Chapter 194: 194 Meeting Grove Werewolves

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194: Meeting Grove Werewolves 194: Meeting Grove Werewolves As if summoned by her name, Mrs.

Callahan appeared in the doorway, her silver hair catching the studio lights.

“The tea leaves were quite agitated tonight,” she said with a knowing smile.

“Eldergrove’s stirring, dear ones.

The old contracts are waking up.”

“Contracts?” Mishka asked, her Siren intuition prickling.

Mrs.

Callahan settled into a chair, her stage journal balanced on her lap.

“Clara’s notes mention them—agreements between the human families and the others.

Protection in exchange for patronage.

Art for sanctuary.

Your voice, Mishka, it’s strong enough to renew those bonds.”

The community center’s lights flickered, and through the windows, figures began emerging from the oak grove.

Tall, graceful silhouettes moved with predatory ease, their eyes reflecting the moonlight.

Bruce’s hand found Mishka’s, his skin warm despite the evening chill.

“There,” he said softly.

“My family.”

Mishka watched as five figures approached the community center, their movements fluid and purposeful.

Even in human form, she could sense the wildness beneath their composed exteriors—the same controlled power she’d learned to recognize in Bruce.

They wore elegant clothing that spoke of old money and older traditions: tailored coats, vintage jewelry that caught the light, shoes that made no sound on the gravel path.

“The woman in front,” Bruce murmured, “that’s Celeste, our matriarch.

She funded Clara’s first three galas.

The man beside her is Marcus—he carved the sculptures in the estate’s east wing.

The others are cousins, artists in their own right.”

Mrs.

Callahan rose, smoothing her skirt.

“I’ll make more tea.

This conversation requires proper hospitality.” She bustled toward the small kitchen in the center’s back room, leaving Mishka, Bruce, and Milla to face the approaching werewolves.

Celeste reached the door first, her silver hair braided with what looked like actual silver threads.

Her eyes—the same golden amber as Bruce’s when his nature surfaced—fixed on Mishka with intense curiosity.

“The Siren,” she said, her voice carrying the faint accent of old Toronto families.

“We heard Clara’s song.

It’s been too long.”

Marcus stepped forward, his sculptor’s hands adorned with rings that seemed to shift in the light.

“Your voice carries true power, young woman.

Not the pale imitation we’ve heard from others.

Bruce spoke of you, but hearing Clara’s song…” He trailed off, his expression thoughtful.

Milla pressed herself against the wall, her notebook forgotten, her eyes darting between the newcomers and Bruce.

The air in the room felt charged, like the moments before Mishka’s most powerful performances, when her Siren voice gathered strength.

“Mrs.

Callahan mentioned old contracts,” Mishka said, her voice steady despite her racing heart.

“Protection and patronage.

What does that mean for Eldergrove now?”

Celeste smiled, revealing teeth that were just slightly too sharp.

“It means, dear Siren, that you’ve awakened something that has slept since Clara’s death.

The estate needs a voice again—someone who can sing its stories, guard its secrets, bridge the worlds that exist here.”

Bruce’s grip on Mishka’s hand tightened protectively.

“She’s already done enough.

Lucinda’s gone, Ivan’s in custody—”

“Jean’s family was never the real threat,” Marcus interrupted, his sculptor’s eye studying the broken window that had been hastily boarded up.

“They were symptoms, not the disease.

Eldergrove has…

older problems.

Things that stir when the moon is full and the contracts grow weak.”

Mrs.

Callahan returned with a tea service that seemed far too elegant for the community center, as if she’d been preparing for this moment.

“The contracts aren’t just paper, dears.

They’re sung into being, renewed by voices like Mishka’s.

Clara did it for thirty years.”

Mishka felt the pendant warm against her throat, the music box’s melody humming faintly in her pocket.

“What happens if I say yes?

If I renew these contracts?”

Celeste’s smile grew warmer, more human.

“Then Eldergrove truly becomes yours to protect and cherish.

The werewolf families will fund your concerts, support your art, guard you as we’ve guarded this place for generations.

But more than that—your voice will help maintain the balance that keeps both our worlds safe.”

“And if I say no?” Mishka asked, though she could already feel the pull of the estate’s music, the way her Siren nature resonated with its ancient stones.

“Then the contracts fade,” Marcus said simply.

“And things that should stay hidden begin to surface.

Eldergrove has attracted more than just human attention lately.”

Through the windows, Mishka could see more figures emerging from the grove—younger werewolves, their eyes bright with curiosity.

The estate’s shadows seemed alive with purpose, as if the very ground waited for her decision.

Bruce turned to face her fully, his expression tender but serious.

“Whatever you choose, I’m with you.

Milan, Toronto, or here—wherever your voice takes us.”

Mishka looked around the room—at Milla’s eager face, Mrs.

Callahan’s knowing smile, the werewolf family waiting with patient grace, and finally at Bruce, whose love had already bridged two worlds.

The pendant at her throat pulsed with warmth, and she could hear it: the estate’s song, ancient and waiting, ready to weave her voice into its melody.

“I need to know everything first,” she said finally.

“About the contracts, the threats, what Clara really faced here.

Then I’ll decide.”

Celeste nodded approvingly.

“Wise.

Then let us begin with the truth about Eldergrove, and why your voice is the key to keeping its secrets safe.”

Outside, the oak grove rustled with anticipation, and somewhere in the distance, Julian’s house glowed with warm orange light from whatever classic film he was enjoying, blissfully unaware that his werewolf family was about to reveal centuries of hidden history to Toronto’s newest Siren.

Two hours later, after Celeste and her family had departed with promises to return the following evening for the full revelation, Mishka sat in her apartment, staring at her phone.

