And I am the gears.
29
JAX
The sound of her howl doesn't just echo in the trees; it vibrates in the marrow of my bones.
I am standing amidst the wreckage of the Hunter squad, my fur matted with blood that isn't mine, my chest heaving like a bellows. The Wolf is usually a solitary creature in the kill, focused only on the next throat, the next threat. But right now, the Wolf isn't looking at the enemy.
He is looking ather.
Miranda stands on the fallen log, silhouetted against the dying fires of the bayou. She is naked, painted in mud and crimson, her hair a wild halo around a face that has lost all trace of the terrified girl who arrived atBelle Rêve.
She looks like a goddess of ruin.
The silence that follows her howl is absolute. The gunfire stops. The screaming stops. Even the fire seems to quiet down, cowed by the sound of a predator that shouldn't exist.
I look at my Pack.
To my left, Remy is clutching his bleeding shoulder, staring up at her. His wolf eyes are wide, the pupils blown. Next to him,Vance—who wanted to trade her to the vampires—slowly lowers his muzzle.
They smell it. I know they do.
The wind shifts, carrying her scent across the battlefield. It ain't the smell of a Leech anymore. It ain't just the smell of an Alpha. It’s the smell ofOld Magic. It smells like the stories the Elders tell around the fire when the whiskey runs low—stories of Silver, of power that breaks the rules.
Vance drops to his belly.
One by one, the Wolves of the Roux Pack lower themselves into the mud. It ain't a surrender. It’s an acknowledgment. They see the gold in her eyes. They feel the weight of her command.
She is the heir. And tonight, she is the Queen.
Even the shadows at the edge of the tree line ripple with fear. I see the pale, aristocratic faces of the Duval scouts—the ones Matilde sent to watch the slaughter. They are backing away, their movements jerky, their unnatural stillness broken by the lizard-brain urge to run. They know what she is now. And they know they can't stop her.
"Fall back!"
The scream tears through the reverence of the moment.
Gregor.
He’s standing on the rise of the levee, fifty yards away. He’s the only one not looking at Miranda with awe. He’s looking at her with the frantic, bug-eyed terror of a man watching his theology burn to ash.
"Kill the witch!" Gregor shrieks, leveling his rifle. "Open fire, you cowards! She’s the devil!"
His men don't move. They are broken. They look at the woman who just tore a man’s throat out with her bare hands, and they look at the pack of wolves rising from the mud to stand beside her, and they do the math.
They drop their guns.
It starts with one man throwing his rifle into the water. Then another. Then the whole line breaks.
"No!" Gregor roars, striking the man nearest him with the butt of his weapon. "Stand and fight!"
But the rout has started. The Hunters turn and flee, scrambling down the back side of the levee, heading for the deep water of the canal.
Bad move.
I growl, a low rumble that vibrates the ground. They forgot about the net. They blocked the canal to keep us in. Now, they’ve trapped themselves with the things that live in the dark water.
Miranda steps down from the log. She looks at me. Her eyes are burning, two violet stars flecked with my gold. She nods at the levee.
