Fortunately, her husband was already stepping forward to shield her with a graceful bow and a thread of steel underlying his cordial greeting. “My friends, we deeply appreciate your invitation. I believe most of you haven’t yet had the honor of meeting my wife, the famously brilliant Lady Riven?”
Margaret couldn’t help wincing at that description, but manners drilled into her from childhoodcompelled her into movement, her head lowering and her legs jerking into a polite curtsy. As she rose, she met Fräulein Leonie’s glowering gaze from the other end of the semicircle of seven chairs that had been arranged around the looming flautist.
Oof.So much for hoping to be liked or at least tolerated! Setting her teeth together, she braced herself to be excoriated once more.
To Margaret’s shock, though, the nachzehrer only frowned and looked silently down at her clasped, clawed hands on her black-robed lap. It wasn’t a welcome by any means, but it was enough of a relief to grant Margaret the courage to take in the rest of the semicircle in detail for the first time.
Only four of the assembled chairs were occupied. The flautist, a young man clad in an evening jacket and trousers far too loose for his tall and narrow frame, loomed in front of the fire, face shadowed, gripping a pale and oddly-shaped flute, which almost looked as if...
Aha. Yes, that flute—or rather, pipe—had definitely been made from human bone. An arm bone, if Margaret’s estimation was correct, making him one of the famous soul-pipers of the Black Forest. No wonder his music had acted as such an effective summons!
That moment of scholarly identification settled her nerves nicely. Looking around from the perspective of an experienced academic, rather than the awkward girl who’d run afoul of every unspoken social rule in her aunt and uncle’s household, Margaret wasable to take in her husband’s introductions as he made them.
“Of course, you’ve already met Fräulein Leonie.” Lord Riven gave the girl a brief smile that might have seemed friendly if he hadn’t taken care to expose a dangerous glint of fangs along the way. “But may I now introduce Herr Fischer?”
The slight, dark-stubbled, and nervous-looking man in the chair directly to Leonie’s left hunched even further into himself with his introduction. His fingers beat a rapid tattoo against his leg as he gave a jerky nod that shook his unfashionably long, glossy black hair...
The exact same shade, Margaret noted, as that of the giant raven’s feather she had found early that morning—presumably upon Herr Fischer’s return from a long night of hunting and flying. Even without the extra clue provided by his surname, she would have drawn her own conclusions.
She had read about the Black Forest’s famous night ravens, of course, but she had never met one in real life until now. It took all her willpower—and the memory of Leonie’s furious face that morning—to swallow down the immediate stream of questions she wanted to unleash. Sealing her lips shut, she only smiled and nodded before turning to the older, brown-haired woman who sprawled, seemingly boneless, across the next chair like a queen lazily surveying her domain.
It was a perfectly ordinary size for achair, but this woman dwarfed it with her regal height. If the giants of central Europe hadn’t universally banded together to establish their own kingdom in the icy north a hundred and fifty years ago, leaving the former kingdom of Prussia shattered in their wake, Margaret would have immediately suspected this woman of sharing their blood.Allof the Germanic kingdoms, though, had turned against the mountain giants in the wake of that notorious tragedy.
Any rational scholar would have to acknowledge that the late King Frederick William of Prussia had brought his kingdom’s—and his family’s—devastation upon himself with his relentless abductions of the mountain giants’ finest young men for his royal guard, ignoring all the frantic warnings of his advisors and tearing into shreds a treaty that had been made nearly eight hundred years earlier. However, the rulers of the surrounding kingdoms had reacted with far more panic than reason to all of the destruction that followed. Margaret couldn’t imagine any half-giant families having managed to survive in their lands afterwards—nor choosing to move back to any of those kingdoms now, with so much bitterness still lingering in local attitudes.
Besides, there was something strangely sinuous in the woman’s movements as her big head rose to consider Margaret through heavy-lidded eyes. With the fire blocked by the piper’s figure and the lit candles well behind, Margaret couldn’t quite make out her eye color—could it really be gold?—but as their gazes met,darkness flashed horizontally across the other woman’s eyes, like the inner eyelids of a lizard snapping open and shut.
Lord Riven said, bowing respectfully, “And this is Frau?—”
“Olga,” the woman pronounced in a low, rich voice. “You may call me Olga, Lady Riven.”
“Olga,” Margaret repeated obediently. Even as she curtseyed, though, her mind was busily sorting through different options, and her eyebrows furrowed. “May I—?” she began.
“Ahem.” Her husband cleared his throat meaningfully. “If I may continue with our introductions, my dear...”
Of course. Margaret squeezed his arm with gratitude for the timely reminder.
She was here tonight, if not to make friends, then at least not to make any more enemies—and as intensely as curiosity now racked her, even she could understand that her fellow guests might not wish to feel pinned beneath a scholarly microscope during this social gathering. So, she drew a deep breath, dismissed the mystery of Olga’s nature from her mind, and turned to the next chair...where no mystery whatsoever waited for her.
The grey wolf who sat curled atop its round seat lifted his furry snout in a courteous nod, and Margaret curtseyed deeply in return as her husband introduced him.
“Herr von Krallemann, the owner ofthis inn.”
“A pleasure,” Margaret said, remembering to choose good manners over her scholarly instincts.
Herr von Krallemann was far rangier and more distinctly wild-looking than the Norman-descended werewolves who made up a significant portion of Britain’s own aristocracy...and who had become so notoriously inbred across the centuries since their leader’s first invasion. She had a great number of questions aboutotherdifferences that she would love to ask him about too, if she ever met him in human form...but for now, she set them aside.
“And finally, Herr Schneider.” Lord Riven nodded to the silently looming piper, who winced and ducked his head at the introduction.
“I am sorry to have interrupted your performance,” Margaret said. “It sounded beautiful through the door.” Eyeing the young man’s gaunt frame and the deep hollows beneath his eyes—good Lord, he must have given adangerousamount of himself to create that soul pipe in the first place!—she said with deep sincerity, “I hope you won’t let our arrival end your music.”
Reading about the power of a soul-pipe could hardly compare to hearing it in person. Besides, she couldn’t imagine any better way to endure a full hour’s socializing than by removing all chance of awkward conversation.
Unfortunately, the wolf nearby let out a short, sharp bark, and Herr Schneider shuffled hastily into the closest empty seat, stillclutching the soul-pipe in his hands. He could no more speak in words than could the inn’s owner when in lupine form, but his reply was clear.
“Actually...” Olga’s neck twisted with inhuman fluidity as she turned with a mocking smile. “Why don’t you take your own turn now, Lady Riven?”
“What,me?” Horror gripped Margaret tight; if it weren’t for her husband’s presence, she might well have turned and fled. “I can’t play music! I never learned—and I haven’t any knack, and my singing voice—! Trust me,noneof you wish?—”
