The Court of Session on Parliament Square was Edinburgh's legal heart, a building where centuries of argument had worn the stone steps smooth and where the air itself smelled of precedent and ambition. Margaret Hughes climbed those steps on a Tuesday morning in October, her briefcase heavy with motions and her mind heavier with the knowledge that today's opponent was someone new.
Benjamin Carter.
She had heard the name, of course. Everyone in Edinburgh's legal circle had. Carter & Vale was a boutique firm with an aggressive reputation and a client list that read like a Who's Who of Scottish commerce. But they rarely crossed paths. Maggie's practice was smaller, more personal—family law, property disputes, the kind of cases that kept her in courtrooms rather than boardrooms.
This case was different.
The dispute centered on a parcel of land near Whitemoor, forty-three acres of forest and underground cave systems that bordered pack territory. The plaintiffs were a consortium of local landowners claiming adverse possession. The defendant was a shell company called Aethon Biomedical Holdings, represented by Benjamin Carter.
Maggie represented the landowners.
She had taken the case pro bono, drawn by the injustice of a corporate entity swallowing traditional lands with legal trickery. But as she settled into her chair at the counsel table, she wondered if she had underestimated the opposition.
Benjamin Carter entered the courtroom like a man who had been born there.
He was tall, lean, with silver threading his dark hair and the kind of quiet confidence that came from winning more cases than he had lost. His suit was impeccable—charcoal grey, a subtle pinstripe—but he wore it without ostentation. When his eyes found Maggie across the room, he nodded once, a small acknowledgment that was neither warm nor cold.
Professional.
Maggie liked that.
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The hearing lasted three hours.
Maggie presented first, her arguments crisp and methodical. She dismantled Aethon's procedural objections one by one, citing case law that stretched back to the nineteenth century, her voice steady and unflinching. The judge, an elderly woman with the patience of a glacier, listened without interruption.
Then Benjamin rose.
And Maggie understood why he had the reputation he did.
He didn't argue. He explained. He took the tangled mess of property law and corporate ownership and wove it into a narrative so clear, so compelling, that even Maggie found herself nodding along. His voice was calm, almost gentle, but beneath it lay an iron logic that bent facts to his will without ever seeming to strain.
When he finished, the judge asked a single question: "Counselor, are you prepared to discuss settlement?"
Benjamin glanced at Maggie. "If opposing counsel is amenable."
Maggie met his gaze. "I'm always amenable to a fair resolution, Your Honor."
The judge set a mediation date for the following week. As the courtroom emptied, Maggie gathered her papers, aware of Benjamin approaching her table.
"You're good," he said without preamble.
Maggie looked up. "I know."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, then something warmer—amusement, maybe, or appreciation. "Most people say thank you."
"Most people are fishing for compliments." Maggie closed her briefcase. "You're good too. Which means this case is going to be a problem for both of us."
Benjamin's smile was small but genuine. "Is that an invitation to settle out of court?"
"It's an observation. But since you mentioned it—" She pulled a business card from her pocket. "There's a pub on Rose Street. The Abbotsford. Drinks are reasonable and the noise level is low enough for actual conversation."
Benjamin took the card, studying it as if it were a legal document. "Is this a professional meeting or something else?"
Maggie should have said professional. She should have kept the distance that had protected her for five years, ever since Gareth had shattered her trust with his slow, cowardly retreat into Simone's arms.
Instead, she said, "I'll know when I get there."
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The Abbotsford was nearly empty at five o'clock, the after-work crowd not yet arrived. Maggie had chosen a table in the back, away from the windows, where the amber light from the wall sconces softened the edges of the room.
Benjamin arrived ten minutes late, a paperback in his hand. "I brought reading material in case you stood me up."
"I don't stand people up. I cancel in advance like a professional."
He laughed—a real laugh, unexpected and warm—and sat across from her. He ordered a whisky, neat. Maggie asked for the same.
They talked about the case first, circling each other with the caution of lawyers who knew that every word might become evidence. Maggie laid out her clients' position. Benjamin countered with Aethon's. Neither gave ground, but neither seemed to want to.
Then the conversation shifted.
