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In the end that conversation with Peter had never happened, it wasn’t needed. Gwyn had appeared grabbed them both by the scruff of the neck and dumped them on horses.
His side trip to Poland had proved interesting though, he’d come back with the metaphorical keys to the Gajos library. A library that was much like the one at Alexandra in that it was something everyone knew existed but no one really sure what it held. Unfortunately, the job of Gajos historian it seemed also came with being mediator, judge, jury, and executioner for almost the whole of the Hunter community.
Not something he’d asked for or wanted. Though the parting shot of the fading previous, probably fae, historian had been ‘it was about time there were wolves in the Gajos clan again’.
Not that that had been suspicious in the slightest. Nor was it something he had any intention of telling Peter just yet. And yes, he was ignoring the thought that he should tell Peter anything at all. He was still debating if he should even tell his Alpha about the new job he seemed to have acquired.
Within the blink of an eye he found himself with what could only be described as the most gruesome hunt he’d ever seen. Not that he’d seen many, more just pictures and paintings of the fox hunts they held in the UK.
Most of the horses looked like the thestrals of Harry Potter fame only more gaunt and minus the wings. Some looked to be real horses until you got close and could feel the decay coming off them. The dogs wondering about, weaving in and out of legs, were much like Hound all white fur and red tips. He knew Hound was around somewhere as it was something he could feel under his sternum buried among his pack bonds. Bonds that seemed to be brighter, more alive since he returned from Poland.
Most of the riders aside from himself and Peter were indistinct. But if he turned his head sideways and squinted he would have sworn he’d seen someone or something that might have been Deucalion.
“Looks like a child might have called down the hunt and those idiot Riders answered it…” Gwyn’s voice echoed in his head, it wasn’t hard to hear his anger even if the voice carried just enough of Winter's bitter winds to send a shiver down his spine.
“… And I'm done with them.”
He felt that one single needle point of ice that the Ghost Riders had left, the one he'd buried deep inside himself, stretching out as a fine thread as Gwyn pulled on it. It wasn't hard to see similar threads from the other riders shining blue under the moonlight as Gwyn twisted them together round his fist forcing them all to ride with him.
The battle that followed was all about vengeance, all about revenge for pain he and Peter had suffered at the Rider’s hands and both he and Peter were masters at revenge. A battle that would have left swathes of blood in its wake had the Hunt or the Riders actually been able to bleed.
One that finished with nothing but the Riders dust under horses hooves. Gwyn receiving the hunt back until such a time that a replacement could be found for the Americas.
With Gwyn muttering in the back of his brain about never having time to rest he found himself unceremoniously dumped back in Peter’s office, which was disconcerting to say the least
“Well that was interesting.”
Peter as ever was the master of understatement.