Well, this certainly wouldn't improve his already foul mood.

Fenrir had had to kill a pair of intruders before entering Asgard. They were camping nearly a mile away from the prison, thanks to the extensive wards, but still way too close for comfort.

Two spies, a witch and a wizard. Foreigners, Fenrir thought. Their pathetic attempts at camouflaging themselves were truly laughable. Fenrir had sensed them the moment he'd Apparated in the area; their heat signatures stood out like a beacon amidst the frosted trees. The witch had died before she even realised that Fenrir was there, and the wizard was utterly stunned when his sparkly spell had no effect on Fenrir – his surprise had meant a quicker death for him, though he would have died regardless.

Two clueless wizards against Fenrir? No one in their right mind would bet on those odds. Who'd been foolish enough to send these underprepared idiots here? They didn't stand a chance.

Most importantly: why had they been sent? What was their purpose? How long had they been here? Could their presence here be a mere coincidence? Snowdonia was, after all, a magical reservation, for the most part. They could have (badly) camouflaged themselves to better observe the local fauna.

It was an improbable explanation, however; magical or not, animals knew better than to wander in this part of the forest. The prison's surroundings were pretty much deserted, especially in the winter.

Feeling irritated, Fenrir realised that he should have spared one of the intruders long enough to interrogate them.

In his defence, the return flight from Peru had been trying. No space for him to sit comfortably, a noxious excuse for a meal, crying children, a fat, snoring seatmate…and, on top of that, a three-hour delay at the stopover in Berlin, of all cursed places.

But what was even worse: Fenrir had been gone for months, and he had nothing to show for his unduly long absence. Nothing. At. All. Nichts.

He'd travelled to North America first. He'd searched for answers throughout Native American reservations, in vain. Apparition was severely regulated in the United States, and using the clandestine network was expensive. Fenrir didn't have bottomless funds, so he'd had to settle for plane and train tickets, like a bloody Muggle. (He didn't have a driving licence.) On the somewhat brighter side, it had allowed him to travel anonymously, thanks to his various forged passports.

When the US of A proved completely useless, Fenrir had travelled south. Ancient civilisations – Mayan, Inca, Aztec – may provide him with clues. Nobody cared where he Apparated in South America, but Fenrir still had difficulty finding the places he wanted to visit, and the people he sought.

In the end, it proved equally fruitless. He had no idea where to look next. Nearly every country in Asia and the Middle East was known to be anti-werewolves, so he likely wouldn't find anything relevant there. Japan had never abrogated its law regarding hunting and killing werewolves, and there was surprisingly little werewolf lore in Africa. There were no werewolves at all in Australia. On the other hand, there was a small archipelago in the Pacific Ocean where werewolves were considered sacred, much like cows in India. Travelling there would be a pain in the arse, though, and expensive as hell.

As he'd considered his next move, Fenrir had finally realised that he was delaying his return home on purpose by futilely looking for answers that didn't exist. He'd been gone over three months, just to avoid having to deal with the girl again, confident that Scabior would handle the situation for him. The realisation had brought shame and annoyance. What sort of Alpha would do this?

Not a good one. Not the sort that Fenrir aspired to be. What would his wolves think of him? The last time they'd seen him, he'd been overpowered by a girl. Said girl had had plenty of time to instil doubt and worse thoughts in their minds, while Fenrir went on a wild goose chase across the world.

It was bloody ridiculous. He had to go back. As he'd approached the desk at the Cusco airport, instead of enquiring about renting a plane to fly him to some remote island in the Pacific, Fenrir had purchased a return flight to the UK.

And here he was, home at last. It was about bloody time he dealt with his pack, and made sure that the girl never dared turn into a werewolf again.

Despite the glacial cold – it didn't bother Fenrir, but it was there – some of the cubs were playing outside, throwing snow balls at each other and building snow wolves. It was Sunday; they had no lessons today. Adults should have been present to watch over them, but maybe they'd taken a coffee-and-warmth break. Fenrir was the only one whose body didn't acknowledge cold or heat.

When Fenrir came into their line of sight, the cubs scattered like sheep. He frowned as he picked up their collective scent, which reeked of terror.

That couldn't be good.

He'd been reluctant to be away for so long, but he'd trusted Scabior to hold the fort. The girl may have managed to poison the minds of a few lesser werewolves, but Fenrir's second was strong-willed. He would resist her pathetic attempts at turning him against Fenrir.

The cubs had always been fond of Evey, though. Her maternal instincts weren't well-developed – at all – but she was something of a novelty at Asgard, and she liked to play with them besides. What the fuck had she told them? They were young, and easily influenced. Diabolising Fenrir would be a walk in the park, if he weren't here to defend himself. If it looked like he'd abandoned them. Which he had, or near enough.

