The Broken Alpha
He had to be her father, making him a wolf.
But he had scented the eleve at the site of her capture. He frowned at the werewolf, the image crackling and pulsing, fraying at the edges. The ladder, and the clean manner of her capture, all pointed towards the eleves. They were fond of trickery, not torture. He was missing something – something obvious.
Then it clicked. Eleves could shape-shift, in a sense. They could glamour their victims to appear however they chose. If he were seeing through the lens of her eyes, then the glamour would work on him, too.