Novels by Vivian Obiefuna

Three weeks into vampire territory, the Silverstone Pack sent hunters across the border.Klaus knew they were coming before he saw them. This was one of the things that had changed, one of the subtle, unnerving, remarkably useful things that had been changing since the night in the forest when the thing in his blood had pushed back against the dark. His awareness had extended. Not dramatically, not in any way he could explain with the language he had grown up using, but in the specific practical sense that the forest told him things now. Pressure changes in the air. The particular silence that descended on a stretch of terrain when something organized and purposeful was moving through it.Six wolves. Shifted forms, moving in the hunting formation that Silverstone used for disciplined pursuit, not searching, not scouting. Hunting. They had a specific target and they were moving with the specific efficiency of people who knew where it was.He was in the open ground near the outer edge

He woke in a room.This was itself significant information, the last state he remembered being in had been the base of a tree in the dark, which was not a room, which meant that someone had transported him while he was unconscious, which meant that either a great deal of time had passed or he had been unconscious for longer than he had realized, or both.He catalogued the room without moving, the way he had been taught: dimensions, exits, light sources, objects. Stone walls, old and well-kept. High ceiling. One window, east-facing, grey morning light. A door, solid, no gap underneath, hinged inward. A lantern burning low on a table. The smell of the place: cold stone, old wood, and underneath it something floral and complex that was not any plant he could name.He moved his hand and found the wound in his side bound and dressed. Properly bound, not field expedient but actual medical work, layers and pressure, the kind that took knowledge and time and better supplies than he had posse

She had been watching him for three years.This was not unusual for Seraphine Voss, whose entire professional existence consisted of watching things, people, patterns, the way information moved through a system like water finding the low places. She was very good at it. She had been doing it for longer than most of the wolves she watched had been alive, which gave her a certain perspective on the things she observed.She had been watching Klaus Dravon specifically for three years because three years ago she had detected something in his blood's particular supernatural signature that she had not encountered in contemporary form since the age before wolves and vampires had sorted themselves into their respective categories and stopped trading their older qualities back and forth.What she had detected was something very old.What she had detected, if her research and her reasoning and a particular set of documents she was not supposed to have access to and did anyway were accurate, was

The vampire territory forest swallowed him within fifty steps.He was trained for wilderness survival. He knew how to move through terrain that wanted to keep you still, how to read the ground and the light and the sound of things to find water and avoid danger. He had done survival training in worse conditions than this, in more hostile terrain, in worse physical states.The difference was that on those occasions he had been well-rested, well-fed, and armed.He was none of those things now.The silver had done something to him, not the permanent damage it would have done to a wolf kept in the chains for weeks, but the kind of systemic disruption that the metal caused to a shifted form had leaked into his human form too, and his body felt faintly wrong. Off-key. Like an instrument that was technically in tune but vibrating at a slightly incorrect frequency.He kept moving.He found water by sound, a small tributary running northwest. He drank, filled the small vessel he had in his poc

They brought the silver chains at dusk.This was tradition, too. Everything had a tradition in pack culture ,a right way, a prescribed form, a ceremony that gave structure to even the most brutal things humans and wolves did to each other. The silver chains were for preventing shifting, which was the pack's way of ensuring an exile could not fight their way out of the sentence. They were thin and cold and they burned where they touched skin, not badly, not enough to scar immediately, just enough to remind you constantly that they were there.Klaus held still while they were fitted.He had decided he would hold still. He had made this decision in the hour between the verdict and the ceremony, standing alone in his quarters for the last time, looking at the room he had lived in for fifteen years and understanding, with a precision he had not expected, that he was memorizing it.The pack stood in a half-circle outside the Great Hall, the same formation they used for rites of passage, wh

They called it a judgment, which was the pack's word for a trial that had already reached its conclusion and was proceeding through the formal steps in the order tradition required.Klaus knew this. He had presided over pack judgments himself, in Aldric's absence, on two occasions. He knew the shape of them. He knew how they moved, from accusation to evidence to witness to deliberation to verdict, each step necessary and each step, in the cases he had seen, reflecting something true.He stood at the center of the pack's gathering circle, outdoors, because a matter of this gravity required the open sky and the whole pack present and he counted heads. Four hundred wolves. Every adult member of Silverstone pack. He had the sudden, strange thought that he had never been in the center of this circle before. He had always been at the Alpha's side, slightly behind, watching other people face what he was now facing.He made himself be still.He had done nothing wrong. He knew he had done not