Fenrir shook his head, trying to dispel his concerns. His mind was conjuring the worst scenarios because he was ashamed of himself. Surely the girl wouldn't dare take his cubs away from him. In any case, Scabior wouldn't have allowed it to happen.

He trudged forward and knocked on the massive front door. The wolf in charge should have opened it right away, recognising Fenrir's special knock. There should have been no hesitation, yet Fenrir counted at least twenty seconds before the door finally opened. He was about to chew off the guard, but the youth's anguish was so strong, so evident, that he hesitated. It was Duncan, a young werewolf from Northern Ireland, and the lad was literally shaking with fear. It couldn't be the cold, not inside the building. Fenrir frowned at him, and Duncan recoiled, falling to his knees, head bowed in submission. He whimpered loudly.

Was zur Hölle?

He had to find Scabior. Something was terribly wrong here. Fenrir headed for the dining hall, and the men who'd been enjoying a cup of hot coffee or tea scattered just like the cubs had done a moment earlier, leaving their mugs behind and nearly trampling each other in their haste to depart. Scabior wasn't here, and neither was the girl, Fenrir noticed. He sniffed the air.

Her unusual scent lingered faintly, but it was so faded that only Fenrir's Wolfish sense of smell could have picked it up. It was like she hadn't been in this room for weeks.

Struck by sudden…not panic, of course, he didn't panic, he was the Alpha…but by a sudden sense of dread, Fenrir made his way to the girl's cell…quite rapidly. The corridor was deserted, as though the werewolves had known not to be here when Fenrir decided to pay the girl a visit. With every step he took, Fenrir became more aware of the faintness of her characteristic scent. It was nearly gone, even here, where she'd slept.

Her cell was empty, though he'd expected it by then. Her few things were still there – a book, borrowed sunglasses, some clothes – as though she'd left in a hurry. The bed wasn't made, but that was usual. She never bothered to make it.

Fenrir let out a roar of rage and punched a wall, crashing through the brick, then ripped out the bars of her cell. How had she escaped? Scabior would never-

Fenrir took a deep breath in an attempt at calming himself. If he went looking for Scabior in his present condition, he would bash his head in before his second had a chance to defend himself.

He had to take many deep breaths before his white-hot, frenzied fury subsided somewhat, and by the time he approached Scabior's room, he was all cold, grim scorn instead.

For a moment he'd almost hoped that Scabior was dead, despite the fact that his scent was very much present. It would have been a better explanation – the only explanation that Fenrir was willing to accept, really. Scabior couldn't have simply released her. He had to know that Fenrir would tear him to shreds if he did.

As he halted before Scabior's door, he noted that it was wide open. Scabior was sitting on a chair, back straight, hands in his lap, head respectfully bowed, his grey eyes on the floor. He was facing toward Fenrir. They must have warned him that he'd returned.

Scabior tensed when Fenrir appeared in the doorframe, but he didn't move, didn't recoil. He did smell of fear and agitation, but it was controlled. Fenrir had taught him well, he admitted grudgingly.

"I hope that you had a good reason for letting her go," Fenrir said softly. It was obvious that she was gone, not dead. If she'd been harmed or killed, Fenrir would have known right away.

"They would have butchered us all to get to her," Scabior replied in an even softer tone. Always speak in a voice lower than your Alpha's: that was one of the first rules that the cubs learned. That and: never make eye contact unless you intend to fight your Alpha to the death and win. "They threatened the whole pack, and I think that they meant it, Fenrir. I couldn't risk it."

"Who the fuck is 'they'?" Fenrir demanded. No one knew that the girl was here.

"Wolves. Three of them. Cortés and Blackbeard, and some Japanese bloke who didn't introduce himself."

Musashi. That sneaky bastard. Fenrir's anger switched from Scabior to the three Wolves with barely a pause. How dare they trespass on his turf without his permission? Without him even being here? It was outrageous! Fenrir punched another wall. He had to punch something, and Scabior wouldn't do.

"How did they find out about the girl? How did they know she was here?" he growled.

"The pirate said that the…Mother had sent them."

The Bloodmother? The Ancients' leader? It could only mean one thing: the fucking leeches were involved, and they'd allied with some of the Wolves. It couldn't be all of them, Fenrir knew. Without Malkoran to unite them, to lead them, the Wolves worked individually, not as a proper pack. Grigori had warned him not to trust those who were loyal to the Elder, and Fenrir didn't. Then again, he didn't trust the rest of them, either.

Dolohov had to be behind this. He was the common denominator. He was an Ancient – for some reason that completely evaded Fenrir – and he must have guessed that Greyback was a Wolf. Somehow, he'd managed to forge an alliance between two races that under no circumstances should ever be in the same room with one another.

