Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

HARPER

Three days later

R ain streaked down the Uber's window as I stared at the passing houses. A year away hadn't dulled my memories of the neighborhood I'd grown up in. Large, stately homes with manicured lawns lined the street. The Seattle skyline rose in the distance, the buildings far enough away to allow the neighborhood's residents to claim the city without enduring its noise or traffic.

Exhaustion tugged at me, resentment following swiftly on its heels. The cheapest flight out of Chicago had required me to travel to Denver. More flights meant more anxiety, but a direct route had been out of my price range. So I'd endured a two-hour layover and frayed nerves before flying into Sea-Tac. I'd been up since 4 a.m., and I was running on caffeine, Klonopin, and the bagel I'd shoved in my face somewhere over the Midwest. Now, it was pushing dinnertime, and I still didn't know why my father insisted on me returning home.

His text three days ago had been frustratingly vague, saying only that he'd "stumbled across something remarkable" and needed my help. When I pushed back, he reminded me that my tuition came out of my mother's meager trust—which he administered. The threat was clear: fly to Seattle or expect to spend my last semester at Northwestern scrambling to afford books, classes, and a dozen other expenses. I was seven months away from a degree that would let me earn my own livelihood. And now my father dangled my freedom before me like a carrot on a stick.

The Uber driver slowed, squinting at the faded numbers on a mailbox.

"It's this one," I said.

The man grunted, then pulled into the driveway that led to my childhood home. "Nice place," he said as we passed through the open, wrought iron gate flanked by brick pillars.

"Thanks." As soon as I said it, I bit my lip. The house wasn't mine. Undoubtedly, the driver knew it simply by looking at me—and the battered backpack I'd taken on the plane. But the house wasn't nice, either. It was pleasing enough from the road, but a closer look revealed neglect. And the driver had no way of knowing the gate was open because it rusted in place years ago.

The house's true condition became more apparent as we progressed up the drive. Hedges that were once bright green and trimmed into geometrical shapes were now brown and lopsided. Cracks had formed in the driveway, and grass burst through the crevices. The paint on the two-tiered fountain was flaking, revealing the fiberglass underneath. When I was eight, my parents filled it with champagne the night my father won his first Pulitzer. Now, the fountain was dry, its lower bowl littered with dead leaves.

The driver stopped in the half-circle drive in front of the house's previously glossy black double doors.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, grabbing my backpack.

"No problem." He hesitated, his gaze on the house. "You, uh, sure you want to go in there alone?"

"Yes, it's fine. It's my parents' house." I slipped from the car and made my way to the steps. One of the brass door knockers was missing. The other looked ready to abandon its post and join its companion.

The doors weren't locked, and I stepped into the darkened foyer.

"Dad?" The foyer was empty, the glass chandelier suspended above black-and-white tiles covered in shadow. On a distant wall, a brighter square of wallpaper marked where my mother's curio cabinet had once stood. Memories swept me, transporting me back to a time when the cabinet had gleamed with fresh polish and the interior shelves had boasted dozens of the miniature glass vases my mother loved to collect. She'd been thrilled to find a local glassblower who repaired some of the damaged pieces she'd bought because she liked them too much to pass them over. On one occasion, she showed me a delicate Tiffany vase with a restored handle.

"Look, Harper, you can't even tell it was broken. The whole piece is stronger now. And the glassblower found an additional crack when he was working. So, in a way, maybe it was a good thing the handle was broken."

The vase—and the cabinet—were long gone now, nothing but the square on the wallpaper to prove they ever existed. The pattern repeated around the room, the more vivid spaces in the paper like tombstones in a furniture graveyard. In the beginning, I thought my father sold my mother's things because he couldn't bear to be reminded of what he'd lost.

Then I discovered the truth.

Drawing a deep breath, I moved deeper into the house. "Dad? It's me."

No response. But my father was expecting me. And it wasn't like he had anywhere else to be. Not anymore. Not for the last three years.

Tightening my grip on my backpack strap, I left the foyer and followed the long hallway that led to the kitchen. After a few more steps, the smell of garbage and sour milk hit my nose. When I entered the kitchen, the stench of rot made my stomach do a sickening flip. Dirty dishes filled the sink under the window. Bags of chips, half-filled cereal bowls, and boxes of snack cakes littered the counter. A fly trap dangled from a push pin thrust into the drywall, its long, yellow ribbon covered in dead flies.

