It will come from the one who benefits most from the chaos.
11
CASSIDY
Dawn in the Blackmoore Mountains feels like a dare.
The light comes in thin stripes through the pines, cold and pale, and the ground holds onto last night’s frost like it is proud of it. My boots crunch over gravel as I cross the lower yard, pack snug against my shoulders and my handheld GPS clipped to the strap where I can reach it fast. Ciaran waits near the treeline with three others, all in human form, all dressed for movement.
He glances at my shoulder the moment I step close, then forces his eyes back to my face like he caught himself staring.
“You’re up early,” he says.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I reply, adjusting the strap again. “I’m fine.”
Ciaran introduces the three patrol members.
Tomas snorts quietly behind him, young and wiry with a sharp jaw and restless energy in his hands. He looks like someone who wants to prove himself with every breath. Kelsey stands a half step back from him, expression neutral, eyes scanning the woods like she is counting every branch andshadow. The fourth wolf, a stockier man named Jace, rolls his shoulders like he is loosening muscle memory.
Ciaran tilts his head. “That’s the line you always use.”
“It keeps working,” I say.
He makes a quiet sound that could be amusement if he were a different kind of person. “We’re headed to the north ridge. Stay tight, keep your head up, and don’t wander off chasing tracks.”
“I’m not a tourist,” I tell him.
Tomas flashes a quick grin. “That’s debatable.”
Kelsey elbows him lightly. “Shut up and move.”
We start in a tight line, boots sinking into soft soil where the frost has already melted. The air smells like wet pine needles and cold stone. Somewhere deeper in the trees, water runs over rocks, steady and quiet.
The northern ridge climb is brutal in a slow way.
It is not steep enough to justify complaining, but it never stops rising. My lungs burn clean air, sharp with resin, and my thighs warm up fast under the strain. Ciaran keeps a steady pace that forces the rest of us to match him, not fast enough to exhaust, not slow enough to get comfortable.
Tomas keeps glancing back at me like he expects me to stumble.
I ignore him.
Kelsey moves with a quiet efficiency that reminds me of field techs who have been in the mountains longer than they have been in relationships. She steps over roots without breaking stride, her gaze always moving, never lingering on one point too long. Jace stays behind us, watching our backtrail like he expects company.
After forty minutes, Ciaran signals a stop with two fingers.
We pause near a cluster of granite outcroppings, the stones slick with morning dew. I pull my GPS unit and glance at the coordinates, then switch to the map overlay I built last night.The previous attack sites appear as dots and lines, the corridor pattern faint but unmistakable.
Ciaran watches me, arms folded, breath steady.
“You’re doing the thing again,” he says.
“The thing saves time,” I reply, tapping the screen. “Where was the livestock kill.”
He points uphill. “About another quarter mile. Past the ravine mouth.”
Tomas shifts his weight. “We should split here. Two go high, two sweep the ravine.”
Kelsey’s head turns toward him, expression sharp. “That ravine is a choke.”
