Jewels of Clay

Desperation drove me to insanity. It’s the only reason I can give for my quest to be admitted into the magic Conclave. If I hadn’t been facing the repossession of my grandmother’s home, with zero career prospects on the horizon, and flat broke, I wouldn’t have ended up in a werewolf camp facing my almost-assured destruction. Yet here we are. In order to prove my—and my species'—worth to the Conclave, I entered into a magic Perception contract with the surliest and frustratingly hot of the pack’s beta wolves. He wants me to complete some specially designed—ahem, impossible—trials to prove my worth and if I fall short? Well, let’s just say, I don’t get to go back to my life knowing I tried my best. Nope. He gets to kill me the second he perceives me unworthy. My dead Gram's Magic 8-Ball would say: Outlook not so good. If I can’t use my gnome craftiness—yeah, I said gnome and no, I don’t have a pointy red hat. It's a beanie—my epitaph will read HERE LIES TERRA. SHE DIED DROOLING OVER A WOLFHOLE WITH PURPLE EYES AND INSANE ABS. AT LEAST THE VIEW WAS GOOD ON THE WAY OUT.