My heart sped up, and dread settled around my shoulders. My father had always tended toward absentmindedness, especially when he was working. But this was different. The kitchen was filthy. And the house was so quiet. It was almost as if…

I sucked in a breath. What if Dad was?—?

A clicking sound interrupted my spiraling thoughts. Heart racing, I followed the sound to the empty dining room, where I paused to exhale in relief as the noise turned into the telltale clatter of a computer keyboard. The keystrokes didn't slow as I made my way to my father's office in the back of the house. His door was cracked, revealing Dad seated at his desk and bent over his laptop.

His silvery hair stood up in a dozen different directions, giving him the look of a man who'd wandered into a cloud. A pair of glasses balanced just above the tip of his nose. He held his tongue between his teeth as he typed, his fingers flying. Weak daylight streamed through the windows and fell over him in watery shafts.

I hesitated, my hand raised to knock, when he looked up.

"Harper!" His face split in a grin, showing the gap between his front teeth. "Come in, come in! I'm on a deadline, but I can break for a bit."

Confusion gripped me as I stepped into the office. I'm on a deadline. I'd heard it often enough over the years.

"Sorry I can't come to your soccer game, honey. I'm on a deadline."

"I'll be a few hours late. I'm on a deadline."

"I'm on a deadline, so I'll have to miss your choir concert. Next time, okay?"

My father's deadlines had always come between us. But he shouldn't have a deadline right now. He hadn't worked in three years.

Images from the kitchen rose in my mind. Oh god, what if he was losing it? His scandals had finally broken him, and now he was "working" on his computer, probably typing nonsense. Should I call someone? I shifted my backpack higher on my shoulder. My phone was tucked in a side pocket. If he became suspicious or combative, I could step outside and call for help. But who would I call? And how would I pay for it?

My father beckoned me forward. "Don't just stand by the door! I need another set of eyes on this."

I drifted closer, more resentment brewing. If he'd forced me out of my classes and onto a plane so I could edit for him, I was going to lose my everloving shit. "What are you working on?"

He leaned forward in his chair, an aura of excitement hovering around him. "The biggest scoop of my life. You're not going to believe this story. It's going to turn things around for us, Harper."

Doubtful. There was no coming back from what he'd done. Manufacturing evidence about one country selling nuclear weapons to another—and accusing US government officials of being party to the scheme—was the career equivalent of pouring gasoline over a forest fire. My father was lucky he wasn't in prison.

I stopped in front of his desk, my hand tight on my backpack strap. "What kind of story is it?"

"Sit, sit," he said, gesturing to one of the folding metal lawn chairs that had replaced the tufted leather set. "This is the sort of thing you really need to see to appreciate." He gave me a conspiratorial wink as he flipped his laptop around. "Luckily, I've got everything on video. Prepare to be stunned."

"All right." I heard the wariness in my voice as I lowered my backpack to the ground and sat. A fresh spike of irritation prompted me to add, "I can't wait."

If my father heard the sarcasm, he didn't show it. His eagerness was palpable as he pulled up a video player. With a final, bright-eyed glance at me, he clicked play .

A tall, powerful-looking man filled the screen. The video, which bore my father's name as a watermark in the lower left corner, had been taken at night in what appeared to be a forest. The footage was soundless, and the image was bleached of color. But a full moon bathed the man's face and body in bold light.

The video zoomed in, capturing the man's features in more detail. His eyes were gray…no, silver. And they appeared to glow.

Against my will, I leaned forward. The man was handsome, with rugged features and dark blond hair. But his looks alone didn't draw me. No, something else about him held my attention. I'd covered enough plays and music festivals as a student journalist to know what it was. He had a certain presence, like a movie star or stage actor who owns a scene regardless of the script. This man would attract attention in baggy sweatpants in the middle of a grocery store.

On screen, he lowered his head and began unbuttoning his shirt.

I jerked my gaze to my father's. "Dad?—"

"Shh, shh," he said, not looking away from the laptop. "It's all right. Keep watching."

The man dropped his shirt, then reached for the fastening of his jeans.

"Oh my god?—"

"Harper, it's fine ."

