Frost spills from my lips in a pale ribbon, not mist but crystallized breath that snaps as it hits the space between us. The temperature drops in an instant, sharp enough to sting exposedskin, sharp enough to be felt. Moisture hanging in the air turns traitor, dust motes flashing white as they freeze and drift downward like sudden snow. A thin sheen of ice creeps across the concrete at my feet, creeping outward, climbing chair legs, licking the edges of boots before stopping short of flesh.
Every sound dulls.
Every movement stills.
Everyone who isn’t actively working on Calder turns to face me.
Brothers. Prospects. Family.
They know better than to speak until the cold settles, and when it does, Scar hesitantly steps forward, blood still staining his hands. “Calder was running the western perimeter check as you ordered. Found a hunting camp about two miles past our border. Three humans. Military-grade weapons. IR scopes. They had maps, Prez.” His red eyes narrow to slits. “Maps withourterritory marked.Ourroutes. The logging company, the hunting supply store. They know about the club.”
The words land like hammer blows.
Our routes.
The paths we use to move cursed artifacts through the mountains, enchanted weapons that could level cities, black market potions that sell for six figures a vial, and relics stolen from temples and tombs across the world. The underground fight ring we operate every new moon, where supernatural beings bet fortunes on death matches.
The three legitimate businesses we use to launder millions through this forgotten corner of New Hampshire.
If hunters know.
If they have evidence.
“Did you clean it up?” My voice drops to that sub-zero register that makes even Scar pause.
“Calder tried. Got two of them before the third opened fire with iron rounds. Kid took three bullets and still managed to burn their camp to hell before collapsing.” Something like respect flickers across Scar’s ancient features. “But the third hunter ran. Calder couldn’t track him after that.”
“So, there’s a human out there who’s seen us. Who has evidence, who knows what we are and what we do.” Ice spreads from my hands, frost crawling across my knuckles like living crystal. “And youlethim escape?”
“I. Let. Nothing…” Scar’s fangs descend farther, his own anger rising to meet mine. “I found Calder halfway dead and brought him home. I made the call that saving our prospect took priority over chasing down one human in the dark. Brothers first, problems later. Isn’t that right, Prez?”
The temperature in the room plummets. Brothers shift uneasily. Even Ivy glances up from her work, her green light flickering.
But Scar doesn’t back down. He never does. Five hundred years of existence have made him fearless in ways that would kill lesser beings. He holds my gaze, red eyes burning with their own cold fire, and I realize he’s right.
Of course, he’s right.
Calder is our brother.
He is family.
Saving him was theonlychoice.
I exhale slowly, forcing the ice back down. “How bad is he?”
“Bad.” Ivy’s voice is strained, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cold. “One bullet nicked his lung. The iron poisoning is spreading. I can save him, but he’ll need days to recover. Maybe weeks.”
Days we don’t have if there’s a hunter out there ready to bring reinforcements.
I turn away from the table, from Calder’s labored breathing and Luna’s haunting song, and find Wreck standing in the shadows near the door. The wendigo is motionless, with a gaunt frame, draped in leather and denim that hang from his skeletal build like a death shroud. His eyes, hollow, hungry, ancient, track every movement in the room with predatory focus. He’s feeding right now, I realize. Drinking in the fear and pain saturating the air like a good wine.
“Wreck,” I call out. “Round up the brothers. Church in five.”
The wendigo nods once, then vanishes into the darkness beyond the door. His footsteps make no sound. They never do.
Flux materializes beside me, his shapeshifter nature making him nearly as silent as Wreck when he wants to be. His current form, human, tall, built like an athlete, studies me with calculating amber eyes. “You’re going after him. The hunter.”
It’s not a question.