All that just to save the girl. Was she his lover or something? Nah. She was way too young, barely an adult. Since when was Dolohov so intent on being a good guy, anyway? He'd done some horrible things for Voldemort, during the last war. Perhaps becoming an Ancient had softened him. Dying was kind of a life-changing event, Fenrir supposed.

"I will accept any punishment you see fit to bestow upon me, of course," Scabior said with sombre formality. He'd spoken without being spoken to, but Fenrir chose to disregard that minor breach in werewolf etiquette. "I have failed you. I have betrayed your trust."

"Don't be stupid," Fenrir said roughly. "I was afraid that the girl had gotten to you, that you'd released her because she asked you to, but if the Wolves were involved… There's nothing you could have done to prevent them from taking her, not without losing your life and possibly that of everyone else. You did the right thing, Scabior. You protected the pack. The girl isn't part of it, despite what some may believe. I just hope that she didn't mess with their brains too much while I was gone."

"She did," Scabior admitted. Fenrir glared at him. "But they still respect you. Your status remains unchanged, Alpha."

"Then why did they flee in terror when I walked in?" he muttered darkly.

"Because they knew that the girl was gone, and that you didn't," Scabior said. Otherwise you would have returned sooner, his tone implied.

Right. That made sense. It was glaringly obvious, in fact. They'd been afraid of how he would react. Fenrir should have figured it out by himself, but given the circumstances… He was still furious at the Wolves, felt betrayed by them. He'd never been on good terms with any of them, but this was a new level of treacherous backstabbing. They'd allied with vampires against one of their own. Fenrir couldn't quite get his head around it.

Grigori would have laughed and told him that he should have seen it coming, should have been better prepared. After his maker had been banished, Fenrir had been allowed by his elders to live on in the United Kingdom, but under certain conditions. He could found a pack, but never reveal his true nature. He couldn't involve himself in political or martial matters. Siding with Voldemort again was risky enough, but the Wolves probably didn't consider him as enough of a threat to the human world. Because of their imperviousness to magic, they had a tendency to underestimate wizards, despite their knowledge that Voldemort had once managed to capture Fenrir.

The last condition was that Fenrir couldn't do anything that was susceptible to breach the secrecy to which every Wolf – and Ancient – was bound. The world could never discover their existence, the wizarding world least of all. The worst part was, Fenrir agreed with that. If Voldemort ever realised that immortal beings walked the earth, he would… Well, first he would curse himself for ever allowing Fenrir to escape containment, all those years ago, and then he would somehow use it to his advantage to conquer the world. Fenrir did not want that to happen. He was meant to conquer the world, he and his pack, all werewolves of the world unified under one Alpha.

But the fact that Evey had survived his attack had been a terrible breach indeed, though it had been done unwittingly, and Fenrir hadn't found out about it until June. If the Wolves knew about it, they might decide to banish him as they had Grigori. His pack would be dissolved. The cubs would go to the orphanage – werewolves were not allowed to be placed in a foster family; it was deemed too dangerous. There were a couple of orphanages in Great Britain that accommodated young wolves exclusively. Dreadful places, but Fenrir couldn't afford to adopt all the werewolf kids. Not yet, anyway.

The rest of the pack would be back on the streets, most of them unable to find a proper job and committing thievery (and worse) just to survive. Fenrir couldn't allow that to happen. He'd worked too hard to save them from that poor excuse of a life.

They had to leave Asgard, before the Wolves realised that Fenrir had returned - and that wouldn't take long. The presence of the witch and wizard suddenly made sense. The prison was under surveillance; they'd been awaiting him. As soon as they realised that their sentries were dead, Barca and his cronies would come for Fenrir.

That he had to abandon his home only made him more furious at the betrayal. They would pay for this, one way or another.

Unfortunately, Fenrir couldn't kill the Wolves himself, but he could take care of the fucking bloodsuckers, at least. He would pick them out one by one. Dolohov would be the first to die.

And when Fenrir retrieved the girl – he would lose no time looking for her, and spare no expense; she belonged to him – she would regret leaving the prison in the first place.

Jeanne glanced at her phone when it beeped, and an envelope appeared on the screen.

New message from Obnoxious Pirate

Jeanne groaned softly. She doubted that it was good news – Blackbeard would have called if they'd spotted or arrested Greyback. And indeed:

"Sentries are dead. Bodies found entangled, necks broken. Cub is obviously back in the country, but prison is abandoned. No trace of him or his pack. No scent to follow. We're currently going through the place, searching for clues."

Jeanne re-read the message twice. She couldn't say that she was surprised, but she was certainly annoyed. The Wolves wouldn't find any evidence of Greyback's whereabouts. He wasn't utterly stupid, unlike his fellow Wolves. And he had magic – dark magic – on his side.

