ONE
RYLIE GRESHAM STARED at her cell phone and tried not to panic. She had just gotten a text message with three words—just three little words—and it struck cold fear straight to the depths of her heart.
She was pretty sure that there shouldn’t have been any words in the English language that could shake her at this point. After everything she had survived as Alpha of a werewolf pack, words were silly and harmless. And these weren’t meant to be threatening words, either.
But they were coming from her mother, Jessica Gresham-Kirshner: “Call me ASAP.”
It felt like the world was ending.
Summer realized that Rylie wasn’t walking beside her anymore. “What’s wrong?” she asked. With the morning sun glowing behind her back, her curls looked like they were on fire.
“Nothing,” Rylie said, dropping the phone into her purse. What a lie.
“Come on, we’re already late for the appointment.” Summer dragged Rylie through the glass double doors of The First Bank of Woodbridge. The contrast between the heat of the parking lot and the air conditioned coolness inside was like jumping into a pool of ice water. It smelled of coolant, recycled air, plastic, carpet, fresh paint, stucco—so many manmade things that Rylie normally tried to avoid in large doses.
“Sorry,” Rylie said, managing to give Summer a smile that she didn’t feel. “I was distracted.”
“Understandably.” Summer jerked a thumb at a sign on the door.
A plain piece of white paper had been taped to the glass. Huge words were printed on it in a thick, angry-looking font: “WE REPORT PRETERNATURALS.” Below that, much smaller, it said: “Per the Office of Preternatural Affairs.” The sight of it made Rylie’s stomach flip.
“Actually, it wasn’t that,” she said. Although the sign definitely wasn’t helping with her mood, either.
Summer’s cheeks dimpled with an impish grin. One corner of her mouth lifted higher than the other—the Wilder smile. “Abel texting you?”
Rylie blushed. “I wish.”
A man in a gray suit met them in the lobby, extending a hand to shake. He was a heavy guy with a nice crew cut. Very professional-looking. Rylie didn’t think that he would have smiled at them if he had realized that his appointment was with a pair of young werewolves, but she didn’t plan on letting him learn the truth about his bank’s soon-to-be-former clients.
Rylie shook his hand.
“Mark Melville,” he said. “You’re Ms. Gresham?”
She nodded mutely. Between the text message, the sign on the door, and all of the foreign smells of the bank, her throat had become too closed to force any words out.
He led them to his office on the third floor. His desk was backed by a large window. There were no clouds in the sky behind him; the sun had burned them all away, leaving the city heat-scorched and the trees a dull shade of green.
Mark waited until Rylie and Summer took the seats across from him before sitting, too.
“Are you sure you want to close this account?” Mark asked, rearranging the papers on his desk. There was a stack of paperwork three inches deep in front of his keyboard. Rylie had the sinking suspicion that she was going to have to sign every single page.
“We’re very sure,” Summer said firmly.
Mark frowned.
“It’s okay,” Rylie said. “She’s my…” She stumbled over the sentence, then said, “Summer’s my sister.”
That didn’t seem to alleviate Mark’s concern—probably because Summer and Rylie barely resembled each other. Rylie had fine blond hair all the way down her back and Germanic features; Summer was cocoa-skinned and dark-haired, with her father’s full lips. They didn’t look the same race, much less like they could have been produced by the same parents.
He wasn’t wrong to be suspicious. Rylie and Summer weren’t sisters. The truth was far stranger than that.
“We’d be happy to open a high interest rate savings account to hold your money until
RYLIE GRESHAM STARED at her cell phone and tried not to panic. She had just gotten a text message with three words—just three little words—and it struck cold fear straight to the depths of her heart.
She was pretty sure that there shouldn’t have been any words in the English language that could shake her at this point. After everything she had survived as Alpha of a werewolf pack, words were silly and harmless. And these weren’t meant to be threatening words, either.
But they were coming from her mother, Jessica Gresham-Kirshner: “Call me ASAP.”
It felt like the world was ending.
Summer realized that Rylie wasn’t walking beside her anymore. “What’s wrong?” she asked. With the morning sun glowing behind her back, her curls looked like they were on fire.
“Nothing,” Rylie said, dropping the phone into her purse. What a lie.
“Come on, we’re already late for the appointment.” Summer dragged Rylie through the glass double doors of The First Bank of Woodbridge. The contrast between the heat of the parking lot and the air conditioned coolness inside was like jumping into a pool of ice water. It smelled of coolant, recycled air, plastic, carpet, fresh paint, stucco—so many manmade things that Rylie normally tried to avoid in large doses.
“Sorry,” Rylie said, managing to give Summer a smile that she didn’t feel. “I was distracted.”
“Understandably.” Summer jerked a thumb at a sign on the door.
A plain piece of white paper had been taped to the glass. Huge words were printed on it in a thick, angry-looking font: “WE REPORT PRETERNATURALS.” Below that, much smaller, it said: “Per the Office of Preternatural Affairs.” The sight of it made Rylie’s stomach flip.
“Actually, it wasn’t that,” she said. Although the sign definitely wasn’t helping with her mood, either.
Summer’s cheeks dimpled with an impish grin. One corner of her mouth lifted higher than the other—the Wilder smile. “Abel texting you?”
Rylie blushed. “I wish.”
A man in a gray suit met them in the lobby, extending a hand to shake. He was a heavy guy with a nice crew cut. Very professional-looking. Rylie didn’t think that he would have smiled at them if he had realized that his appointment was with a pair of young werewolves, but she didn’t plan on letting him learn the truth about his bank’s soon-to-be-former clients.
Rylie shook his hand.
“Mark Melville,” he said. “You’re Ms. Gresham?”
She nodded mutely. Between the text message, the sign on the door, and all of the foreign smells of the bank, her throat had become too closed to force any words out.
He led them to his office on the third floor. His desk was backed by a large window. There were no clouds in the sky behind him; the sun had burned them all away, leaving the city heat-scorched and the trees a dull shade of green.
Mark waited until Rylie and Summer took the seats across from him before sitting, too.
“Are you sure you want to close this account?” Mark asked, rearranging the papers on his desk. There was a stack of paperwork three inches deep in front of his keyboard. Rylie had the sinking suspicion that she was going to have to sign every single page.
“We’re very sure,” Summer said firmly.
Mark frowned.
“It’s okay,” Rylie said. “She’s my…” She stumbled over the sentence, then said, “Summer’s my sister.”
That didn’t seem to alleviate Mark’s concern—probably because Summer and Rylie barely resembled each other. Rylie had fine blond hair all the way down her back and Germanic features; Summer was cocoa-skinned and dark-haired, with her father’s full lips. They didn’t look the same race, much less like they could have been produced by the same parents.
He wasn’t wrong to be suspicious. Rylie and Summer weren’t sisters. The truth was far stranger than that.
“We’d be happy to open a high interest rate savings account to hold your money until
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