"He's stripping!" And my face was on fire. At the same time, disbelief swept me. My father had coerced me into traveling two thousand miles so we could watch homemade porn together. I shot to my feet, one hand reaching for my backpack.

Nude now, the man began to… change .

I froze, one hand still extended toward the ground.

The man's skin rippled. Then his whole body rippled. Waves of muscle and bone moved in ways they absolutely should not have been able to move. After a second, the man dropped to his hands and knees.

And I forgot about his nudity. Now, my heart thumped painfully as the man's limbs lengthened. Hair rushed over his skin like a video in fast forward. Only this footage wasn't sped up. The trees in the background continued moving normally, the branches swaying in a light breeze.

The man's face elongated, forming a snout like a…

No.

The video was doctored. Some kind of editing trick my father had cooked up. Because there was no way I'd just watched a man transform into a werewolf.

The animal lifted its head, and a pair of bright golden eyes gleamed like car headlights.

"Keep watching," my father said. "There's a time jump because I followed him down the beach."

"What? Where?"

"Puget Sound." Dad pointed to the screen. "Here. He's going to attack the other one."

The video flickered, and the scene changed to a moonlit beach. A moment later, the same massive, buff-colored wolf from the first part of the video streaked down the sand and launched itself at a clump of shadows. Except the shadows weren't shadows at all. As the wolf tumbled across the beach, I realized it grappled with a second wolf. My heart thumped painfully as the fight unfolded. Once again, there was no sound, but this time I was grateful for it. Blood sprayed the sand as the wolves slashed and bit at each other. The second wolf was smaller, with shaggy black fur. It was obviously fighting for its life.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice hoarse as a sense of doom slipped around me. The video couldn't be real. Clearly, my father had used some kind of editing software. But it wasn't like him. The video quality was too good for my father's woeful tech skills. He had a hard time remembering his Facebook login.

"Almost done," he said. "This is the best part."

On the screen, the smaller wolf lunged at the larger wolf. The larger wolf spun away, moving so quickly its body blurred. The next second, the smaller wolf sprawled on the sand, its head severed from its body. Blood pumped from the stump of its neck, the color black in the moonlight. The video stopped, freezing on a frame of the buff-colored wolf standing over the black wolf's decapitated body.

Nausea burned my throat. My knees loosened, and I sat heavily in my chair, making the metal squeak in protest.

My father's expression was triumphant. "Do you see what I mean now?" He gestured to the screen. "Every news outlet in the world is going to be clamoring for this."

I shook my head. "I don't get it. How did you make this?"

Dad's salt-and-pepper eyebrows lifted. "I didn't make it, Harper. I recorded it as it happened. Everything you just saw is one hundred percent real. This is definitive proof that werewolves exist. It's going to change the world. That's why I wanted you home. Once this story breaks, our lives are never going to be the same."

For a second, I could only stare at him. Then I made my tone as gentle as possible. "Dad, I know you still miss Mom. Have you been, um, taking anything?"

"You mean like drugs?" His gaze sharpened, the air of excitement giving way to an intensity that pinned me to my chair. Suddenly, he was the Orson Ward of old. Pulitzer Prize winner. Renowned reporter who'd broken major stories on six continents. The investigative journalist courted by The New York Times and a dozen other newspapers. But no one had ever been able to tempt him to leave the Sentinel . No matter how many accolades he earned, he'd stayed loyal to our family's paper.

My father gave me the stare that had cowed dictators and corrupt captains of industry. "To answer your question, no, I'm not on drugs or any other kind of mind-altering substance."

I cleared my throat. "I didn't mean?—"

"I know this footage is difficult to believe." My father flashed a rueful smile. "Considering what happened in the past, I can't blame you for doubting me. But the video is real." He leaned over his desk again. "This is on level with an alien invasion, Harper. Once the world finds out werewolves live among us, people are going to have questions. I'm going to give them answers."

Silence fell, the only sound the patter of rain on the windows. He seemed so sure of himself. The video was obviously fake, but there was no question he believed it. "How will you do that?" I asked. "Give answers, I mean."

Dad's gaze didn't waver. "I'm going to interview the werewolf in the video. He'll be here in about an hour."

The distant slam of a door split the air. Dad frowned, his gaze shooting to the office's doorway. Alarm shot through me, and I craned my head, following my father's gaze. Heavy footfalls rang out.

