Page 100 of What a Wolf Demands

Max seemed more curious than surprised. “How do you know this, Damian?”

The wolf shrugged. “I mean, I don’t for sure. But it’s the only explanation that makes sense.” He looked at Lily again. “Do you find that wolves lose their Gifts when they’re around you?”

She frowned. “No . . . I don’t think so.”

“Think hard,” he said. “Try to remember any time you’ve heard a wolf complain their Gift wasn’t working. Has a Finder ever felt slower than normal in your presence? Or maybe a Seeker ever had trouble hearing around you?”

“My parents . . .”

The wolf nodded. “Yes?”

She licked her lips. “They were both Seekers. They became hard of hearing before they died, but they were old.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t know.” She gave her head a little shake. “I don’t think—” She gasped.

Alarm bolted through Dom, and he reached for her. “Lily?”

She put up a hand, holding him off. Then her gaze met the male’s. “Charlie.”

“Yes. What about him?”

“The night he died. H-He swung at me, but he couldn’t hit me. He looked so stunned. It happened several times.” She gulped. “He’d been drinking, but . . .” Her eyes went wide.

Max came around the desk. “Go on, Lily.”

She got quiet. “It happened all the time. Every wolf who came into the bar said it over and over, how their Gifts were weak when they drank.”

Thibeaux made a scoffing sound. “Yeah, because they were drunk.”

“No,” the mystery wolf said without turning around. “Our metabolism is too fast. Alcohol doesn’t affect us that way. You should know that, wolf.” It was the first time anger had touched his voice.

“But he wouldn’t,” Lily said, her eyes darting to Thibeaux. “The loup-garou rarely leave Bon Rêve. Why wouldn’t they just assume it was the beer? They’ve never known anything else.”

Thibeaux turned his head to the side and pretended to spit.

Behind Dom, Lizette murmured, “Gross.”

“I’ve never heard of a Null,” Thibeaux said. “It sounds made up.”

Lily’s cheeks colored. “I’ve never heard of it, either,” she told the wolf Max had called Damian. “I don’t even know what it means.”

He smiled. “No, I don’t expect you would.” He looked around, his gaze taking in everyone in the room. “Nulls block all the magic around them, nullifying it if you will. The Gift is more common among witches. And the witchborn.” Now his gaze returned to Lily, and he added, “As I am.”

Now someone really gasped.

“But I’m not a witch,” Lily said. “My parents were werewolves.”

“You could still be witchborn,” Damian said. “Witchblood is strong. Do you have any witches in your ancestry, perhaps? The Gift can skip generations.”

Lily glanced at the loup-garou. “I’m from Bon Rêve, in the Louisiana Territory. There are a ton of witches in the bayou.”

Damian’s smile broadened. “There you have it.”

The loup-garou murmured among themselves, their gazes shifting between Damian and Lily.

Dom stared at Damian, surprise coursing through him. For years, there had been rumors of so-called “witchborn wolves”—the offspring of werewolves and witches. Such beings were rumored to derive powers and abilities from both magical parents, possessing an array of Gifts not found among regular werewolves.

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