Chapter Five

He had a terrible feeling the entire night about what the stormy weather that had persisted near 'til morning the day before would mean for his search. But this was on him. Fenrir knew he should've stayed and made certain, only he knew it in hindsight, which wasn't the slightest bit helpful.

The werewolf didn't know if he should waste his time feeling stupid. There was too much to do, too much to think about—like what would happen if the Dark Lord learned of his slip up? Like what it meant that Lucius Malfoy apparently hadn't been killed by his bite, as it had seemed.

But now it was daylight, which worked in his favor . . . Yet nearly two days had passed since whatever situation had transpired, which did not. With any luck, the wildlife and elements hadn't erased too much evidence and he might be able to track down the Malfoy patriarch, after all.

Reaching the spot where he'd left Lucius again, Fenrir lowered to one knee. His gaze raked the ground, hoping to glimpse a clue in the dry, caked mud or the strewn mess of fallen leaves. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deep, attempting to catch any telltale scents that had not been washed from existence by the rains.

His broad shoulders sank as he exhaled. Nothing but the clear sting of brisk still-damp air and dew-dappled foliage. But his attention snagged on something in the displaced lumps and whorls of dried mud at the base of the tree. Barely visible amongst the lay of disturbed earth, yet . . . . Leaning nearer, his gaze focused on a faint, uniform pattern that could not possibly have been naturally made.

Tipping his head to one side, he let his eyes narrow, honing in on the pattern, shutting out his senses to all else. Fenrir rose to his full height and began to follow what precious little was left of the stumbling, unsteady footfalls.

Solid minutes he walked, his concentration never wavering, even his breath slowed so as not to distract him from his search. The blurred, half-buried tracks led him further into the forest than he had expected with no sign of a fallen Lucius Malfoy as of yet.

But then . . . he happened upon patch of heavy mud. It must've been much less dense during all that rainfall the other night, more watery. And from the size of the patch, in the dark it'd probably seemed like a small lake. Frowning, he inspected the perimeter. Malfoy must've stumbled through it, but that didn't explain the scramble of movement evident in the patterns he found on the other side of the partly dry mud puddle.

It didn't look like someone dragging themselves back out onto safe ground. It looked like something of a struggle had taken place.

Beyond the telltale signs, those footprints continued. Heavier, this time, their impression in the caked earth deeper.

Fenrir's arched brows furrowed. It looked as though Malfoy had been carrying something? He looked more carefully at the marks around the edge of the muddy patch. More impressions, soles of shoes, but definitely not his. Lighter, smaller, even harder to spot than Malfoy's—Fenrir guessed he might not've noticed them at all if he'd not been straining so hard to find even the smallest incongruous detail.

It felt obvious to him what'd transpired. Gold eyes narrowing further, still, he lifted his head and stared out through the trees. Smaller footprints that disappeared, a struggle, Lucius' Malfoy's footprints sinking deeper as he'd walked away. He'd carried someone with him.

There was something truly, deeply unsettling about this entire thing. It set off a prickling sensation in the pit of his gut. Even if Lucius had somehow survived his own apparent death from the bite, he shouldn't be this strong. He should be hanging on by a thread, scraping himself along toward a glimmering hope of survival, not somehow having enough left in him to heave another person in along with him.

A scowl settled across his features. There was a memory beating at his brain, vague, long-ago, yet nagging at present.

Holding in a miserable sigh, Fenrir ignored it—for now—and continued after Malfoy's footprints. The forest was quiet, even for early morning. He couldn't be certain if that was because the animals sensed him and the unease rippling off him, or to do with another creature, entirely.

Moments more drifted by, nothing but the sound of his own footfalls moving beneath him through the grass and crunching over leaves met his ears. Still, no sign of Lucius Malfoy or whomever . . . .

The scent winding the air hit him like a strike to the bridge of his nose.

Fenrir winced, giving his head a shake as he shielded his nose with his hand. That scent . . . . Werewolves, plural. How? It was too rich to be from a newly-bitten victim like Lucius Malfoy. But that wasn't all, if the scents he was picking up indicated anything, it was the confirmation that Malfoy was very much not alone.

And that he'd hardly spent a quiet night resting to recoup from the bite.

Following the troubling scents, Fenrir eventually found himself before a cave. Still far enough that he would not give himself away to anyone inside, he took a long, deep inhale, trying to read the scents.

Definitely Lucius Malfoy, and definitely a female with him . . . . Air definitely thick with blood and the rich, musky sweetness of arousal. The place was lousy with lupine pheromones. Only Fenrir recognized the scent of this female, and she was very much not a werewolf.

