Levent Kartal had a direction to go in now. His finger pads were pricked by thistles, his senses filled with the salty stench of the sea. But he turned his back on the bay and headed north toward the land bridge, wondering if there were any treasures he could find on the other side where fewer wolves seemed to frequent. Some gifts would be useful when he approached the pack or any packs, and he did want to make another round around the region so that he knew exactly where he stood. He was a master of games, and he would not lose for want of trinkets to please an alpha’s greed.

He walked across a carpet of pine needles, chewing on a strip of rabbit meat, occasionally lifting a morsel to the cat perched on his shoulder. It was quiet here, at least, and so he could be at peace without needing to don his fool’s mask. Occasionally, he’d break the quiet to share a few words with Wilson, talking about where they might go, what they might do, when they would return. The tom was resigned to his companion’s constant journeying, although Lev knew he wanted nothing more than to return across the sea to their homeland, or perhaps to just live in a cabin in the woods for the rest of their lives. Wilson never had any sort of ambition.

Sighing, the Turkish man stopped to check the contents of his satchel, his fingers brushing over the books and necklaces and other items within. Truly, he needed a horse to carry all his things, but he doubted he could care for a horse properly without having a pack to shelter them. Well-versed in the low languages he might be, but that didn’t make him an expert on all things equine.

He was snapped from his lazy thoughts by the sickening crack of bone—or more than just a single bone. The pops and splintering of vertebrae made him cringe, his fur fluffed along his back, and Wilson dug his claws into his companion’s shoulder. The wolf mewed softly at him to calm him, petting his fur, and stepped softly in the direction of the sound rather than away as another might have.

The cat did not approve. “Are you mental?” he hissed.

Levent flashed him grin that was not very soothing.

The sight of a butchered carcass greeted them as they stepped from the foliage. A black luperci wielded a blade, severing the meat, until the sound of a bird flapping through the tree canopy made him turn his head. When he turned again, in the direction of the newcomers, Levent made no move to hide or step forward. He simply stood, blue eyes roaming over the stag’s antlers, his white cat’s eyes big as yellow moons.

“Iyi akşamlar,” Levent greeted after a moment.

Eyes—plainly blood-red even at this distance—regarded him and his feline companion momentarily before the black wolf spoke. The Turkish response caught him off guard, and Levent cocked a brow. “Türkçe konuşabilir?” He shook his head slightly, deciding that it was safe enough to step forward. It had been a long time since he’d heard his mother tongue, as generally only he spoke it—especially in these North American lands. He’d heard smatterings of other languages, French and Spanish and Russian, but his own remained rare.

The stranger went back to butchering the deer calmly, casually questioning if he was hungry. Deciding it wouldn’t hurt to save some meat for himself, the brown-furred man nodded and stepped closer. He wondered if he could do something in return for this fellow, but he wasn’t one to offer favors if no one asked. As much as he believed in equal and fair trade, he was still an opportunist, and the soft hearts of strangers were too glad to offer him and his kitty a meal.

Something about this man—his scars, the way he carried himself—told Levent that he wasn’t one of those soft-hearted fools, however. He settled down on his haunches, arms on his knees as he watched closely, the cat dropping down to crouch behind him.

He spoke casually now, in English. “So where’d you learn to speak the language? You don’t come from overseas too, do you, kırmızı gözleri?”

Levent was used to taking advantage of situations and people alike. He was cautious, but one couldn’t gather that from the ease he carried himself with. It was almost impossible to ruffle him, which was why he only crouched and waited with a small smile as the other butchered the carcass—rather than looking at the knife with suspicion. He wasn’t much of a fighter, but he was more or less confident of his skills with persuading others to stop trying to kill him, and escaping if need be. Much of his life had been spent wheedling and running—a cowardly way to live, some honorable wolves proclaimed, though most of those wolves were dead.

The dark wolf explained that his aunt, a former slave, had picked up on many languages and taught others in turn. It was intriguing, and the Turkish man wondered how many other tongues the stranger knew—fluently or not. Even he could only speak English and Turkish well, although he had a rudimentary understanding of the Arabic and Greek tongues, and of course the bastardized pidgin languages of trade and port cities.