I stood so quickly the lawn chair rocked backward and almost tipped before settling. I whipped my head toward my father. "What's going on?"

The footfalls grew louder. Closer. Dad rose, then backed away from his desk. My throat went dry, and my heart galloped in my chest. I looked around for a weapon, but the office was empty except for my father's desk and the lawn chairs.

My father stared at the door, his face as ashen as the sky outside. "I… I don't…"

A tall, muscular man strode through the door. My jaw dropped as I took in dark blond hair and ruggedly handsome features. Broad shoulders and piercing silver eyes.

But they'd turned gold when he shifted in the video.

The man stalked forward, vaulted over my father's desk, and gripped him around the throat. My scream bounced off the walls as I stumbled backward. My foot caught the side of my backpack, and I stumbled again before catching myself.

Phone. I had to get to my phone. I started forward?—

"I wouldn't, Miss Ward," a second man said as he stepped into the room. Lean and dark-haired, he looked about my age. He stopped in the center of the office and folded his hands at his waist. Despite the threat in his words, his face was kind, and his expression was almost apologetic as he added, "Prince Einar prefers to handle this without bloodshed."

My father made a gurgling sound as the man from the video lifted him by the throat and slammed him against the wall where a bookcase had once stood. Large windows on either side showed the rain coming down harder outside.

"Stop!" I screamed, moving around the desk. "He's"—I searched for a way to make the man stop his attack—"he has a heart condition."

The man, who was apparently called Einar, turned his head and met my gaze. His nostrils flared, almost as if he scented the air. After a beat, his silver eyes narrowed. "Well, that's a lie." He turned back to my father. "Dishonesty runs in the family. How charming."

Red crept up my father's face as he clawed at the man's wrist. "Let…me…go…" He dug his fingernails into Einar's skin, leaving bloody furrows.

Einar grunted. A second later, buff-colored fur rushed over his hand. Between one breath and the next, his arm transformed into an overly large wolf's paw with long, black claws. Einar leaned forward, and the claws sank into my father's throat.

"No!" I started forward, only to be brought up short by a hand around my bicep. The young man hauled me back, his grip surprisingly solid. We were the same height and possibly the same weight, but he was obviously much stronger than he looked.

"Stay out of this, Miss Ward," he said. "Prince Einar doesn't want anyone to get hurt."

Prince?

"You play a dangerous game trying to blackmail me," Einar told my father. "You want an interview? Fine. Let's have one." He pulled my father off the wall, carried him to the desk chair, and slammed him into it. Immediately, my father curled over the desktop, gasping and coughing.

Einar looked at me, then pointed to one of the lawn chairs. "Sit."

Before I could respond, the dark-haired man propelled me to the chair and pushed me into it. Einar snagged the other chair, positioned it in front of my father's desk, and sat. The metal groaned but held his weight. He lifted his paw, examining it as if he found it interesting. Slowly, it slid back into a human hand.

My heart tried to pound from my chest. I'm hallucinating. It was the only explanation that made sense. Maybe the pharmacy had messed up my medication, and I was in the throes of some kind of weird, trippy side effect.

Einar focused on my father. "Look at me, Ward."

Gasping, my father lifted his head. The movement was jerky, like he was a marionette on a string. By some miracle, his glasses still clung to his face. Capillaries had burst in his eyes, and the whites were smeared with red.

"That's better," Einar said. His tone was conversational, as if he'd popped by for tea. He settled more deeply in his lawn chair, his body dwarfing the flimsy metal frame. "Arlo, please show Mr. Ward the terms."

The younger man stepped forward, producing a bundle of papers from somewhere. He placed them on the desk in front of my father, then pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and set it next to the paperwork.

"Now," Einar said, "here's how this is going to work. You took footage and photos of me without my consent. I'm here to take those things back." He made a regal gesture in Arlo's direction, and the younger man sprang forward and seized my father's laptop.

My father made a pained noise, but kept his mouth shut.

Einar continued. "I assume you've made copies of your materials and squirreled them away in all kinds of places. Regretfully, I don't trust you to hand everything over. So I'll be taking your daughter with me to incentivize your cooperation."

"What?" I gasped. He couldn't be serious. I looked at my father. "Dad?"

