Even the fake human head which was mounted on the wall, symbolic of shifters’ intolerance of the hunters who had once overrun the area, wore a flashing red light on its nose, reminiscent of Rudolph the Reindeer. Various locals were gathered about, having a pint and chatting about their plans for family gatherings and for avoiding them. Aria sat alone at the bar, her eyes occasionally darting to the entrance. Somehow she hoped to see Lucian, though she felt quite certain that he’d meant it when he said that he never went into Wolf Rock. The bartender, Cam, was one of the few norms around; it seemed that the pub catered mainly to shifters. “So you were on the ski hill today,” he said to Aria, looking at the tag which was attached to her jacket’s zipper. “And how was it?” “The skiing wasn’t great. But the rest was interesting,” she said, smiling. “I met someone up there, on the hill.”
