“She has the mark. She really has the mark.” Meredith, Falcon’s personal witch, assured him.

They stood in her lair, a reeking den of decay where dead animals hung from the rafters, and the air was thick with the sharp sting of gasoline and camphor. A single candle fought against the darkness, its flickering flame casting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. Falcon loathed this place. Yet, within these walls lived the secret to his unnatural life, and the price of every decision he’d made since his pact with an ancient deity he foolishly believed he understood.

To the pack, and anyone else who asked, Falcon spun...