by Callie Rose
To her credit, the witch has barely given them notice. That’s probably a good thing, since if she reacted to their obvious hostility, we could end up back in a fight like the one outside her cabin.
“Okay. What do we do?” I ask, turning back to her once I’m sure the men won’t attack.
“Give me your hands.” Gwen holds out her own hands, palms up.
The wolves all shift a few steps closer, and despite my worry that one of them will take a chunk out of Gwen’s arm, I’m grateful for their protective presence.
I place my hands in Gwen’s and scoot to the edge of my seat, my heart racing.
“What I’m going to do is use just a little of my own magic to put you in a trance,” the witch explains. “Don’t be frightened. You’ll be the one manipulating the bond, not me. All my magic will do is give you a push to a mental plane where you can travel through the link and into this other person’s mind. Do you understand?”
I nod and attempt to project to my mates that I’m confident and unconcerned, even as my fear bubbles beneath my skin along with my magic.
“I’ll guide you the whole way.” Gwen’s voice is low and steady. It might even be reassuring if I weren’t so terrified. “Ready?”
At my nod, black smoke begins to rise from her hands, curling up my arms like growing vines. It takes everything in me not to break away from her grip. I’ve been conditioned to fear witch magic ever since I learned it existed, and that’s never been so obvious as it is in this moment. I gave her my full permission to use her magic on me less than a minute ago, but now want to run for the hills.
“Steady,” Gwen murmurs, as if sensing my unease. “Close your eyes.”
I do as she says, entirely focused on the tickle of her magic sinking into my arms. I feel as if she’s reaching into the sigils cut into my skin, merging her magic with the magic that exists inside the bond between me and this nameless, faceless person.
“Deep breath in, deep breath out. Six times.”
Following her instructions, I think of all the times I’ve done breathing exercises to power through my fear and anxiety. I don’t even feel like that girl anymore—the girl who could be completely destroyed by her panic. I’ve stood up to angry shifters. I watched my uncle die. I fought a witch.
And now, here I am, about to do some serious magic with her help.
I can do this.
I have to.
“Sable, can you hear me?” Gwen’s voice comes from far away, distant and muffled.
“Yes.”
“Look around you. Can you see a dark tunnel?”
I didn’t realize until just this moment that the normal darkness behind my eyelids has adjusted and changed. I stand in a dim, hazy room that swirls with black smoke. An arched, open doorway leads away from the room, smoke lining the walls.
“Yes, I see it.”
“Walk down it.”
I hesitate, staring down the maw of the abyss. All of my nightmares where I’ve traveled down dark hallways or black caves have given me real fear of doing this. I swallow and take two deep breaths, reminding myself that this isn’t real. I’m not really here. My body is still seated firmly in Gwen’s kitchen chair, surrounded by my mates.
So I throw back my shoulders and take a step forward.
The tunnel stretches for what seems like miles, so black I can’t see my hand in front of my face. But I can feel the smoke swirling around me—the magic coating the tunnel and forging the link between me and this other person. I can’t tell how much time is passing here. Time seems meaningless now.
“See anything yet?” Gwen asks, just a distant whisper now.
“A light at the end,” I reply. I can’t tell if I’m really speaking or just thinking the words, but I hope she understands them. “I’m nearly there.”
The closer I get to the light, the more blinding it becomes. I shield my face as I leave the tunnel behind in a flash of brilliant illumination.
Then I’m no longer in my own consciousness. I’m inside someone else.
I am someone else.
A burly man with massive fists stands in front of me. As I try to orient myself, he rears back and throws a heavy punch at the face of a man tied to a chair. The wounded man cries out, his head whipping backward as knuckles crack against flesh. His eyes are swollen and bruised, and rivers of blood traverse his face from numerous injuries, but I recognize him immediately.
Lawson.
Oh my God, is the North Pack torturing him? Ridge would be furious if he knew about this. That’s not how the packs operate, and Ridge, of all my mates, isn’t one for needless violence or vengeance.
