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from it. As he sheathed it with
its twin behind his back, he caught the twinkle of something under the
sputtering streetlight.
    He
reached down and picked up a chunky gold ring from the gray dust that was once
Viktor Salene. It warmed in his hand. Awestruck by its simple beauty and the
fact that it was of a howling wolf similar to the wolf emblazoned on the back
of his black leather duster, Rafael held it up to the dim light.
    The
ruby eye blazed. A harsh wave of frigid air moved through Rafael as he realized
what he held in his hand. The Eye of Fenrir. The savage wolf of doom. A traitor
to his own kind. The talisman of the wolf Slayers. Enemy of the Lycan nation.
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. The ring, lore told, held the captured spirit of Fenrir.
Fenrir had been lured into the ring by Singarti, the great spirit woman of the
Inuit, during the great battle of the North more than three centuries ago. And
there, buried deep in the frozen tundra, it was supposed to stay, keeping the
spirit within frozen for all eternity. It possessed great power and if in the
wrong hands could unleash Fenrir to his terrible physical form. However, if kept
secured, the ring bearer had the potential to wield greater power. Rafael
smiled. Was this a sign? His smile faded. Or a precursor to their doom?
    How
did Viktor get his hands on it? No word had leaked that it had been unearthed.
    Did
Balor, master of the Slayers, know of Viktor’s possession of it? Rafe doubted
it. The ring was too powerful, doubly so with the coming of the Blood Moon.
Balor would never stand for anyone other than himself to possess it. Was that
why Salene had gone off on his own?
    Rafael
folded his fingers around the ring. Heat lasered painfully into his hand. He
clutched it tighter, unwilling to give in to the savagery of Fenrir. He was
alpha, leader of the great Vulkasin pack. Only death by a Slayer could take his
power. Many had died trying over the last three decades of his life, and many
more would meet the same fate. Heat flared in his hand, as if to say he was a
fool to think he could survive the coming of the final battle, a modern-day
Ragnarok. He smiled grimly and opened his hands. The ruby eye dimmed. He slid
it onto the third finger of his right hand. “You have been delivered to me for
a reason, Fenrir. But rest assured, you will not be the death of my pack.”
    He
looked over his shoulder to see that Anton had faded into the black jaws of the
alley. As more questions swirled in his mind, an uneasiness overcame Rafael.
What did Viktor, a rogue wolf Slayer with an inflated ego, want with a homeless
girl? He had been close to marking her, something the Slayers did only when the
person being marked held value to the clan. Though Viktor was known as a
mercenary rogue, one who did not limit his kills to Rafael’s people, he had
blood ties to the direct descendants of the original Slayers. If the girl held
value to a Slayer, she would hold value to Rafael.
    “Anton!”
Rafael strode toward the alley just as his sergeant at arms emerged
empty-handed. “The girl?”
    Anton’s
dark brows crowded together, forming a thick mono-brow across his deep-set pale
eyes. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I took care of her as you
commanded.”
    Rafael
sprinted past his man in a blur. He did not need his keen sense of smell to
locate her because his eyes immediately adjusted to the darkness. He found her
lying in a crumpled heap next to an overflowing Dumpster, buried beneath
several stacks of cardboard. He swooped upon the lifeless form.
    Shoving
the debris aside, Rafe grabbed her to him, grateful that Anton had not snapped
her neck. His powers were not so great that he could fuse bone and nerves. Not
yet anyway. Thankfully, Anton had only smothered her. Rafael sank to his knees
and carefully pulled her into the cradle of his arms. Pushing her head back and
her jet black hair from her ashen cheeks, he opened her cooling lips, pressed
his own warm lips to hers, and gently