“Come on,” Conan murmurs, throwing Elias’ arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get you to Marissa.”
As one of the elders, Marissa knows her way around healing better than the rest of us. Most injuries will be handled by the simple fact that shifters have enhanced healing abilities, but Marissa’s help will slow the blood flow so his system can catch up.
Once they’re away, I lead Graham over to a nearby log, but he fights me every step. His eyes are duller than normal as he blinks and gestures south. “Perimeter. Go. Your father—witches.”
They can’t. Theywouldn’t. The accord between Highridge Coven and us has been in place hundreds of years, and the annual meeting that ensures our deal remains intact happens tomorrow. After all this time, it makes little sense they’d break it. With Dad in potential danger, it’s not the time to question Graham on the logistics of coven thinking.
Gesturing towards Conan, who’s returning after dropping Elias with Marissa, I turn for the tree line and let the familiar and natural shift take over, transforming me from man to wolf.
Two sides, one body, and my wolf howls impatiently as my limbs stretch and morph, my skin itches from the quick growth of my dark fur coat, eyes turn sharper to gain better visibility through the darkness, and fingers lengthen into claws. Within seconds, my wolf streaks into the nighttime forest.
He’s me and I’m him; a joint partnership within one body. My memories, thoughts, and morals remain, exactly as his animal instincts do when in human form. It’s a matter of which mind is in control, and presently, it’s all him.
Nose to the ground, I follow Elias and Graham’s scents the way they came from.
The rustling of trees, branches, and fallen debris being crushed from a series of paws reaches me seconds before Conan and Xander catch up. Not sure of exactly what I’m running into, it’d be safer if they remained in camp, but with witches at the helm of Dad’s endangerment, their help may be needed too.
Trees blur with the speed I push my body to, and soon, we reach the edge of the forest that marks the territory we claimed for ourselves centuries ago. Without pausing, I break from the trees and come face to face with a nightmare.
Five witches, all encased in black. Black cloaks with hoods pulled up stand in a line, making the fur on the back of my neck rise. Witches claim to be servants of nature, but every tale depicts them as selfish beings who take whatever they want from Earth for their own gains.
A sniff reassures me they’re not from Highridge Coven, which means a war between our groups will not break out—again. At the same time, themnotbeing familiar is worrisome. Another coven shouldn’t have cause to attack; we stay away from the world beyond these mountains—witches, vampires, and humans alike.
Conan and Xander take my flank as I pace forward, scanning the line until finding Dad. A growl ruptures in my throat, echoed by the two beside me, even if I don’t understand what’s happening.
Black tendrils wrap my father’s body, causing low and pained whimpers to break from his mortal form. The proud ex-Alpha is bent forward, his face on the ground; a position no shifter deserves.
With a snarl, I lunge, seeing the five witches as enemies and not caring what they have to say or why they’re doing this. Dad is captive to their magick and Elias and Graham were injured; it’s enough to justify their deaths.
Xander and Conan also dart forward, each heading for an end of the line while I take the centremost witch, who, at the same instance, advances. She lifts her hood off, baring a face I don’t bother studying, seeing only one thing instead.
Red. The colour promising her death. She’ll be my first non-animal murder, and I’ll revel in it for my father’s sake.
She waves her hand through the air and abruptly, the three of us slam into an invisible force. Logic tells me it’s magick, but the wolf won’t be kept from his father. I slam into the wall, which shimmers silver on impact before settling invisible again.
The same witch steps up to her enchantment. She better enjoy her little show of power while she has it because once my teeth latch onto her neck, her death will drain her of it.
“It’s a barrier you’ll be unable to break, so give up. I’m here to talk, nothing more.” She tilts her head and long, black hair falls from her shoulder, melding with her cloak. Everything about this witch is dark, even her eyes which seem depthless as they flick over my form. “Howling isn’t in my wheelhouse, so ideally as human, if you’d please.”
For Dad.
My body shifts back to its mortal form; my glare now shining from human eyes rather than a wolf’s slits. Without the animal instincts driving me to attack and continue fighting, patience allows me to examine the line of witches.
The only one to speak so far ruffles her cloak until it circles her feet like some sort of dais. Past her shoulder, Dad’s managed to lift his head enough to regard me through a scrunched expression.
“You’re the reigning Alpha, correct?” She flicks her fingers at Dad. “As he’s entering retirement.”
The fact she knows intimate pack business greatly bothers me, but for the well-being of Dad, I simply jerk my chin. He stepped down some weeks ago, claiming I was long ready to rulethe pack so he can enter his elder years and relax. Without any other male challenging me, it’s been a peaceful transition.
Another smile, this one all teeth. “Good. So you’ll be motivated.” A finger abruptly flicks up, and as the tendrils tighten around Dad, a choking sound is yanked from him.
When I attempt to go for him, I’m once again blocked by her spell. “What are you doing to him?”
“That,” she, who I’ve taken to understand as the group’s leader, articulates, “is black magick. Darkness. Something a group of animals like yourselves probably haven’t encountered before. At present, your father is infused with it, drawing upon his waning strength to weaken his body, essentially aging him by every breath he takes. With it in his system, I imagine he has no more than thirty days of life left.”
Conan and Xander snap their teeth in warning while my gaze jerks to Dad, who seems too out of it to have overheard, or comprehend, what she claims is happening—ifshe’s telling the truth.
“Unless,”she continues with a considerable long look towards my friends, “you do us one small favour.” Every word is punched, spoken slowly and paced out—dramatic.