But then I raise a hand, and circular blades of magic fly out from my fingertips. They fling with deadly force at the man, and the magic slices through his torso as if I used a real knife to cut into his flesh. “Pathetic. You’re weak. It’s no wonder you ran away from your pack.”
Shit. I realize with growing horror that these aren’t wolves torturing Lawson. They’re witches.
“Lucky for us, you left shifter territory. That means you’re mine now.” My lips form the words, and a woman’s voice speaks coolly as the body I’m inhabiting leans over Lawson’s sagging form. “And you’re going to break eventually, wolf. You’re going to talk.”
More magic cuts through Lawson’s flesh, and he cries out, a strangled sound. The male witch steps in and uses his fists to pummel Ridge’s brother again, then the woman calls out, “Daniel, the shears, please.”
I don’t want to watch as a second man arrives with viciously sharp shears. The one who was hitting Lawson a moment ago seems carefully blank, almost bored. But this new man grins slightly, his eyes glinting with cruel glee. He doesn’t hesitate, stepping forward and snatching up the shifter’s hand before fitting the shears around one of his fingers between the first and second knuckles.
The crunch of bone and flesh as he snaps the shears closed is horrifying, and I wish I could press my eyes shut so I wouldn’t have to see it. But I’m not in control of the body I’m in, and the woman whose head I’m inhabiting doesn’t seem horrified by the sight before her.
She seems… satisfied.
Another finger is cut off, and I see Lawson’s body ripple as if he’s trying to shift. But he can’t. Something they did to him is stopping the magic of his wolf from completing the transformation.
The man named Daniel twists the shears viciously as he completes a third cut, and Lawson screams.
“I’ll talk!” His voice is ragged as he struggles to breathe through his pain. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He groans, a broken sound that makes me want to cry. “I’ll tell you everything. Please. Please stop. Please.”
The woman waves a hand at the two witch men, who dutifully walk away. Then she steps forward and puts a hand on Lawson’s shoulder. She doesn’t even cringe at the blood that soaks his shirt. “That’s a good dog. Now, I want to know all about the packs. But especially their protections. Tell me about those stolen sigils that mark the territory. Howl for me, wolf.”
Lawson begins to speak. Haltingly at first, as if he hurts too much to talk, but then the words come faster, more wild and desperate. He barely seems in his right mind anymore, and I wonder if she’s using more than just physical abuse and torture to get him to speak. Is her magic somehow creeping into his mind too?
However she managed to break him, Lawson doesn’t hold anything back. I know without having to be told that he’s spilling privileged information about the packs—secrets nobody should know, but especially not the witches.
“Sable, come back to me,” Gwen whispers in my head.
The sound of her voice startles me, breaking the connection of the bond, and I’m suddenly yanked out of the other woman’s body and thrown back into the tunnel. I run fast and far from the horrifying scene I just witnessed, racing down the tunnel away from the psychopathic bitch and her lackeys torturing Lawson.
Then my eyes fly open, and I find myself back in Gwen’s cabin.
Now that I’m back in my body, nausea rises up hard and fast, and I clap a hand over my mouth, turning away from Gwen and doubling over as bile rises up my throat. My stomach heaves, trying to force everything out of my body, but I manage to swallow back the urge to vomit.
My eyes water as I suck in deep breaths through my nose, still bent nearly double in the chair. Cold noses press against my face and shoulder as my mates gather as close to me as they possibly can.
“What did you see?” Gwen asks sharply, worry in her voice. “Did you find her?”
“Yes.” I peel my hand away from my mouth to let the word out, still fighting to control my emotions. My voice is raspy as I say, “Give me… give me a moment.”
Absolute silence fills the cabin for several heartbeats as I slowly gather myself. I want to just curl up in the fetal position and block everything out, but my mates need me. The packs need me. Denying that the kind of evil I just saw exists in the world won’t make it go away.
We have to face it.
We have to fight it.
