Gregor adjusts his aim. He’s going to finish us both.
Then the night breaks open.
AWOOOOO-ROOOOO!
It’s not one howl. It’s twenty or more. Deep, resonant, thunderous howls coming from the south. Not the desperate cries of my beleaguered pack, but the fresh, aggressive roar of reinforcements.
Gregor flinches, looking toward the canal.
Shapes burst from the treeline. Massive wolves. Grey, brown, russet.
Leading them is a man in human form, running with a machete in each hand. He’s older than me, scarred, with eyes like polished granite.
Alpha LeBlanc. The Houma Pack. Fortunately, he came. Remy reached out to him days ago secretly as a last minute gamble. There was no reply but he’s here now.
He hates Gregor. He hates Hunters more than he hates anything in this world.
"Clear the field!" LeBlanc roars, diving into the fray.
His wolves hit Gregor’s line like a tidal wave. The Hunters, focused on grinding us down, aren't ready for a flank attack. The screams change from wolf to human.
"Go!" Remy shouts, hauling me up.
Miranda is there. She’s at my other side, her shoulder wedged under my armpit. She’s small, but she’s strong. She smells of gunpowder and blood.
"I got him," she pants, her face inches from mine. Her eyes are wild, terrified. "I got you, Jax."
They drag me away from the fight. Away from the cabin.
We slide down the embankment to the water. A small skiff is hidden in the reeds—an emergency extraction boat.
They dump me into the bottom of the aluminum hull. I hit the metal hard, crying out as the impact jostles the silver in my veins.
Miranda jumps in beside me. Remy shoves the boat off, jumping in the back and ripping the cord on the motor. It sputters, then catches.
We shoot out into the dark water, leaving the chaos of the floodlights behind.
The boat bounces over the chop. Every impact sends a fresh wave of nausea through me. I’m cold. So cold. My teeth are chattering so hard I think they might crack.
"Jax, stay with me," Miranda pleads. She’s ripping the hem of her shirt—the flannel I gave her. She presses the cloth against the wound in my flank.
"Hurts," I grind out.
"I know. I know." Her hands are trembling, but she keeps pressure. "We have to get the bullet out."
"It ain't... a bullet," I whisper, my vision tunneling. "Liquid. Glass... broke inside."
She pales, her face looking ghostly in the moonlight. "Liquid silver?"
"Poison."
Remy steers us deep into the trackless marsh, navigating by instinct. The sounds of the battle fade, replaced by the roar of the engine and the rushing of blood in my ears.
"Where are we going?" Miranda shouts over the motor.
"Elder Boudreaux’s fishing shack," Remy calls back, his face grim, clutching his own bleeding shoulder. "It’s off the grid. Iron-lined. He told me to drag your asses there if it gets worse. It’s safe… for now."
I look up at Miranda. She’s leaning over me, shielding my face from the spray. Her hair is a mess, her clothes are ruined, and she has blood smeared across her cheekbone.