“Bu mantıklı,” was all he said about the languages. And then, when the other offered his name, he broke into a broad smile. He chuckled under his breath, looking down at the grass, remembering the soft Greek-accented words murmured in his ear on starlit nights. “Death,” he purred, “son of Night and Darkness, brother to Sleep. A feared and hated character in the mythologies, ever present, but not a key character in any story. Unless you count Sisyphus making a fool of you.” He stretched his arms out then scratched behind a dark ear, smiling idly. “But he ended up trying to balance an unbalanceable rock, and here you are with a deer.”

It wasn’t often that he met a wolf named for one of the deities Agape spoke so fondly of, and perhaps it was dangerous to speak so familiarly with this stranger. Memories of his once-betrothed, no matter how badly it ended, did tend to make him warm and careless. He opened his mouth to ramble more, but a hiss grabbed his attention, and he heeded Wilson’s council for once. It was probably best not to talk Death’s ear off.

Fluency in five languages—Levent could not say as much about his own tongues. He knew how to speak English and the dialect of cats as well as his birth tongue, but otherwise he knew enough to get by in most animal speeches. He supposed it was easier to learn low speech than Spanish or German, but perhaps this dark wolf was simply gifted like he was with the capability of understanding so much. His pale blue eyes shone at the thought.

Perhaps the merchant dwelled too much on the mythology he didn’t truly know by heart. Agape Kokinos could tell you about all the gods, the ways to anger and appease them, the reason why dolphins help sailors and why spiders weave webs and why limestone weeps. He only spoke of the pantheon because of her memory, however. The difference was that she believed and worshipped, while he told them as no more than colorful tales from the land of Greece. Anyone who took it seriously was a pagan and a fool, after all. There was one true god, and the god did not mind if Levent Kartal told a story.

Thanatos the wolf apparently minded, however. His red eyes slitted, and though the Turkish man betrayed no outward nerves, fidgeting dismissively with a necklace, his body was tense and his ears pricked for the sound of movement. Wilson growled low in his throat, nearly inaudible if his vibrating body hadn’t been pressed close to his own. The wolf only touched him gently, rubbing soothingly behind an ear, but it would take just a pinch of the cat’s skin to send him off in case things got ugly.

Levent smiled toothily at the dark male as he berated him. “I did not know you would take insult from such meaningless words,” he purred apologetically, his words crisp but his accent heavy. He flicked some of his dark hair behind his shoulder. “You hear stories and songs of all sorts in the port cities and trading hubs of the eastern continent. They mean nothing—though the wisest narrators give warning through their telling.” His grin never faltered, only growing slightly broader. “As was the case with Sisyphus. The tale tells you only that, even if he managed to trick Thanatos twice… Death is inevitable.”

His smile shone like a blood moon.

Had he been able to read minds, Thanatos might have been a lot angrier. His fitful reaction to the playful anecdote had the merchant convinced he was the fool he feared being called. Such displays of anger and open threats were ridiculous to one who was used to playing others with honeyed words and rather than a hand at a sword hilt and an evil scowl. Certainly, one could only be insulted so much—but the wise man did not hurl lightning bolts at whoever looked at him cross-eyed. The wise man waited, and tolerated, and sent one lightning bolt right where it was needed.

The remark about an early death made Levent glance at him sideways, quirking a brow. He kept his response to himself, however. He had no doubt the dark wolf had murdered plenty of wolves—likely ones that made fun of his nose or his mother or something, because you don’t mock Death—but he wasn’t particularly frightened. As terrified as he was of meeting his mortal doom, he gambled hard and often—and if Thanatos wanted to kill him, he would have done it before either of them knew what was happening.

Maybe I can chain him up in a cave, he thought, and smiled in the direction of the trees as if suddenly enraptured by their beauty.

The question made him blink, forgetting himself, but the tomcat flattened his ears and lashed his tail. His earlier flamboyant smiles vanished as he looked at the other man quite seriously, although his tone was soft and casual, not having to think about the answer. “Of course. Wilson is my traveling companion and closest friend. We have known each other since we were kids.”

The pair was used to skeptical glares from other luperci. Many had companions of their own, even if they were mere pets rather than equals of different species. Others would rather eat a cat than talk to it, or thought that torturing them was fun. He still didn’t want to think about what the teenagers in London would have done to the feline if he hadn’t stopped them. They’d given some very detailed suggestions, but much was likely left unsaid. Troubled, he stroked the tom’s fur.

“Ah, apologies,” the brown wolf said swiftly. “I wasn’t thinking.” That admission might make Thanatos happy. He gave a little bow of his head. “I am Levent—which has no meaning other than a very vain one, but I swear my mother named me.”