One in forty.
And the spirits chose me.
Chapter 8 - Connor
Three days of watching Fern, and I still don’t know what to say to her.
I’ve been stationed near the medical center since the lottery, keeping my distance while staying close enough to intervene if trouble shows up. Nic’s orders. Protect the pack’s newest member, even if she doesn’t feel like part of the pack yet. Even if every interaction between us has been stilted and awkward, weighed down by the reality of what happened in the Hollow.
We’re supposed to be mates. Soon, we’ll stand before the pack and complete the bonding ceremony that will tie us together for life. And yet we’ve barely exchanged more than a handful of words since Elder Amelia read her name from that slip of paper.
I catch glimpses of her through the medical center windows sometimes. She moves between appointments with a focus that borders on obsessive, throwing herself into work like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to sanity. Maybe it is. I remember the look on her face when Amelia announced her name—the shock, the disbelief, the edge of panic in her pale blue eyes as the crowd erupted around her.
She didn’t ask for this. Neither of us did.
But the spirits chose her, and now we’re both stuck figuring out what that means.
This morning, I’m leaning against my truck across the street from the medical center, pretending to check my phone while I keep one eye on the building. Fern arrived an hour ago. She didn’t see me watching as she hurried inside. Or if she did, she pretended not to.
That seems to be our pattern now. Pretending.
My phone starts ringing, and I glance down to find Nic’s name on the screen.
“I need you at the eastern border,” he states as soon as I answer. “Dylan’s patrol picked up some unusual activity. Human, not shifter.”
“What kind of activity?”
“That’s what I need you to find out. Meet Dylan at the old logging road and report back when you know more.”
I look toward the medical center one more time. Through the front window, I can just make out Fern’s ash blonde hair as she crosses the lobby with a stack of files in her arms. She stops to chat with Skylar, and for a moment, her face relaxes into something almost like a smile.
She’ll be fine for a few hours. She has the whole medical center staff around her, and whoever is camping in the woods is nowhere near town.
“On my way,” I tell Nic and end the call.
The drive to the eastern border takes twenty minutes, winding through increasingly dense forest until pavement gives way to gravel and then to dirt. I park my truck at the old logging road trailhead and continue on foot, following the overgrown path until I spot a familiar figure waiting near a massive fallen oak.
Dylan looks up as I approach. He’s leaner than he used to be, the grief of losing his younger brother in the League of Humanity attack having carved away whatever softness he once possessed. These days, he channels all that pain into border patrol, running himself ragged checking and rechecking theterritory lines like he’s personally responsible for making sure no threat ever breaches them again.
“Took you long enough,” he says by way of greeting.
I stop beside him and scan the tree line. “What have we got?”
“Campsite about half a mile northeast. Single tent, small fire pit, and basic supplies.” Dylan pushes off from the fallen oak and starts walking. “No vehicle anywhere nearby, which means they hiked in carrying everything on their back.”
“And we’re sure it’s not a rogue shifter?”
“Human. The scent’s unmistakable.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Could be nothing. Hikers wander through here sometimes, even though it’s technically private property. But something about this one feels off.”
We move through the forest in silence, our footsteps muffled by years of accumulated pine needles and decaying leaves. Dylan sets a pace that’s brisk without being rushed, and I match it easily as I expand my senses outward to take in every sound and smell around us.
After ten minutes, Dylan slows and holds up a fist. I stop beside him and peer through a gap in the underbrush.
The campsite is exactly as he described. A dark green tent, cheap and practical, pitched in a small clearing near a cluster of granite boulders. A ring of stones marks where a fire has been built and extinguished multiple times. Scattered around the tent are the basics—a cooler, a backpack, a rolled sleeping pad, and what looks like a pair of high-powered binoculars sitting on top of a folding camp chair.
The binoculars catch my attention. Hikers don’t usually carry equipment like that.
“See anyone?” I murmur.
