The awakening werewolves were not, as it turned out, particularly grateful for their rescue.
The first one to fully emerge from his crystalline prison—a mountain of a man with scars that spoke of battles fought in forms both human and wolf—took one look around the chamber, assessed the situation with the efficiency of a career predator, and promptly tried to kill everyone present.
"Well," Kai observed from where Marcus was supporting him, his voice still rough from the preservation fluid, "this is going about as well as expected."
The enormous werewolf's claws raked through the air where Luna's head had been a moment before, missing only because she'd moved with the liquid grace of someone who'd survived several centuries by never being where her enemies expected.
"Territorial aggression," she diagnosed clinically, ducking another swipe. "Quite normal after extended stasis. They don't recognize friend from foe yet."
