[BOOK ONE] When hunter-gatherer Adele Shepherd comes across an injured werewolf in the woods, it's up to her to take him in and save his life: in a remote town dedicated to killing the creatures, she's the only one left who wants to help no matter t...
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THERE WAS NO light; there was no sound. Blackness all around, darker even than the forest at night, and quieter too. Not even the whistle of the wind outside; not so much as the hoot of an owl or the scrape of skinny branches on glass; no creak of an old mattress on an older frame. There was no moon to be seen, no stars dotting the sky; the rich, woody scent of the forest was gone, no lingering smell of a crackling fire.
Adele awoke with a start when she realised she wasn't at home. The pillow didn't smell like hers; the bed was actually comfortable, her body sinking beneath the thick duvet that kept out the cold. It was strange to wake up warm in the middle of November when snow coated the ground and the sun hid. She sat up, disorientated, and rubbed her eyes as though that would clear the darkness.
"Angus?" she whispered to the lump beside her. He grunted.
"Try again," he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow.
"Huh?" She fumbled for a light on the bedside table, illuminating a room she didn't recognise. "Archie?"
He groaned and rolled over. His hair was a mess, a ruffled mop that flopped over his face. Pushing it away from his eyes, he squinted up at Adele, shading his eyes with his hand.
"Christ, Del, you're an early riser," he mumbled. "It's, like seven. On a Saturday."
Her head began to spin, her stomach churning as snippets of yesterday flew back to her. "Fuck. I feel like shit."
"Maybe because you drank a fifth of Gus's Scotch after he went to bed," he muttered. "Something going on with you, Del?"
She shook her head. Archie tiredly laughed.
"Trying to drink away the memory of a disappointing fuck, huh?"
"What?" She dropped back down onto the pillow, her hand over her forehead. "Why would you say that?"