"My terms are spelled out clearly in the contract," Einar said as if I hadn't spoken. "Miss Ward will live under my protection until I'm satisfied you've returned every scrap and shred of my likeness, along with whatever story you were writing." Einar's voice went low. "And let me be plain. If you ever attempt to write about me or my kind again, neither you nor your daughter will enjoy what happens afterward."

Fear gripped me. What was he saying?

My father paled. "You won't hurt her," he rasped, his voice hoarse.

"That's up to you," Einar said. He nodded toward the contract. "Honor the agreement, and you'll have nothing to worry about."

My father looked down at the papers in front of him. Slowly, he reached out and pulled the contract toward him.

"Dad!" I came out of my chair, outrage searing my veins. "Are you actually considering this?" I swung my gaze to Einar. "You can't take me with you. I won't go."

He frowned. "You're not a party to these negotiations, Miss Ward. I don't require your acquiescence."

"I'm making myself a party!"

"That's not how contract law works."

"I—" Wait, was I really arguing the ins and outs of contracts with him?

Einar turned to my father. "One more thing. Page twelve. If you don't sign, I'll be forced to go public with how you fabricated the details for that story you did about the President of the Hartling Foundation."

The blood drained from my father's face.

Disappointment washed through me in a sickening wave. The Hartling story was a highlight of his career—and one of the pieces that earned him a Pulitzer. A beloved philanthropist had spent a decade siphoning money from a charity he founded. My father's reporting exposed him as a fraud more interested in rubbing elbows with celebrities than helping people. The scandal had spanned several countries and implicated a number of government officials.

"Dad," I said, hearing the censure in my voice. "The President of the Hartling Foundation went to jail over that."

My father swallowed. "He did all the things he was accused of. I just…supplemented with some quotes."

"Quotes no one ever actually spoke," Einar said. "Apparently, inventing sources is frowned upon in journalism." He smiled. "I've learned quite a bit about journalistic malpractice over the past few days. It's been very eye-opening."

Anger warred with disappointment in my gut. My whole life, I'd looked up to my father as someone who held the powerful accountable. His misdeeds had cost our family its legacy. The name Ward had meant something once. Now it was a cautionary tale. An embarrassing footnote.

Dad met Einar's gaze. "I'll give you all the files. I swear it. There's no need to involve Harper in this."

Einar's smile didn't reach his eyes. "That would be acceptable if I could take you at your word. But we both know that's not the case." He stood, looming over the desk. "So your daughter will be coming with me."

"No," I said, my heart in my throat. "Dad, this is crazy. You can't hand me over to a stranger like a piece of furniture!"

His expression was stark. Suddenly, he seemed diminished, his body too frail for his fifty-four years. "I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do!"

"But the Hartling story?—"

"Who cares? Things can't get any worse!"

My father hesitated.

"Should we discuss the other stories?" Einar asked.

"Others?" I demanded, my voice approaching a screech.

Einar folded his arms. "Pages fourteen through twenty-seven." When I glared at him, he gave me a mild look. "You'll find I'm very thorough."

My father picked up the pen.

"Dad!" My heart tried to pound from my chest. "He could abuse me. Assault me. Hurt me in ways a man hurts a woman."

"Absolutely not," Einar snapped, his voice like a whip. "I don't touch unwilling females."

I channeled all the hate I could muster into my stare. "I assure you, I am very unwilling. In all ways."

He shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Harper," my father whispered.

Disorientation swept me. This wasn't happening. I swung toward the door. Arlo stood in my path, his dark eyes steady.

My father flipped to the last page.

"Dad," I rasped, cold creeping through my veins.

With a shaking hand, he signed his name.

Einar stepped forward, pulled the contract toward him, and flipped it around. He leaned over the desk and gave my father a pointed look. "Pen."

"Oh," my father said, startling. He extended the pen. "Sorry."

The sense of surreality increased. Numbness spread through me as I watched Einar scrawl his name on the line next to my father's signature.

Einar Rothkilde.

My new owner. Nausea twisted my gut.

Einar looked at me. "In a house like this, I assume your bedroom is upstairs. Arlo will accompany you to gather your things."

I drew myself up. "I?—"

"If you're not back downstairs within five minutes, I'll come fetch you. That would be a bad way to begin our arrangement, Miss Ward." His smile returned. "So I suggest you hurry."