Her anger was mostly directed at the hired wizards, however. For one thing, they hadn't come cheap, due to the high-risk mission, and for another, they were supposed to place some sort of spell on their person in the event of their untimely death, which would let Jeanne know what had happened, so that she could travel to Asgard right away. They were also supposed to mask their scents and be invisible. And what the hell were they doing together anyway? They were meant to separately patrol different areas surrounding the prison, so that if something happened to one of them, the other could relay the news to Jeanne. Instead they'd been idly chatting and, for all she knew, roasting marshmallows over a fire.

Senseless, lazy, incompetent wizards. You could never trust them to do a job properly. The last one Jeanne had hired to Apparate with her had caused one of her eyebrows to disappear, and he hadn't been able to fix it.

Needless to say, he wouldn't make that mistake again.

Then again, it was likely that they – Jeanne, Alice, and the Wolves – had simply underestimated Greyback. He was, after all, a predator, a hunter. The wizards couldn't have presented much of a challenge, especially if they weren't paying attention. Jeanne should have been there. She'd scouted the prison's surroundings as often as possible, but of course Greyback had decided to return the day after the fucking wedding.

Jeanne had watched the union from afar. She'd been invisible, and she'd had someone magically mask her scent, so that the Wolves wouldn't spot her, but Imhotep had glanced in her direction several times regardless of her precautions, as though he could somehow sense her presence. That hadn't stopped her from staying until the end of the ceremony and ensuing party. She'd considered yelling at Antonin in person. She'd considered disrupting the wedding to do so. She'd felt so…hurt, watching them, happy and unaware of her being miserable. How dare they have a good time without her? They were family. Alice and Jeanne should have been there.

She didn't understand. She'd never cared about someone's opinion of her before. She'd never thought that 'family' meant anything. She cared about Imhotep, about Alice, but she would be perfectly fine without them. She was used to being on her own.

Antonin had changed her, had deeply, irrevocably altered her entire view of life (and death), similarly to a new mother welcoming her first child into the world. Except much worse.

Jeanne loved him. Not in a creepy way; at least she didn't think so. She wasn't in love with him. But she cared about Antonin more than she cared about herself, and that thought alone was disturbing.

Even more troubling: she was afraid for him, in a way that she couldn't quite put into words. She, Jeanne, who had banished fear when she'd been reborn, centuries ago, was terrified.

Now that Greyback had returned, he would be looking for the girl, and Antonin was never far from her. He would be her first line of defence, but Jeanne's progeny wouldn't survive a fight against the Wolf. By Ancient standards, Antonin was a new-born baby, and he had no defensive skills other than his magic, which was of course useless on Wolves. Greyback would eat him for breakfast.

That was why Jeanne was so determined to reconnect with Antonin. He needed protection. They had apparently added several wards and charms to the Macnair domain right after the wedding, but would it stop a Wolf?

So Jeanne had sent him a Howler instead of making a scene at the wedding. She had to convey her frustration, her intention to make peace, but she couldn't afford to let him think that she was weak and desperate. (She wasn't!). She had to make him see sense, before it was too late.

She didn't know what she would do if she lost him.

No, that was a lie. She did. She knew exactly what she would do. She would start by killing Greyback. Slowly. She'd make it as excruciating as possible. Then she would go after the bloody useless pirate and his boyfriend. Then she would find the others, one by one, and end the Wolves once and for all, Malkoran included. Honestly, the Ancients should have annihilated the beasts long ago. They were their sole enemies, the only creatures with the power to kill them. To kill Antonin. They shouldn't be allowed to exist. They were abominations.

How Jeanne wished that Antonin hadn't fallen in love with the bloody girl. How had no one else noticed? It was written all over his face. Jeanne had seen the yearning and torment in his eyes as Walden had kissed his new bride at the altar, and she'd felt his pain. How dare they break Antonin's heart? Didn't they care about him at all?

Because of her progeny's silly crush - he could do a lot better than the hybrid girl - Jeanne couldn't simply kill Greyback, no matter that he deserved it and that no one would mourn him and that she really wanted to. Antonin would never forgive her if anything happened to Evey, and she shared a physical connection with the Wolf. Or so she claimed.

Therefore Jeanne would not kill the blasted Wolf…unless Greyback attacked Antonin and she had no other choice. Better that Antonin be mad at her and alive than…well, mad at her and dead. Jeanne would do her best to spare the girl unless Antonin's life was on the line.

Jeanne wished they'd realise that killing Greyback could be as simple as that: killing the bloody girl. They wouldn't have to endanger themselves. The girl would be doing the world a favour, dying a heroine's noble death, sacrificing her life so that Greyback never hurt anyone else. So that Antonin could be safe forever.

Jeanne wished everyone was as practical and sensible as she was, but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.