Page 1 of Kiss of Embers

Chapter

One

ZARA

Rain fell in a steady drizzle while the gravediggers worked. The rhythmic sounds of their shovels hitting the soil accompanied Serge’s voice as he beseeched the gods to welcome the “nobly fallen” into the afterlife. It was early afternoon, but the struggling sun couldn’t break through the clouds. Autumn hung over the clearing.

And anger hung in the air. On the other side of the deepening grave, the deceased’s kin huddled in head-to-toe black. The mist-covered forest spread behind them. Two men among the group of mourners whispered to each other, their gazes landing on me again and again. After a moment, the younger of the two, a wolf called Alix, curled his hand around the hilt of his sword.

I kept my gaze on the grave, and I did my best to keep my expression neutral even as rain soaked my clothes and dripped down my chin. Serge was an experienced priest. Eight centuries my senior, he’d served under my father and grandfather. No one was more capable of speeding a pack member to the gods’ embrace. But not even Serge could lift the death ceremony’s dour atmosphere. Werewolf custom dictated that such ceremonies should be a time of celebration. Falling in battle was the most glorious death a wolf could ask for.

But the “nobly fallen” wrapped in linen on the ground hadn’t died defending his kin or the pack. No, he’d died under my blade after the moon sickness stole his reason. Feral and manic, he’d killed without thought or justification. Left unchecked, he would have continued killing. Eventually, he would have exposed my people and the rest of the Firstborn Races to the human world. Moon sickness had no cure. The moment the disease took hold, the man’s death had been inevitable.

But I’d hastened it, as duty demanded.

And now duty demanded I stand with his kin as Serge chanted the ritual prayers. Drute was a steady presence at my side, his wings curled around his body to spare his clothes from the rain. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pin Alix and the other whispering man with a hard stare. The atmosphere around the clearing shifted, tension leaking around the anger.

Alix and his companion stiffened. The gravediggers stopped digging. Straightening, they cast wary looks from Drute to the group of mourners.

Seemingly lost to prayer, Serge continued chanting, his arms outstretched and his head tilted back. “Mighty Dralak, god of the hunt! Hear us, hear us, hear us!”

Across the grave, several mourners met my gaze. Resentment—and the hint of a challenge—gleamed in their eyes.

Apprehension lifted the hair on my nape. I’d left my sword at the house out of respect for the dead.A mistake, my instincts whispered. My father would have never been so foolish. Then again, no member of the pack had ever dreamed of threatening my father. Reinald Rockford never needed a sword to make wolves stand down.

“Hear us!” Serge chanted, his voice booming off the trees. On the other side of the grave, more of the fallen’s kinfolk stirred. Dozens of eyes fixed on me. The tension in the air thickened, swirling with the rain-drenched mist that seeped into my bones.

My heart pounded in my ears. Deep in my chest, my wolf lifted her head—and snarled. Did these people think Ilikedkilling my own? That I enjoyed knocking on doors in the middle of the night to tell someone their loved one was dead? Killing an immortal was no straightforward task. In the year since I became alpha, I’d become as competent as any grocery store butcher. I knew the best places to strike a cleaver to separate arms from shoulders and legs from a pelvis. I knew that a curved blade was usually better for cutting through a spinal column. Some nights, the stench of blood lingered in my nostrils no matter how long I stood in the shower.

“Hear us!” Serge yelled. “Hear us, hear us!”

One of the men across the clearing bared his fangs.

“You shame your kin by threatening your alpha!” Drute called, stepping forward. He flared his wings wide, sending a shower of water droplets into my face. One leathery wing snapped in front of me like a shield.

Which was precisely what he’d intended.

Serge startled, then looked around the gravesite as if emerging from a dream. Based on what I’d learned about the priesthood, that probably wasn’t too far from the truth.

Murmurs ran through the mourners. A man shouldered his way to the front of the crowd, his boots squishing in the damp grass, and pointed a thick finger at Drute. “The shame is yours, gargoyle! You’re bound to serve the Rockford Pack. And yet you preside over its members’ death ceremonies.”

In my mind, my wolf stalked back and forth, eager to surge forward and make the man regret his words. The first tendrils of bloodlust snaked through my veins. But a death ceremony was no place for a show of authority. These people were part of the pack—and they were in mourning. Calling up my power and forcing them to their knees would prove nothing except thatI was a tyrant. My father’s voice flowed through my memory.“Flex your mind before you swing your fists.”

Another pack member piped up. “How many more death ceremonies do we have to attend before someone does something?”

Drute’s wing in front of me twitched, and his gravelly voice rumbled again. “The alpha is working tirelessly to uncover the cause behind the moon sickness.”

“Meanwhile, we bury our dead!” a third person cried. Heads nodded, and murmurs of agreement rippled over the crowd. Muttered words drifted across the gravesite, penetrating the protective wing Drute held before me.

“…too weak to lead.”

“She’s not her father…”

“…Reinald would have already put a stop to it.”

“Reinald isn’t here,” I said, stepping around Drute’s wing. Bloodlust fired hot, and I knew my eyes were the color of amber as I swept my gaze over the mourners. A snapping sound at my back told me Drute had folded his wings. But he stayed close, his big body radiating tension.

A few in the crowd lowered their gazes. Alix tightened his grip on his sword hilt.

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