The weight of the estate’s secrets pressed against her chest, and she found herself craving the familiar comfort of an old friend’s voice.

She scrolled to Gillian’s contact, her finger hovering over the call button.

Gillian Reeves—her closest friend from their small hometown of Millbrook, the one person who knew about her Siren abilities but had never made her feel like a freak for them.

They’d shared everything growing up: first crushes, college anxieties, career dreams.

Everything except this new world of werewolves and ancient contracts.

The phone rang twice before Gillian’s warm laugh filled the line.

“Mishka Morrison!

Don’t tell me you’re calling this late because you need relationship advice about your mysterious fashion designer boyfriend.”

Despite everything, Mishka smiled.

“Actually, it’s more complicated than that.

How’s your week?

Still dealing with those impossible clients at the marketing firm?”

“Always.

Had a client today who wanted their dog food commercial to feel ‘more artisanal and handcrafted.’ I suggested we add some indie folk music and sepia filters.” Gillian’s voice brightened.

“But enough about my corporate circus.

You sound weird.

What’s going on up there in the big city?”

Mishka curled up on her couch, the pendant still warm against her skin.

How could she even begin to explain Lucinda’s attack, Ivan’s bombs, the howl that had answered her song?

“Remember how you always said I’d end up in some dramatic story that was too crazy to be real?”

“Oh no.

What happened?

Is Bruce okay?

Are you okay?”

“We’re fine, but…” Mishka picked at the throw pillow, searching for words.

“Gil, what would you say if I told you I’d gotten mixed up with some very old, very wealthy families here?

The kind with secrets that go back generations?”

There was a pause, then Gillian’s voice turned serious.

“I’d say that sounds exactly like the kind of trouble you’d stumble into.

Rich people problems are the worst kind—all that money just makes their drama more expensive.

What kind of secrets are we talking about?”

Mishka felt the familiar ache of not being able to share everything with her oldest friend.

“The kind where they’ve been protecting a historic estate for decades, and now they want me to be part of it.

My voice, specifically.

They think I can help preserve something important.”

“Your Siren voice?” Gillian’s tone shifted to that protective edge Mishka remembered from high school, when Gil had stood up to anyone who called Mishka’s abilities weird.

“Mishka, please tell me you’re not getting manipulated by some rich weirdos who want to use your gift for their own agenda.”

“It’s not like that,” Mishka said quickly.

“Bruce is one of them, and you know how I feel about him.

These people—they’re artists, Gil.

Composers, sculptors, designers.

They’ve been funding art and music for generations.

They want to support my career, not exploit it.”

Gillian was quiet for a moment, and Mishka could picture her friend’s expression—the same thoughtful frown she’d worn when helping Mishka navigate college auditions.

“Okay, but what’s the catch?

Because with families that old and that wealthy, there’s always a catch.”

Mishka’s throat tightened.

The catch was that they transformed under the full moon, that they’d been guardians of supernatural secrets, that her voice could call them from the shadows.

“The catch is that I’d be committed to this place, this community.

It’s a big responsibility.”

“Bigger than your VoltCore job?

Because you love that work.”

“I could keep both,” Mishka said, though she wasn’t entirely sure how that would work with midnight werewolf meetings and ancient estate contracts.

“Gil, I need your honest opinion.

You’ve known me longer than anyone.

Do you think I’m the kind of person who can handle being part of something…

ancestral?

Traditional?

With all these expectations?”

Gillian’s laugh was immediate and warm.

“Mishka, you made our entire high school choir sound better just by being in it.

You turned that awful regional competition into something magical.

You’ve been handling expectations your whole life—you just usually exceed them.” Her voice softened.

“But what does your gut tell you?

Not your Siren instincts, just…

you.

Mishka Morrison from Millbrook, who used to practice scales in the barn because she was afraid of being too loud in the house.”

The memory made Mishka smile despite her nerves.

Those summer afternoons in the old barn, her voice soaring among the dust motes and hay bales, Gillian sitting cross-legged on a bale, insisting that Mishka’s gift was meant for bigger stages.

“My gut says it feels right.

Like I’ve been moving toward this without knowing it.”

“Then there’s your answer,” Gillian said firmly.

“But promise me something—if these fancy families start treating you like a performing seal instead of a person, you call me.

I’ll drive up there and remind them that small-town girls aren’t pushovers.”

Mishka laughed, the first genuine laugh she’d had since the attack.

“I promise.

And Gil?

Thanks for not asking too many questions.”

“I trust you to tell me what I need to know when I need to know it,” Gillian replied.

“Just…

be careful with your heart, okay?

Super-rich families have a way of making people feel special right up until they don’t need them anymore.”

After they hung up, Mishka sat in the quiet of her apartment, Gillian’s words echoing in her mind.

Her friend’s advice had always been grounded in love and practicality—the perfect balance for someone about to navigate a world where ancient werewolf contracts were renewed through song.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Bruce: Family meeting went well.

Celeste wants to show you Clara’s original contract tomorrow night.

Are you ready?

Mishka typed back: Ready as I’ll ever be.

Gillian reminded me that I’ve been handling impossible situations my whole life.

Smart friend, Bruce replied.

Sleep well, love.

Tomorrow changes everything.

Mishka set the phone aside and reached for the music box, letting its melody fill the apartment.

Outside her window, Toronto sprawled beneath the stars, unaware that in its shadows, an ancient pact between human and werewolf was about to be renewed by a Siren’s voice.

And somewhere in Millbrook, Gillian was probably making notes in her planner to check on her best friend in a few days, her protective instincts as sharp as ever despite not knowing the supernatural truth.

The pendant grew warm against Mishka’s throat as she hummed along with the music box, her voice already practicing for tomorrow’s song that would bind her fate to Eldergrove’s ancient mysteries.