Page 57 of The Wolf Prince

A few snakes.

Toads.

One Witch in eighteenth-century Massachusetts apparently had a ferret named Bartholomew.

Good for her.

But so far, no Wolves.

I reach for another book.

“Come on.”

There has to be something. Maybe Wolf familiars are rare.

Really rare. Extremely rare.

So rare that no one has bothered writing about them in the last four centuries.

Okay.

That’s not encouraging. But there's something between us.

I know there is.

The magic I feel when I touch him isn't imaginary. Neither is the way he seems to understand me.

Or the way I know when he's near.

Or the completely ridiculous happiness I feel every time I see him.

Maybe he's my familiar. Maybe that's why I feel this way about him. Maybe I've finally found the magical companion I was supposed to have all along.

The idea is considerably easier to accept than the alternative.

Which is that I've become emotionally attached to a random Wolf who lives in the woods and raids me for chocolate.

“Hey.”

I jump.

“Shit!”

Dora drops into the chair across from me.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

Her eyes move around the table.

Books everywhere.

Floating scroll.

Open grimoire.

The enormous gold letters FAMILIARS AND THEIR WITCHES: A COMPREHENSIVE HISTORY directly in front of me.