A Peony for Your Claws

Prologue

Cedric

I f someone had told me I would be spending an otherwise peaceful July evening looking for my runaway werewolf girlfriend, I might have laughed hysterically–which is not something I’m in the habit of doing.

It’s more likely that I would have rolled my eyes at the absurdity so hard they would have gotten stuck in my cranium; it’s hard to tell, really.

But here I am, with a half dead torch in my hands, in the bloody woods, following the occasional paw print and the hunch of Delilah’s best friend.

I suppose I should go back to the start.