And the snow found every gap in her clothing, melting against her skin before refreezing until she felt like she was wearing ice instead of fabric.
Something shifted in the ferals’ body language. Subtle at first—a head coming up, nostrils flaring. Then the loose formation tightened until she could smell their wet-dog stink mixing with blood and sweat.
Tank whirled around, eyes narrowing. The Leader’s hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into claws. Even Scarface’s grip changed, becoming less focused on her and more... distracted.
Oh shit.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
She concentrated on placing each foot carefully on the slippery ground. The snow muffled everything, creating this weird silence that made every scrape of boot on rock sound too loud.
White exploded from the storm.
The feral on her right, lean and with pink scars across his neck, was there one second. Gone the next. Just... yanked sideways into the blizzard with nothing but a grunt.
The remaining ferals spun toward the sound, but whatever had taken him was already gone. For a heartbeat, nobody moved.
A scream cut through the wind. High. Terrified.
Then it cut off.
“Fan out,” the Leader snarled, but Tank was already pushing toward where their packmate had vanished.
They found him twenty yards away.
Holy fuck. She stood there, just blinking as she tried to work out what?—
He was folded against a boulder like someone had tried to make origami out of his body. His head sat at an angle that made her stomach heave. Something had crushed his throat, and blood pooled on the rock.
The Leader’s lips pulled back from his teeth, a growl rumbling in his chest that she felt more than heard. His eyes swept the treeline, searching.
“Move.” The word came out sharp. “Now.”
They climbed faster. The pace was brutal, and her leg screamed with every step, but Scarface’s grip kept her upright when her strength gave out. Snow fell harder, fat flakes that stuck to her eyelashes and cut visibility to almost nothing.
Scarface stumbled next to her, and she glanced sideways. Her eyes widened at the paleness of his skin. He looked awful. The cracks in his black plating had spread into a web of fissures, leaking rust-colored blood, and his breath came in quick white puffs. His fingers shook against her arm even as his grip stayed firm.
The Leader noticed too. His eyes narrowed.
“You can’t carry her.” Matter-of-fact. Cold. “Should let me have her.”
“Draanth you,” Scarface snarled, showing every razor-sharp tooth he had.
Tank shifted position, sliding between them. The message was clear: survival first, pissing contest later.
The next attack came from behind.
The feral behind them disappeared backward with just the scrape of boots on ice and a sharp intake of breath. Tank whirled, charging through the snow, but found only churned ground and drag marks leading downslope.
A scream filled the air. It was worse than the first. Raw terror filled the air for long seconds, before cutting off with a wet gurgle.
Ice surged through her veins.
Whatever was hunting them had just taken victim number two. And they still hadn’t seen it.
They found the body at the bottom of a ravine, skull caved in by a single blow. It was surgical. Precise. Not the wild savagery of a blood-mad feral, but controlled violence from something that knew exactly how to kill. Blood sprayed across the ice in an arc that would’ve been artistic if it wasn’t, you know, blood.
The Leader’s jaw went tight. Tank looked rattled, his usual stone face cracking around the edges.
