Chapter 20: The White Wolf

The Beta was fast for a man of fifty-four.

He crossed the floor in two strides.

His arm swept out for my throat before his hands had finished turning into paws.

I did not decide to shift.

My wolf took the decision, and the sweater split down my back, and I met him on four legs.

His jaws closed on air where my neck had been.

I went under his belly and came up on the far side.

The Hall had become a ring of screaming faces, and the benches scraped back to give us room.

He was a huge grey wolf with a torn left ear and pale cold eyes.

He turned on me, and I saw what he meant to do.

He still wanted the chair, and I was the one thing between him and it.

He needed me dead before the moon cleared the window, so that the naming would fall with me.

He came at me with his teeth bared, and I jumped.

Something black hit him in the shoulder in midair.

Conall.

He was in his wolf form, huge and silent, and the Beta went over sideways with a yelp.

They rolled across the boards in a knot of fur, and the front row of benches went over.

I heard the grind of teeth on bone.

Conall was bigger and younger, and he had waited eleven years to use his wolf.

But the Beta had fought for thirty years, and he knew every dirty thing there was to know.

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