Straightening slowly, I tell Gwen and my mates what I just saw, repeating everything I heard word for word. My voice shakes as I speak, and I can barely meet Ridge’s gaze as I tell them about the shears. My stomach pitches again, and tears burn my eyes.
It’s obvious Lawson found some way to break out of his confinement cell in the North Pack village, and then instead of hiding within the perimeter of shifter protections, he left the territory entirely. And now, the packs are in danger.
“She knows too much now,” I say in a rush. “She knows how to break through the packs’ defenses. We have to go back before they’re attacked. We have to warn them and prepare them.”
Ridge nods his lupine head and turns toward the other men to confer with them, a low whine spilling from his throat.
“What about the person to whom you’re bonded?” Gwen asks me. “Did you find anything else out about her? Any clues to her identity?”
“I don’t know. But she’s definitely a witch.” I clench my jaw, grimacing. “And a complete fucking psycho. I couldn’t see her face because I was inside her body, and neither of the men called her by name. She called one of the guys Daniel, but—”
Gwen’s face turns thunderous, and my voice cuts off. From the sudden shift in her demeanor, it’s clear my words have sparked some recognition.
“I know that woman.” She bares her teeth in an almost wolfish snarl. “I should’ve guessed it was her the moment you told us what you witnessed through her eyes. Her name is Cleopatra, and she’s the leader of the Montana coven. Daniel is one of her hitmen—muscle she uses to intimidate and attack her enemies.”
“The leader of the coven,” I repeat, shivering. “That’s who I’m bound to?”
“It appears so.” Gwen’s jaw is tight, her face revealing more emotion than it has since we arrived here. “And if that’s the case, I’m truly sorry. There isn’t a more vicious person on earth than that bitch. Cleo is the reason I have no coven anymore.”
She stands, the movement so abrupt that her chair scrapes harshly against the floorboards. Without saying a word, she crosses the room to the storage chest by her bed and pulls open the lid, then rustles around inside for several seconds before she pulls out a book.
When she turns back to face me, anger and determination burn in her eyes. I have a feeling it would be a very bad idea to ask what her history with Cleo is, but it’s clearly nothing good. Whatever happened between them, it was bad. And it was personal.
“This will help you.” Striding back to the table, she holds the book out toward me. “If your magic is linked to Cleo through the bond, you may never gain full control over it. But this will at least give you a fighting chance. Study this. Learn it. Master it.”
I accept the gift and stare down at the book’s worn leather cover, a thrill of both fear and excitement racing through me. I open it and flip through it a little, my gaze raking over page after page of etched sigils and their meanings. “This is about witch magic?”
“It is.” She nods, her expression still tinged with bitter anger. “It’s yours now. Keep it.”
Trystan lets out a low howl, and when my gaze snaps toward him, he swings his head toward the door. Ridge is shifting his weight restlessly, clearly anxious to get going.
They’re right. We can’t afford to waste a second.
Turning back to Gwen, I hug the book to my chest. “Thank you. Is there anything else you can tell me about Cleo?”
She grimaces. “If you mean ‘can you tell me what her weaknesses are,’ I’m afraid not. She’s an extraordinarily powerful witch, and if she has weaknesses, she kept them hidden from me. I can’t even tell you where to find her, since she uprooted the coven’s base several years after I left. Everything else I could tell you, you probably already know. She hates wolves. She’s ruthless. And she won’t stop until she succeeds in wiping them out.”
A shiver crawls through me at her words. I knew that was true of witches in general, but I didn’t realize until now how deeply the coven leader herself despises shifters.
Is that why the attacks on pack lands have gotten worse over the past few decades? Did witches always hate shifters, or is it because of Cleo’s vendetta?
“Thank you,” I say woodenly, standing up from the table. It feels strange to thank someone for delivering such terrifying news, but I’d rather know than not know.
“You must be careful, Sable,” Gwen warns as she accompanies us to the door. “Cleo is strong and clever. She’s more dangerous than you can possibly understand.”
