Free Wicked Circle by Linda Robertson

Renaldo said. “Running live via satellite to the Zvonul. Allow me to lead so you don’t disrupt the confirmation meeting?”
    “Of course.” Johnny had to prove to the Zvonul that he was the Domn Lup, and though they’d sent the Rege to confirm him, the Rege was now dead. It appeared that the Zvonul were moving forward in spite of the loss of their head honcho.
    “Remain quiet when we enter,” he added.
    George and I followed.
    Inside, a throng of bodies stood between us and the corner, wherebright lights were illuminating the dingy block wall. Some of the rooms, I’d learned, still had the old steel panels with the piping underneath that had once contained coolant. In this room, all of that had been discarded. Mobile work lights were the only light source in the room, but they had wattage to spare.
    Three cameras were also aimed at the corner, and the red lights atop them meant that they were broadcasting.
    A howl erupted from the corner and resonated off the block walls so loudly that I covered my ears. Renaldo clasped me by the arm, more gently this time, and led me through the throng to the front. Gregor, the head of the Omori—the Zvonul’s version of the Secret Service—adjusted his bulk to give me a spot.
    In front of me a large, familiar black wolf paced. The animal sniffed in my direction, blinking as if the bright lights made it hard to see the crowd.
    But this was not the wolf I’d seen before. The fur was still jet-black, and the size and conformation were the same visually, but he
felt
different. Power continuously radiated from the beast to the point that I wouldn’t have been surprised if sparks shot off of him.
    When Eris had released him from the bonds she’d placed upon him long ago, I’d been aware he was different. He’d returned to Cleveland before I’d been able to get a real sense of the “new” him. Now, all the power that had been locked away blazed around him like a nimbus only my core could feel, completing him in a way I hadn’t previously realized had been lacking.
    Sideways to the camera, the wolf stilled and the transformation reversed. In under a minute Johnny crouched, naked, before us all.
    He was on his fingertips and toes, his knees an inch from the floor. His body, lean and muscular, was beautiful. In that position he rolled one shoulder, then the other. He twisted his neck side to side and arched his back. I could see every muscle ripple, and then he stood, his thighs flexing as he assumed a square-shouldered stance and faced the camera.
    I felt more in awe of him than I’d ever felt before.
    Power radiated from him still. It was heady and invigorating, with a touch of recklessness. It was unreservedly masculine.
    He was unquestionably a power-equal to Menessos, in his own unique way.
    He said, “I am your Domn Lup.”
    Something flickered beneath the camera lens, and Johnny’s focus dropped a few inches to see it. On the far side of the room, a larger screen also flickered. I hadn’t noticed it before because of all the bodies in the way. The whir of a motor sounded as the screen mechanically lifted so those in the back could see it as well.
    The screen was a field of black with a crowned wolf rampant in two shades of red: one the bright color of fresh blood, the other darker. The two shades of red meant not only energy, but vigor; not only strength, power, and determination, but leadership and courage. The wolf had his claws out, holding a shield divided into eight triangles of either dark blue or gold. Emblazoned on the shield was a silver and black helmet with spikes rising from its crown.
    The crowned rampant wolf was the symbol of the Zvonul; the shield was indicative of the local den. Each pack had its own coat of arms.
    The screen faded, showing an array of seating. One grand throne was elevated; other thrones were arranged to either side of it in three rows of five. A short pillar loomed in the foreground; atop it sat a wooden box that appeared to have a