“What the fuck.” Wylder whispered the words, but there was a tinge of panic licking at the edge of them.
Silva stopped and looked back at Wylder. “What do you see?”
Wylder shot him a look that clearly questioned Silva’s sanity. “He’s got freaking antlers!” he hissed close to Silva’s ear.
Wylder could see through Alban’s glamour. That shouldn’t be possible. Not if Fae power had never manifested in him. Both Wylder and Sigurd had assured him it hadn’t.
“What color’s my hair right now?”
Wylder tore his gaze away from Alban and narrowed his eyes. “Silver, like always.”
Shit. Silva hadn’t bothered with glamour when he’d been at Sigurd’s. He thought Wylder just hadn’t questioned it when he’d cast the glamour as they arrived in Chicago, but that wasn’t the case. Wylder could seethroughhis Fae glamour, and he obviously had never encountered Fae like the one sitting at the back of this bus.
Reaching back, Silva took his hand and gave a squeeze, leading them back to where Alban sat alone. All the other riders gave him a wide berth. Silva sat in the seat behind Alban, pulling Wylder down to sit with him.
Once the bus started to move, Alban said, “Silvanir.”
“Hello, Alban. It’s been a while.”
Alban snorted and turned sideways in his seat so he could easily look at them. “You’ve been here long enough to know a decade is more thana while.”
Silva nodded his head in acknowledgement.
“What do you need?” Alban’s gaze went to Wylder. “You must be of Sigurd’s blood. You have his look.”
“He’s my uncle.” Wylder held out his hand to shake. “I’m Wylder.”
Alban tilted his head. The antlers stood tall enough to tap the window as he did so. He shook Wylder’s hand.
“Ansel came after Sigurd.”
Alban went still.
Silva continued, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the seat back in front of him. “He discovered Sigurd’s mate here in Chicago. Manipulated the Council here to get the mate sent to Solston.”
Alban hummed. “And to Sigurd.”
“Yes. Attacked once Sigurd had had the chance to know his mate.”
“And now you’re here looking for answers.” He glanced at Wylder. “Did Ansel get away?”
“No. He’s in the custody of the Solston Hellhounds.” Silva lowered his voice further. “He claims there’s something worse than him. A group trying to open the door.”
Alban furrowed his brow and reached up to scratch at the dark gold hair surrounding the base of one antler before he finally said, “There are always whispers. You know that.”
“I do.” Alban knew something. Silva was sure of it, but he also didn’t think Alban was going to hand the information over freely. “Any of those whispers worth sharing?”
Mouth twisting, Alban shook his head. “Sorry, Silva. Wish I could be more help.”
Wylder had tensed up beside him. Obviously, picking up the same vibe Silva was.
The bus slowed to a stop, brakes hissing. Silva didn’t know where they were, but he nudged Wylder to stand. “It was good to see you, Alban.”
“Same to you, old friend.”
They’d made it to the door when Alban said, “The Hunter has changed, Silva. That’s all I know.”
Silva stopped, looking back to meet Alban’s gaze as thoughts spun through his head. If the Hunter had changed?—