“I’ll be careful.”
My promise feels paltry, and I clutch the book she gave me tighter, conflicting emotions raging in my chest.
On the one hand, I’m thrilled to have something that could actually teach me about the magic singing through my bones. But even so, it feels like a heavy weight in my arms, an anchor dragging me down. A responsibility I wish I didn’t have, along with this horrible link between me and Cleo.
I hate the book as much as I’m grateful to have it.
But I know I’ll need it. We’ve just found out how formidable our enemy is, so God knows I’ll need every bit of help I can get.
17
Sable
Standing in Gwen’s front yard, I slide my newly acquired spell book into my backpack along with my clothes, stripping down so I can shift to wolf form.
I catch a glimpse of Gwen’s pale face in the window as she watches me, a light of fascination burning in her eyes, and I flush, angling my nude body away from her prying gaze. I wonder if any part of her sees me the way my uncle saw me. Clearly, she’s not without enemies of her own, and if she sees my hybridization the same way Clint did, she might also think I’d be a formidable tool to have in her arsenal.
But it’s unfair of me to expect that of her. She fought us when we arrived because we’d infringed on her territory, not because she considers us enemies for being wolves. Gwen is a hermit, a mountain witch who seems most comfortable in her own area away from everybody else—witch and wolf alike. As far as I’ve seen, she isn’t our enemy, and she’s given me no reason to treat her as such.
She seems to be a sort of neutral player in all of this, unwilling to truly get involved. The only reason she helped us initially was to satisfy her curiosity about my nature, and the only reason she gave me the spell book is because she despises Cleo.
Once I’ve completed the shift and stand steadily on four paws, I glance back at the witch in the window.
Her expression is unreadable, though that gleam of interest is still there in her green eyes. But I don’t get the sense that she wants to use me for herself. And if she’s going to betray us down the road, there’s nothing we can do to stop that now—short of killing her in cold blood, and there’s no fucking way I’d do that.
I offer her a wolfish nod, and then fall into formation with my mates as we take off back the way we came.
It’s early afternoon, the hottest
part of the day, and the sun glares down on the mountains from high overhead. We pass in and out of shadows, cresting over hills and loping across valleys. We run at full speed, faster than my mates have ever pressed me before, until my muscles strain and my lungs burn. But I don’t complain. We are so very far away from pack territory, and we’re the only ones who know about Cleo and the knowledge she now has. I’ll run until I fall apart if it means we can reach the packs in time to stop a needless slaughter.
But the whole time I’m running, I replay my interaction with Gwen over and over in my head, questions burning through me.
Why did she leave her coven? What happened between her and Cleo? Why is she hidden so far in the mountains?
I hope like hell we can trust her, because she certainly seems like a witch with something to hide. She seemed genuine though, especially in her hatred of Cleo. Those two have a history I’m dying to know about, although at this rate, I’m not sure when—or if—I’ll ever see Gwen again. We’re racing headlong into what looks like war, and war has a tendency to keep people apart.
I want to trust her. But it’s hard to know who to trust, and witches have never been high on the list.
I’m so surprised by my own thought that I stumble over my paws and have to take a few uneven steps to get back into the rhythm of running, losing ground on my mates. Archer glances back over his pale blond shoulder and woofs at me, lagging behind just enough for me to catch up with him.
Check your prejudices, I remind myself. You’re part witch.
Sure, the packs have plenty of reason to hate and distrust most witches, but if my men thought that all witches were inherently evil, I’d probably be dead by now. They’ve accepted me despite my witch side, so I have to at least give Gwen the benefit of the doubt. I need to allow for the possibility that not all witches are bad. Just like my mates have had to learn with me.
I’m not bad. I know I’m not, even when my magic is trying to make me feel otherwise.
We stop at the Two-Tone River to drink and recuperate, if only for a few minutes, enough to keep us from collapsing. The sun is sinking into the forest ahead of us, and we’ll lose light soon, but there’s not a chance we’ll be stopping for very long.