werewolf series fancasts

women of the otherworld fancast + tumblr text posts ↪ nick sorrentino edition

women of the otherworld fancast + tumblr text posts ↪ paige winterbourne edition

women of the otherworld fancast + tumblr text posts ↪ elena michaels edition

women of the otherworld fancast + tumblr text posts ↪ lucas cortez edition

women of the otherworld fancast + tumblr text posts ↪ karl marsten edition

women of the otherworld fancast + tumblr text posts ↪ jeremy + clay & elena edition

women of the otherworld fancast + tumblr text posts ↪ jeremy danvers edition

women of the otherworld fancast + tumblr text posts

A woman set a book down on a table and stood from an armchair that sat nearly hidden toward the back of the parlor, near a set of bookshelves. She was pale, cold, dead. No heartbeat. I couldn't guess her actual age, of course. She looked about thirty, in her prime and haughty. Her brunette hair was drawn back into a knot at the nape of her neck; her face was round, the lines of her lips hard, her gaze dark and steady. She wore a wine-colored dress suit with a short, tailored jacket and a calf-length, flowing skirt—a feminine-looking outfit that brought to mind Ingrid Bergman or Grace Kelly. I decided she wasn't Victorian. She was older, much older. She had a gaze that looked across centuries with disdain. The present was only ever a stepping-off point for the really old ones. The oldest vampire I'd ever met was probably around three hundred years old. I couldn't be sure—it was rude to ask—but I bet this woman was older.

A sandy-haired young man with a nondescript face held a plastic tray loaded with two plastic-wrapped sub sandwiches, a pair of styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, and a dark blue winter jacket. Maybe it was the food, but it occurred to me that if Bran looked that much like the cliché of a delivery boy, it was probably on purpose. He liked to be unobtrusive Bran is scary. He's a little psychic—at least that's what he says if you ask. What that means is that he can talk to any werewolf he knows, mind to mind. That's why Charles was able to be his spokesperson out in the woods. Bran uses that ability, among others, to control the North American packs. He claims it is all one way, that he can make people hear him but not the other way around.

Honey had lost weight since her husband’s death, and she hadn’t been fat to begin with. She’d cut her honey-colored hair into a severe style that framed her face with its newly hollowed cheekbones. With that and her body reduced to muscle and bone, she should have looked hard, but instead she looked fragile.

She laughed, and I realized finally what it was that bothered me. There was something off about her expressions and her gestures, as if she were only aping humans. As if, without us here to perform for, she would not appear human at all. She had everything almost right. Her heart beat, she breathed regularly. Her skin was flushed slightly, like a person who has just finished walking in the cold. But her smiles were just slightly wrong: coming too late or too early. Her imitation of a human was very close, but not quite close enough to be real—and that small difference was giving me the creeps.

My whole life I’d been an outsider: first a coyote raised in a pack of werewolves, then a supernatural outsider in my mother’s mundane household, finally an outsider who had too many secrets to really have friends. I was good at appearing to fit in, so no one really took notice of me.

Tad walked out from behind Adam—and he looked a little odd. The stick-out ears that had always given him an almost-comical appearance were now pointed, the bones of his face subtly rearranged to beauty as real and as human as Adam’s. His eyes … were not human at all: polished silver with a cat’s-eye pupil of purple. He was a little taller than usual, a little buffer, a little more graceful, and a lot scarier. I wasn’t used to thinking of Tad as being scary.

And so I reinvented myself. Zoe Takano, cat burglar extraordinaire. The always calm, always cool Zen master of vampirism. Fun, good-natured, and easygoing. If you need someone to liven up a party, I’m your girl. To help you in a fight? Not so much. That’s the problem with swearing off the dark stuff. Like an alcoholic, I’m only one good fight away from losing control. It’s happened before and it was a long, ugly road to recovery. I can’t travel that route again. I might not find my way back.

He signed off and took a deep breath. God, he couldn’t believe he’d done that. He didn’t even want to imagine what Antonio was thinking right now. Shaking his head, seeing Nick backsliding, all the hopes he’d built up in the last couple of years, seeing his son finally growing up and playing a role. Trying not to feel a pang of disappointment. Telling himself it was a one-time slip . . . and knowing it almost certainly wasn’t. Nick reverting to being Nick. As immature and unreliable as ever. That settled it. No more messing around. Go to lunch and do his duty, then come back and do his other duty.

“Karl.” Jeremy’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it stopped the other man short.