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fledgling cave. It had been hard not to laugh when
Gwen commented on the “remarkable” change.
    Stupid cow.
    On the night before the next moon week, Jenny had been
initiated into the pack. She could still picture the pathetic look on Gwen’s
face when she got left behind. It was official wolf business, and Chaney wasn’t
a wolf. Jenny had pretended to feel sorry for her, but it was fucking awesome to
see Miss High and Mighty Human Consort knocked down a peg.
    * * * * *
    Two Months Earlier
    On the evening of Jenny’s induction ceremony, she sat on the
wide windowsill and admired Sergei as he stood naked in front of the open closet
across the bedroom. She swept her gaze over his long lean legs, tight ass and
broad back.
    When he turned slightly and reached into the back of the closet,
she got a clear view of the tattoo on his right upper arm. It was a triangle
with spiral in the middle—the mark of the werewolf. Everyone in the pack had
identical ink. The males wore theirs on the right arm and the females on the
left.
    Jenny used to have a butterfly tattooed on the small of her
back, but it had disappeared by her second moon week, along with her
appendectomy scar. Her pierced ears had filled in too. Alex said all trauma
that had occurred to the body while in human form was healed once a person was
turned.
    Jenny had been plenty stoned when she’d gotten the butterfly
at a hole-in-the-wall parlor in San Francisco, but it had still hurt like hell.
She wondered what kind of place did the pack’s ink.
    Sergei turned and set a vinyl garment bag on the bed. He
caught her checking him out. He didn’t respond when she winked at him. Jenny was
just as nervous as he seemed to be—probably more—but still got turned on every
time she saw that huge cock.
    He pulled down the bag’s zipper, drew out a floor-length,
black hooded robe, and slid one arm, then the other, into the long sleeves of
the open-front garment. A single large black button was positioned high on the
left shoulder and when he drew up the right panel, he was covered from neck to
ankles.
    “Do I get one of those?” she asked, watching his big fingers
fumble with the closure.
    “Soon,” he said.
    “Well what am I supposed to wear? Is this a formal thing or
what?”
    “It does not matter what you wear,” he muttered.
    Sergei had been acting strangely for days. He’d seemed
anxious and edgy and had refused to tell her anything about the ceremony. His
secrecy and odd behavior were getting on her nerves. All she knew for certain was
that the pack shaman, Jeremiah Morgan, would officiate.
    She wished she could read thoughts like the other werewolves
could. Sergei had tried to send her messages, but she just couldn’t get it.
He’d also tried to probe inside her mind and had accused her of shielding, but
she wouldn’t know how even if she wanted to.
    With no direction from her mate—verbal or otherwise—Jenny had
settled on jeans and a T-shirt. Sergei had bare feet, so she hadn’t bothered
with shoes for herself.
    They had left the farm at dusk and hiked through the woods
on a series of narrow, winding paths. As they walked, Sergei had reminded Jenny
how to behave in front of Jeremiah and told her what he knew about the pack’s
spiritual leader.
    He had said that though Jeremiah Morgan looked like he was
around fifty years old, he was more like six or seven times that. Morgan had
been born in Wales where his mother was a healer. He’d grown up with an
education that couldn’t be found in books. About the time Mother Morgan had
been tried—and executed—for witchcraft, Jeremiah had been turned. He’d knocked
around the Welsh countryside for a while, trying to get a handle on his new
powers before moving to London. It took another couple of decades for him to
find a sea captain and crew made up of his own kind that could make the long
voyage across the Atlantic with the provisions necessary to weather the full
moon.
    Jeremiah spent the next few years