“Hail,” she murmurs finally, flatly, with no warmth in the words. She is cordial because they could have barged right in and killed her tytär where she lay, and they did not. Yet. She cannot help the instinctive lifting of her hackles or the way her lips quiver and twitch. The Blackfeather wolves are seven strong, and Lotte knows the situation requires a fine hand if it is to be managed at all — and even with all of her diplomatic skill and reason, there’s still a damn good chance the sequoias will run red with the blood of the Family. She cannot let that happen — she and Arturo must not lose their tempers — Dakarai must not run his mouth — Chusi must not say the bad word she learned from who knows where.