Page 11 of It All Started with a Bite

“For a horror movie,” Bo muttered.

I was with Bo on this one.

“It’s been in the family since Amberford was founded,” Hugh said with a trace of pride.

I pulled into a circular, graveled forecourt and parked Ethel in front of a set of impressive stone steps leading to a covered portico with Gothic arches.

“Anything else I should know before we go in?”

I was trying not to let my nerves show. After all, I’d literally just driven us into a den of werewolves.

“Samuel can be a bit intense.” Hugh scratched his cheek awkwardly. “His bark is worse than his bite. And Victoria is very particular about, well, everything.”

“Who’s Victoria?” I asked suspiciously.

The front door opened before he could answer. A middle-aged butler with a monocle, a mustache, and a lofty expression appeared.

“Master Hugh.” Relief danced briefly across his austere face at the sight of Hugh exiting the Subaru. “I am so glad to see you. Your mother has been most concerned about your whereabouts—” He froze when I got out of the car. His eyes bulged. “Master Hugh?!” he gasped, composure crumbling.

“I can explain, Bernard,” Hugh said warily.

The butler’s horrified gaze swung from my face to the embarrassed-looking man beside me. He whirled around and vanished inside the mansion.

“You have a butler?” Ellie said, impressed.

“Bernard’s family have been our butlers for as long as our pack has been in Amberford,” Hugh said distractedly.

The sheen of sweat was back. The werewolf looked like he was getting ready to run for those hills.

“Bernard didn’t look too happy to see us,” I pointed out.

The sound of a commotion reached our ears. A horrified “What?!” echoed somewhere inside the mansion.

Hugh tensed. Ellie and Bo shuffled behind me.

Rapid footsteps approached.

A tall woman in her fifties with silver hair pulled up in a tight bun and an expensive tweed suit appeared, her clothes in mild disarray. She was clutching a white Persian cat with sapphire eyes and a diamond-studded collar to her bosom.

Bernard followed, his monocle askew.

Bo started wagging his tail at the sight of the cat.

“What a pretty kitty,” Ellie breathed.

The feline acknowledged the compliment with a slow blink and curled a lip at the rest of us in a distinctly judgmental way.

“Hugh Bartholomew Hawthorne,” the woman hissed in an incensed voice, “what did you do?!”

5

When Fate Bites Back

Hugh bolted.

Or at least he tried to bolt.

Luckily, my new werewolf reflexes warned me he might pull a sudden disappearing act. My hand found the collar of his suit a fraction of a second before he started running. A choked sound left him as I yanked him close, his feet still cycling wildly on the gravel.

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