The call came at dawn.
Kael was still awake, the Nick Drake album on its fourth rotation, when his phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen displayed a single word: Father.
He answered on the second ring. "Yes."
"Report." Aldric Shadowbane's voice was gravel and authority. He didn't believe in pleasantries.
"Nothing significant. Council activity remains stable. The Eugene dispute appears to be resolving internally—our source in the Hawthorne family reports that compensation has been offered and accepted. No territory violations in the past seventy-two hours."
"And the coast?"
"Quiet. The Makah pack reports no unusual activity on their borders."
A pause. Kael could hear his father breathing on the other end of the line. The sound was steady, measured—a predator at rest.
"Mira tells me you've been in the city more than usual."
Kael's jaw tightened. Of course Mira had reported. She'd probably waited until her shift ended, then called Aldric directly. It wasn't betrayal—it was pack protocol. Information flowed upward. Always.
"I've been monitoring a potential new arrival," Kael said. It wasn't a lie. He had been monitoring. He just hadn't reported what he'd found.
"A vampire?"
"Yes."
"In our territory?"
"Nötr Bölge. The city center is unclaimed by treaty."
Another pause. Longer this time. "The treaty doesn't make them less dangerous, Kael. It just makes them more careful. If you've identified one, I want a full report. Description. Habits. Associates."
"I'm still gathering information."
"Then gather faster."
The line went dead.
Kael set the phone down and stared at the ceiling. The Nick Drake album had ended. The needle lifted and returned to its rest, leaving only the soft hum of the turntable's motor.
He should write the report. Describe the girl under the awning. Her silver eyes. Her stillness. The way she'd watched him without fear.
He should. He wouldn't.
He got up and walked to the small window that overlooked the warehouse's loading dock. The sky was shifting from black to gray—dawn in Portland was a gradual, reluctant process, as if the sun itself resented having to appear at all.
His father's voice echoed in his head. "The treaty doesn't make them less dangerous."
That was true. It was also true that the treaty had kept the peace for three hundred years. No Blood Wars. No territorial massacres. Just an uneasy coexistence built on distance and deliberate ignorance.
Kael had grown up hearing stories about the wars. His grandmother, who had lived through the final years of the conflict, used to tell them in the long winter nights when the pack gathered in the great hall of the Northern territory. Stories of villages burned. Of families torn apart. Of vampires who could kill with a look and wolves who could tear through stone with their bare hands.
She'd always ended the stories the same way. "And that is why we stay apart. Because together, we destroy everything we touch."
He'd believed her. He still believed her.
But the girl under the awning hadn't looked like destruction. She'd looked like someone standing on the edge of something, trying to decide whether to jump.
Kael pulled on a jacket and left the apartment. The warehouse was quiet—Theo was still on shift, hunched over the monitoring station with a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. He looked up as Kael descended the stairs.
"Going out?"
"Need air."
Theo nodded and returned to his screens. He was a good wolf. Obedient. He wouldn't ask questions.
The morning air was cold and damp. Kael walked east, toward the river. The streets were quiet at this hour—a few early commuters, a delivery truck idling outside a bakery. The city smelled like wet concrete and diesel and, underneath it all, the green, living scent of the forest that was never far away in this part of the world.
He walked until he reached the waterfront. The Willamette River was gray and slow, reflecting the low clouds. He stood at the railing and watched the water move.
He'd been in Portland for six months. In that time, he'd built a life that looked normal from the outside. The record collection. The coffee shop on Hawthorne where the barista knew his order. The running route along the river that let him stretch his legs without drawing attention.
But normal was a mask. Underneath it, he was still his father's son. Still the heir to a legacy of blood and territory and ancient grudges. Still a wolf pretending to be a man, waiting for the moment when the mask would have to come off.
He thought about the girl. The vampire. She'd been wearing a mask too. The expensive coat. The careful stillness. The way she'd watched him without moving, like a portrait in a museum.
What was underneath her mask?
He shouldn't want to know. Wanting to know was dangerous. Wanting to know was how treaties got broken and wars got started.
But he'd seen her eyes. Silver. Moonlight on water. And he couldn't stop thinking about them.
Kael pushed off the railing and turned back toward the warehouse. He had reports to review. Territories to monitor. A father who expected answers.
But first, he had a record store to visit.