Page 18 of Red Hood, Bad Wolf

The kitchen was a homey space filled with copper pots and bundles of drying herbs, but Rowan's magical senses tingled as she cataloged their varieties. Wolfsbane hung alongside cooking herbs, its poisonous stems nearly hidden among the rosemary and thyme. A Red Hood would notice—would question why a werewolf kept such a deadly plant. But the mate bond whisperedtrust, safety, pack, and Rowan found herself doubting her own instincts.

"Sit, sit," Mae urged, gesturing to a chair while positioning herself between Rowan and the door. The movement seemed innocent enough—a grandmother eager to serve tea—but it triggered something in Rowan's hindbrain.Predator blocking prey's escape. She shoved the thought aside, unsettled by her own suspicion.

"I hoped you might help me understand more about the local territory," Rowan said, forcing her voice to remain steady. "The missing hikers—"

"Such terrible business." Mae clicked her tongue, reaching for the kettle. Her movements were fluid, economical. No wasted motion, no elderly tremor. "But then, humans have always brought trouble when they stray where they don't belong."

A chill skittered down Rowan's spine. Before she could examine why, Mae was pressing a steaming mug into her hands. The tea's sweet scent couldn't quite mask an underlying bitterness that Rowan's enhanced senses detected.

"Sugar?" Mae offered, already reaching for the bowl.

"Thank you," she said, accepting the sugar. She took a hesitant sip, then added another spoonful.

“Is it too bitter?”

“It’s different.”

“An old family recipe. Drink. You’ll get used to it.”

Rowan blinked and took a longer sip.

Mae settled into the chair opposite, her own movements suggesting nothing but comfort and ease. But her eyes—sharp, alert—never left Rowan's face. "Now then," she said, "what would you like to know about my territory?"

The possessive pronoun hung in the air between them.Myterritory. Not the pack's. Not Alder's.

She was being paranoid, surely. Seeing threats where none existed. This was Alder's grandmother, not some loup garou, Rowan drank more tea, mind clouded with conflicting signals.

Mae's smile widened, showing too many teeth.

"Such interesting work you Red Hoods do," Mae said, her eyes never leaving Rowan's face. "Protecting us all from those who've lost their way." She took a deliberate sip of tea. "I've always wondered—how do you determine when someone's truly gone feral?"

The question seemed innocent enough, but something in Mae's tone set Rowan's teeth on edge. She shifted in her chair, acutely aware of how Mae had angled her own seat to keep both Rowan and the door in her line of sight.

"There are signs," Rowan said carefully. The mate bond encouraged her to share, to trust. The tea filled her with a comforting warmth. She relaxed against her better judgement. "Behavioral changes first. Increased aggression, territorial marking, loss of human speech patterns."

Mae nodded, looking thoughtful. "And the physical changes? I heard that silver can force a shift, make the madness show itself." Her fingers traced the rim of her teacup. "But that seems so crude."

Rowan's magic flared dimly in warning. That was classified information—the kind of detail that shouldn't be common knowledge outside the Order. But before she could examine that thought too closely, she took another sip of tea, and everything was all right.

"You seem to know quite a bit about Red Hood methods," Rowan managed.

Mae's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Oh, I've picked up bits and pieces over the years. Did you know, in the early days of the territory, we had our own ways of dealing with problems." She reached for a leather-bound book on a nearby shelf. "I've kept records of the old ways. The pack's history. Would you like to see?"

The book she opened was filled with neat, precise handwriting. Too precise, Rowan noticed, for hands that supposedly shook with age. Mae's fingers moved across the pages with predatory grace as she pointed out various entries.

"Here's an interesting tale," Mae said. "Fifty years ago, when humans first started encroaching on pack lands. Building their hiking trails, their camping grounds." Her voice took on a strange edge. "The pack had to protect itself, of course. Had to maintain order."

"What happened?" Rowan asked, even as her instincts screamed at her to leave.

"Oh, the problem solved itself." Mae's smile showed teeth again. "People learned to be more careful about where they wandered. Much like they're learning now, wouldn't you say?"

The mate bond couldn't quite mask Rowan's shiver at those words. Mae noticed—of course she noticed—and her expression softened into something that might have looked grandmotherly if not for the calculating gleam in her eyes.

"But those are just old stories," Mae said, closing the book with a decisive snap. "Tell me more about your work, dear. How do you track those who've gone feral? What signs do you look for? What weaknesses do you exploit?"

Each question was a little too specific, a little too probing. Mae leaned forward slightly with each answer, her posture reminding Rowan of a wolf stalking prey. But every time Rowan's suspicion sparked, feelings would surge, smothering her concerns under a blanket of peace.

"Your order has changed since the old days," Mae mused. "When they took my daughter-in-law, they were much less discriminating." She sighed. "Poor Alder, losing his mother that way. And then his father, so soon after..."

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