werewolves
“Actually, yes.”
Leslie’s attention caught on the pendant at Sara’s throat: a heart circled by twin wolfsbane branches, two helmets facing off in the center—one ancient, crest-plumed; one modern, angular. An emblem Jake had noticed once before on a woman at Sydney Airport with a red specimen freezer box labeled Lycotonum—a word that had been a splinter in his mind ever since.
“That’s beautiful,” Leslie said. “What’s it mean?”
Sara’s hand grazed it—fond, offhand. “Family thing. Mum said it’d keep away nightmares.” A small shrug. “To me, it’s just a keepsake.”
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