Nova
My hands shake as I pin notes to the board, fingers stiff from the cold. The pinboard clutters with scribbled maps, lines of energy, and marker arrows connecting invisible points. All while I mutter calculations out loud like some lunatic medium.
“Air pressure drops twelve percent at coordinates—“
I stop.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. The shack sits perfectly still around me, but something shifted. A sound outside. A break in the pattern of wind.
I lower my hand.
Nothing breaks the silence except the distant howl of coyotes from the north ridge. Not wolves. Different pitch entirely.
But I can’t shake the feeling. The air pressure changed—not magical, physical. Like a body passing too close to the thin wooden walls.
I place my pen down, spine straightening. I didn’t imagine it. Something was here. Something listened.
“Shit.” The word echoes in the cramped space.
The shack isn’t much—a metal desk bolted to the floor, a rolling chair with a broken wheel, a dusty equipment rack, and a narrow cot pushed against the far wall. Functional, not comfortable. Perfect for an interloper they want to contain.
I cross to the door in three steps, and snap the lock shut. It’s flimsy, wouldn’t stop anyone who wanted in, but it might slow them down. I press my ear against the cold metal, straining to hear footsteps retreating through frost-crusted grass.
Nothing.
Just wind through pines and my own breath fogging the air.
But the feeling persists—a disturbance in the quiet. A ripple where there should be stillness. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, agitated. She smells what I can’t name.
“You’re being paranoid,” I mutter, but my hand still finds the obsidian blade strapped under my sleeve. Cool and solid against my palm.
I pull back from the door and stare at my notes. How much did I say out loud? I trace back through my verbal trail—pressure zones, energy signatures, targeted anomalies. Information an Alpha with territory problems would want. Information that makes me valuable.
Or dangerous.
I shake my head and return to the desk. Paranoia won’t map energy patterns. I need to focus.
I pull the detection stone from my pocket, rolling it between my fingers. Still cold. Still inert. Whatever emotionalmanipulation is happening here, it’s dormant right now—or I’m too far from the source.
I set it on the desk where I can watch it. The moment it pulses, I’ll know someone’s actively working the pack’s emotions.
My fingers trace the display crystal, watching energy readings shimmer across its surface—data collected near the southern boundary rendered in glowing script. The numbers blur. My concentration fractures. The wind shifts outside.
I rub my left wrist absently, trying to ease the persistent itch that’s been bothering me for weeks. The faint silvery mark there catches the data pad’s blue glow—barely visible, like an old scar or birthmark I’ve never paid much attention to. I don’t remember getting it. Probably something from childhood.
The itching intensifies for a moment, then fades.
I flex my fingers, pushing my focus back to the data.
“Eastern quadrant shows resonance patterns similar to—“ I catch myself speaking aloud again, and clamp my mouth shut.
The frost spreads across the window like spiderwebs. The metal desk chills beneath my elbows. I pull my jacket tighter.
Any other night, I’d build a fire. Tonight, I don’t dare. Fire means light. Light means silhouette. I can’t afford to be watched through these thin walls.
I click through terrain maps—topographical overlays of Ash Hollow, fault lines illuminated in red. The patterns connect, disconnect, and refuse to align. The screen’s blue glow paints my hands in ghostly light.
One last entry. One more data point in the pattern.
