I'll check on Michael, I thought.Make sure he's eating. Make sure he's not drowning in that house.
It was what pack did. What family did.
Nothing more than that.
Ward's Garagesat at the edge of town where Main Street gave way to gravel and forest. An old brick building with faded red paint and a hand-lettered sign that readWard's Auto Repairin letters that had been weathering for decades. Three service bays, usually full. A parking lot that was more dirt than pavement. The kind of place that looked like it hadn't changed since 1962 and probably never would.
Evan pulled his truck into the employee spot near the back, killing the engine with a practiced twist of his wrist. We'd driven in comfortable silence, the way you could only do with someone you'd known your whole life. No need to fill the quiet with noise.
“Gideon's already here,” Evan said, nodding toward the familiar truck parked by the office door. “Probably been here since five. The man doesn't sleep.”
“He sleeps.”
“When?”
“When the rest of us aren't watching.”
Evan snorted and climbed out. I followed, the morning air cool against my face, carrying the smell of pine and motor oil and that underlying hum of magic that clung to everything Gideon touched.
Inside, the garage was already coming to life. Cal Harker was setting up his station with the kind of chaotic energy that drove Mason crazy, tools spread across every available surface in what he called his “organizational system.” Mason, by contrast, hadhis section arranged in a precise way, every wrench in its place, every rag folded just so.
“Morning, boss,” Cal called to Evan, not even looking up from his chaos. “Henderson called twice already. I'm ignoring him.”
“Good plan.” Evan grabbed his work apron from the hook by the door. “Where's Gideon?”
“Office. Doing his creepy staring-at-nothing thing.” Cal finally glanced over, noticed me, and straightened slightly. “Daniel.”
“Cal.” I nodded at him. “Try not to throw any wrenches today.”
“No promises.”
I left Evan to his work and headed for the back office, navigating around tool chests and lift equipment with the ease of someone who'd been coming here for years. The office door was open, spilling weak yellow light into the dim hallway.
Gideon sat behind his desk, hands wrapped around a coffee cup that had probably been full hours ago. He didn't look up when I appeared in the doorway.
“Daniel.” His voice was gravel and smoke. “Was wondering when you'd show up.”
“You knew I was coming?”
“The forest told me.” At my look, he almost smiled. “I'm kidding. Evan texted.”
“Traitor.”
“He's worried about you. Seems to be going around.” Gideon finally lifted his head, and those sharp blue-gray eyes pinned me where I stood. He looked like any aging mechanic, weathered and worn and perfectly ordinary. But there was something behind those eyes that had nothing to do with ordinary. Something that had seen more than any human lifetime should hold. “Sit. You're making me nervous hovering like that.”
“I make you nervous?”
“Everything makes me nervous. That's how I've stayed alive this long.”
I sat, the old chair creaking under my weight. The office was small and cluttered, filing cabinets along the walls, a calendar from two years ago still hanging by the window. It smelled like motor oil and sage and something older, something that made my wolf's ears prick forward with recognition.
“Coffee?” Gideon asked, already reaching for the pot on his desk.
“Had some.”
“Have more.” He poured a second mug and pushed it across to me. “You look like death chewing on a hangover.”
“Your bedside manner is legendary.”