Or at least she hadn't been two days ago when he'd dragged her to Malfoy Manor, hoping he might claim her as his own. Jealousy clawed at him, ruthless and enraging, and he forced the dark, distracting emotion down. Oh, how he wanted to unleash this feeling, to tear and bite and rend until something bled to death in his wake . . . . but this was not the time for such delightful fantasy.

His eyes squeezed shut as he let the memory, once more nagging and gnawing at his brain, loose.

Father, his feral features lit by the waning gibbous moon overhead and the lick of campfire flames. He'd sat so very tall, seeming a mountain of flesh and bone to a child. Fenrir had been born a werewolf, raised in the woods, like a wolf in human form. Father had shunned magic, and though mother would not argue the point, she would whisper to her son about the wonders of it, about how he could not be whole unless he embraced his magic as well as his wolf.

It was why he was so much better at being what he was than others of his kind. Because he'd never been anything else.

It was why he preferred to bite his victims young. The greater chance of surviving the bite was only a secondary reason. Primarily, it was in hopes to take them from their awful human families and raise them as he'd been. His chance to go right where his parents had gone wrong. Dying like a pair of idiots and leaving him to be found and raised by hapless wizards who honestly believed trying to . . . discipline the wolf out of him would work.

Now, they were just as dead as his parents for their troubles.

His parents hadn't agreed on magic, nor on how often one must bathe—Fenrir listened to mother on that count, and still had no idea how she put up with Father's much more lax view on the subject. But what they agreed on was there were those—of their kind, yet not—whom even they should fear.

"I don't understand," he could still hear the echo of his younger self saying. How could his parents—his parents who so loved being what they were—be telling him killing creatures that were like them was necessary, even in a fairytale? "Why?"

Father's face had sharpened as he'd turned to look into the firelight. "Because even among us, there are simply some wolves who are too dangerous to let live."

Fenrir stared at the cave, refusing to believe what his parents had warned him of could be before him. After all, they'd been a myth.

He wouldn't have a choice would he, the werewolf reasoned with himself as he neared the mouth of the cave. He took care to quiet his movements and muffle his exhalations. He would have to kill Lucius Malfoy to keep the myth from becoming reality.

But what of her?

He just barely kept his steps from faltering as the question floated across his mind. There were many things he'd wanted to do to her the moment he'd first smelled her skin. Taste her? Surely. Feel his teeth sink into her flesh? Oh, certainly that. Claim her in every way short of breaking her? Definitely so. But killing her?

No.

No. No one had to know she was dangerous. He would teach her to control herself. Teach her to hide how she was different. Conceal her within the army of their kind he'd built for the Dark Lord. At his side, where she might actually be safe from his master's plans for her friend Potter.

Of course, he could be wrong, he thought, purposely downplaying the potential. He paused, listening. After a few heartbeats, he could hear breaths, soft, shallow, even, from within the cave's depths. Sleeping breaths. With any luck, he could slaughter Malfoy—which he'd be doing anyway to make up for leaving him alive the first time—and snatch her up, be halfway back to the manor with her before she was even fully awake.

He could absolutely be mistaken about this, and any number of things beyond his imagining could've happened, instead. Any number of things he had no idea of that could explain all he'd observed.

Silencing his concerns—they'd serve no purpose until he had more information—Fenrir refocused himself and crept toward the mouth of the cave.

Hermione had no idea how they were managing, but somehow, Lucius Malfoy's gaze holding hers as they stood tucked into opposite sides of the entrance, she was able to remain calm enough to mimic sleeping breaths. The only one with a wand, she remained poised, weapon at the ready to strike at whomever their intruder might be.

She had no idea what Lucius planned to do, himself, being unarmed, but he seemed to be making do with trusting his new instincts perfectly well. That annoying, new little voice inside her piped up, hoping whatever he did would be lovely display of aggression and brutality.

Giving herself a quick, silent shake, Hermione pushed the troublesomely delightful thought aside.

She was painfully aware of Lucius tensing, readying himself to move, even from the other side of the cave's opening, as the hushed footfalls from outside drew closer. It alarmed her, this cognizance that the noise was so faint, neither of them should be able to hear it, and yet they did. Just like she shouldn't feel Mr. Malfoy's muscles thrumming in anticipation of going on the attack.

She also shouldn't find her awareness of his current state—or him, for that matter—arousing, but that was a problem for later. Though she didn't look at him, she was quite sure those icy grey eyes of his had just narrowed in disapproval of the wayward direction her imagination was attempting to wander.

The footfalls drew closer, inching now, slowing as the intruder crept nearer.