Benjamin asked about her background, and Maggie found herself answering more honestly than she intended. She told him about growing up in the Borders, about her father's death when she was nineteen, about the法律 degree she had pursued because it was the only thing that made sense when everything else had fallen apart.
She did not tell him about Gareth. She did not tell him about the marriage that had crumbled into silence and suspicion, about the years she had spent wondering what she had done wrong before realizing that the fault was not hers but his.
Benjamin listened. When she finished, he said, "You're careful with your answers."
"I'm a lawyer."
"You're a woman who's been hurt." He held up a hand before she could respond. "I'm not prying. I'm just saying—I recognize the signs. I've been hurt too."
Maggie studied him. "How?"
"Does it matter?"
"Maybe."
Benjamin turned his glass in his hands, the whisky catching the light. "My wife died six years ago. Cancer. Pancreatic. It was fast—three months from diagnosis to the end. Fast enough that I didn't have time to say goodbye properly. Slow enough that I watched her disappear piece by piece."
Maggie's throat tightened. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not telling you this for sympathy. I'm telling you because—" He met her eyes. "Because I've spent six years being careful. Being safe. And I'm tired of it."
The silence between them was not uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who recognized something familiar in each other, something that did not require explanation.
Maggie raised her glass. "To being tired of being careful."
Benjamin touched his glass to hers. "To being tired."
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The next morning, Maggie's phone buzzed while she was still in bed.
She expected a client or a court clerk. Instead, the caller ID showed a name she had saved only hours ago: Benjamin Carter.
"Ms. Hughes," he said, his voice clipped and professional, the warmth of the pub gone like a dream. "I'm sorry to call so early. But I've just received discovery from my client. I think you need to see it."
Maggie sat up. "What is it?"
"A chemical supplier invoice. The materials listed are… unusual." A pause. "And the delivery address is the property in our lawsuit."
Maggie's mind raced. Chemical suppliers. Unusual materials. A property that bordered pack territory.
"Can you send it to me?"
"I already have. Check your email." Another pause, longer this time. "Maggie—I don't know what this case is really about. But I'm starting to think it's not about land."
Maggie opened her laptop, pulled up the email. The invoice was dated six months ago, addressed to Aethon Biomedical Holdings at the Whitemoor property. The chemical listed was one she didn't recognize: Isopropyl-2-(4-fluorophenyl)-2-oxoacetate precursor.
But beneath it, in handwritten notes, someone had scrawled a different name.
Wolfsbane-722.
Maggie's blood turned to ice.
She knew that name. James Wilson had mentioned it in passing months ago, during a conversation about the synthetic pheromone that was destabilizing pack territories across Scotland. A chemical engineered to mask wolf scent, to confuse tracking, to allow predators to move undetected.
And it was being delivered to the property Benjamin Carter was defending.
"Benjamin," she said slowly, "who is your client?"
"Aethon Biomedical. A shell company, as far as I can tell. I've never met anyone from the organization. All communications go through an intermediary."
"And you've never thought to question that?"
"I'm a lawyer, Maggie. My job is to represent my client, not to investigate them." He hesitated. "Until now."
Maggie closed her laptop, her mind already turning. "We need to meet. Somewhere private. Somewhere we can talk without being overheard."
"The usual place?"
"No." She thought of her house in Morningside, the small Victorian terrace where she had rebuilt her life after Gareth. It was private. It was secure. And it was hers alone. "My house. I'll send you the address."
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An hour later, Benjamin Carter stood in Maggie's kitchen, the invoice spread across her table, his expression grim.
"This is connected to something bigger than a property dispute," he said. "Isn't it?"
Maggie poured two cups of coffee, her hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her. "Yes."
"How much bigger?"
She looked at him—this man she had met only yesterday, this man who had lost his wife and rebuilt himself into something steady and strong. She had no reason to trust him. Every instinct she had developed since Gareth's betrayal told her to keep him at arm's length.
But the invoice on her table changed things.
"I'm going to tell you something," she said carefully, "that will sound insane. And when I'm done, you can walk out that door and pretend we never had this conversation. No judgment. No hard feelings."
Benjamin's eyes held hers. "Try me."
Maggie took a breath.
And she told him about werewolves.
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To be continued...