Sing For Me: Book 3
It is said that long ago Herne, the god of the Hunt, could use his Horn to make wolves obey his commands. A legend that Amy Oakley, Alpha of the Howlers pack, learned as a child and stopped believing in long before her first change beneath the full moon.
After spending three years fighting for her lovers and packmates’ right to live among the werewolves of Londinium, all she wants is a chance to breathe, go back to running her pub, and never see the manipulative Marcel Charron again.
As an ancient prophecy begins to unfold, can Amy and the Howlers find the Horn of Herne and keep it out of Marcel’s hands, or will his web of schemes and plots spell doom for their pack and the rest of London’s werewolves?
Publisher: JMS Books, LLC
“Hey,” Fantasma asked with a frown, “you okay, Ami?”
Amélie looked up from her coffee cup with a shrug. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Fantasma gave her a sympathetic look, then looked down at the nearly empty cup. “I’ll go get you a refill.”
She managed something like a grateful nod, then watched Fantasma go to the counter at the coffee shop she’d picked for this rendezvous. It was well away from the Howl, tucked away on the edge of Wormwood Scrubs. Amélie had used it for a meeting with a client several years ago, and she had been pleased to see it was still in business.
Fantasma returned with a fresh cup in each hand, and Amélie murmured gratefully as she took her new cup. “So—what’s going on? Bad dreams? Leah accidentally pushed you out of bed? What?”
Amélie shrugged again as she took a sip. “Stress, perhaps. If I had any dreams—or nightmares—I don’t recall them.” “Huh. Okay.”
Fantasma drank a bit of her own coffee, licking a bit of whipped cream from her lip before she leaned forward in her chair. “So why are we meeting halfway across town from your girl’s place?” Amélie looked around subtly before she spoke. “Because of what we will be discussing, and because, to the best of my knowledge, Marcel has no idea this shop exists.”
Fantasma nodded, then looked over to the door with surprise as she saw Elise coming in dressed in a tan suit, a black raincoat hanging off her shoulders. “You didn’t say she was coming!” She looked nervously down at herself, and Amélie couldn’t help but smile fondly at her. “I’m wearing my second worst pair of jeans and a day-old hoodie, amiga. That is not fair!”
“If it’s any consolation,” Elise said with a little smile as she reached the table, “I think you look very cute in them.”
“Yeah,” Fantasma mumbled as she blushed into her coffee. “That helps a little.” Then, composing herself with a clear effort of will, she sat up.
“But I don’t think you arranged all this just to embarrass me, Amélie.”
Amélie let that hang for a moment as she finished her second cup, then set it down on the table. “No, I did not. Elise, did you want to get a drink before we start?” Elise shook her head as she sat down. “I only have so much time, I’m afraid.”
“Very well.” Amélie considered where to begin. “I had asked you to look into how Marcel knew that Leah was Turned. But we did not consider the most obvious possibility.”
Fantasma’s eyes widened. “You think he Turned her?”
“That’s a rather serious accusation,” Elise said slowly. Her expression was carefully neutral, and she tilted her head just enough to keep Amélie from reading her eyes. “One that would require a great deal of proof.”
“Marcel is clever,” Amélie said acidly. “But he can make mistakes. Mistakes like his outburst at the trial. Mistakes like challenging Amy.” She nodded to Fantasma, and waited for her to produce a black fireproof box from the backpack she’d brought with her, unlocking the lid and opening it before she turned it to face Elise. “Mistakes like this.” Elise’s eyebrows rose as she removed a binder made from heavy buff cardstock. The words Registre des Loupes had been embossed into the top of the cover in black ink, but part of the lettering was obscured by stamps in now faded red ink.
Verzeichnis der Wölfe had been written beneath the title in pen, beside the stamp that read Streng Geheim. The largest was a single word—Verbrennen—printed diagonally across the cover, and in the bottom corner was an unmistakable insignia: An eagle embracing a wreath, with the Nazi swastika resting within the center.
Elise’s hand trembled just a bit as she slowly flipped the pages. “Is this...what I think it is?”
Amélie nodded gravely. “A copy of one of the first registries produced in France, given to the occupation forces. One with several packs missing...most notably Isengrim.”