A dark head appeared and Hermione loosed the spell faster than she could see who it was. Her wand arm moving on instinct, the witch had snapped out a stunning spell before Lucius even realized she'd moved.

The body—which they could now see as he staggered into the cave and collapsed forward—was tall, powerfully built. There was something familiar about his shaggy mane of jet shot through with veins of silver. Something familiar about his bedraggled robes and his imposing stature.

"You!" The word fell from Lucius' lips in a wrathful hiss.

It seemed the same moment the body hit the ground, Lucius was already on him. Hermione could only watch in a bizarre mix of fear and awe as Mr. Malfoy wrenched the body to its feet. The next thing she knew, she was rushing across the craggy floor, following along as he rushed the intruder through the cave, with seemingly little effort.

Hermione realized who it was barely half a heartbeat before Lucius slammed them face-first into the wall and then spun them around with unnecessary force. In her view, even as that feral voice in her reveled in his violent actions, the entirety of what he'd just done was unnecessary. As she'd already knocked the person silly with that stunner.

Lucius' hands clamping the shoulders to dig in his fingertips so hard they might as well have claws barely even seemed like a safety precaution at this point.

But the realization that it was Fenrir Greyback, Hermione wasn't sure what to do with that. Last she'd seen him, she had been terrified of the creature, but now . . . . Now there was something strangely intriguing about him.

She moved closer to the males, trying to understand the puzzling reaction.

Lucius' voice had devolved into a series of rough growls as he demanded, "Tell me my son's safe!"

The primal sound erupting from him sent a shiver through her. Of its own volition, her throat loosed a quick, breathy moan.

Fenrir watched in a mix of disbelief and disorientation as that sound from her caused Lucius Malfoy's grey irises to flood pure golden-amber. As he watched Malfoy turn his head to lock eyes with her. As her gaze, immediately upon meeting his, changed in the same manner.

It should've been plain enough from the wizard's brute strength, from his speed, but Fenrir had stubbornly refused to let it be real. Yet, now, as he saw those eyes . . . as he noted the way they seemed to communicate without words or even actions . . . .

Trying hard to compose himself—he was used to anger, but he had no frame of reference for the true, blood-boiling rage he was trying to keep under wraps right now—Lucius schooled his features. Turning still-amber eyes on the other werewolf, he asked, biting out the words, "Is. My. Son. Safe?"

Fenrir nodded, the motion making him ache after the stunner and that unfortunate meeting with the wall.

Lucius' entire frame shook as a little of the tension appeared to drain out of him.

"Fuck me, it's true." Finally gathering enough of his wits to comprehend that it was true—it'd always been true—Fenrir was unaware of these creatures snapping their heads toward him in a uniform motion; he was far too dazed to pay the unsettling sensation it set off in his gut any mind. "They exist."

Lucius and Hermione's gazes met again. His brow furrowed in question. Mirroring his bewildered expression, she could only answer with a shrug. "I've no idea who he means," she said softly, wondering just how hard Lucius'd smashed Fenrir's head when he'd hit him into the wall moments ago.

She moved closer, and Fenrir could almost swear Lucius drew himself up taller simply because she was at his side. Was he posturing for his mate, or for the sake of appearing the dominant force in another male's presence? Either way, the sight—and the way they were covered in each other's scents—had bile rising in the back of Fenrir's throat. Pure, acidic envy burned in his chest. He tried to force it away, to keep focused on the creatures before him.

"What are you talking about?" Lucius' voice was clearer than before, yet still a guttural, animal sound.

Fenrir let his eyes drift closed, aware fighting was going to make this worse. For him. Pity, he did so adore a good, bloody brawl.

"You're the monster monsters fear; the thing little werewolf pups are told will get them if they disobey their parents."

Hermione couldn't help but draw closer, still, into Lucius' side at Fenrir's tone. Their fast transformations, their too-quickly developed instincts, their new primal responses to everything . . . . What were they?

Lucius seemed to have trouble forming the question, his golden eyes narrowing as he shook his head. He didn't want to think on the implication and it was stopping the words from forming.

Hermione had no such reluctance. There was an answer before them, and she would have it. "What are you talking about Greyback? Speak plainly."

His gaze touched on hers, though he told himself now was not the time to be curious nor hopeful about the spark of interest he thought he saw there, before locking his attention on Lucius' face. Sure, they could kill him, but right now, they had no idea what was happening. And that meant one thing—they needed him. No one else could tell them what he knew.

The understanding bolstered him.

A feral, mirthless grin curving his lips, Fenrir said calmly, and perhaps with just a little wonderment in his tone, "You're an Apex."