Blood War (Book 1, the Halfblood Chronicles)

Bonus Chapter | The Winter Wolf

The following scenes are my special thank you to everyone who purchased this book. I have endless appreciation for all your support. Please enjoy this bonus chapter!

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S I X   M O N T H S   A G O

A deep Siberian night had already fallen when the visitor arrived. The Winter Wolf watched him approach, standing stiff and proud at the helm of her war-band. Icy wind clawed through her dark hair, hoots and howls fluttered across endless, desolate terrain, and gently falling snow portended another day trapped indoors.

She pushed that thought to the back of her mind and directed her focus on the man stumbling into the territory. Her territory. From the moment she'd spotted him through a sentry's spyglass, she'd known he was an outsider, and that was the only reason she'd ordered her warriors to hide weapons beneath their furs and pelts. Wanderers rarely entered these bleak parts of Russia, and with winter drawing nigh, he who tried risked becoming a frozen husk.

Curiosity swelled inside the Winter Wolf's heart. Who was this strange visitor? And why had he come?

He collapsed at her feet, panting and groaning. His lips were cracked and bloody, no doubt from dehydration, and icicles clung to his eyelashes. Though he wore multiple layers, none of his clothes were suitable for these conditions—too absorbent, not durable enough to withstand the brutal winds.

His appearance roused even more questions, for any native of Russia would understand the importance of proper clothing.

As if in answer, the man said, "Is this the Sveshnikov pack?" The Winter Wolf identified his accent immediately—American.

What the hell does an American want with us? And how'd he know where we are?

Doesn't matter. We should turn him away . . . or kill him.

Can anyone catch his scent? Is it human or Daemonstri?

The Winter Wolf maintained a neutral expression as the five betas behind her fired off more questions and remarks. None of them spoke aloud, however. Telepathy was the one of the greatest tools for Volkari; conversations could be had in private even when no privacy was found.

She didn't respond to any of them, only squinted at the visitor and considered. Not once in her lifetime had a foreigner with an unwieldy grasp of the language crashed onto their doorstep. It was safe to make him leave, even safer to end his life. But the Winter Wolf wouldn't punish a man to death without good cause.

So she said, "Da." Yes, this was indeed the Sveshnikov pack.

A sigh of relief. "Do you speak English?" The Winter Wolf nodded, and the man continued in his native tongue, "May I"—a swallow—"speak to your alpha? Please? It's urgent, and . . . " He glanced down at himself. "I could use some food and clothes."

Instinct had her nose flaring. Harnessing an ancient, inner power that belonged to her and no one at all, the Winter Wolf willed the wind to shift. It obeyed, blasting her with the reek of his unwashed body. And there, hidden beneath it . . .

Volkari, one of the betas said into her mind. Should we help him?

"What's your name?" the Winter Wolf asked.

He studied her, and then the other betas, wariness flooding his gaze. "I'll tell you. When your alpha is present."

She almost smiled. He was skeptical, much like herself, and she knew one thing for certain about skeptical people—they couldn't be trusted. But the woman within had sympathy for any poor soul who'd trekked through Siberia's landscapes. And besides, if she invited him into the pack's village, he would be surrounded by Volkari who weren't afraid to tear him apart if he so much as blinked in the wrong way.