Blade looked over at Scotty. “Maybe you should open a gate and get him to Underworld General.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Mace growled. “I’ll be fine after I get some sleep.”
Skoll swung around to Scotty. “You can do that? You can opengates like your dad?”
“Wait.” Jon shortened his stride, letting her catch up. “If you can open gates, why did we just spend hours getting here?”
“The Horsemen can open destination gates almost anywhere,” she explained. “But I can only connect to other Harrowgates. That’s why I didn’t gate us to the cabin.”
And she’d been secretly glad there were no Harrowgates anywhere near the cabin. Shehatedopening personal gates. Hated the nausea and panic that gripped her every time she summoned one. Hated making up excuses to avoid using her ability to transport her team quickly. How many times had they been forced to go miles out of their way to find a Harrowgate when she could have just zapped one open?
A pit expanded in her gut at the thought of opening a gate for Mace. Would she get him to Underworld General if necessary? For sure, one thousand percent.
But she hoped she wouldn’t have to.
“There.” Jon pointed across an expanse of forest that had been cleared of underbrush. “There’s the cabin.”
Oh, thank gods.
Built into a bend in the stream they’d been following, the cabin was well-concealed, its weathered beams faded and patchy with moss. A couple of deer watched them warily from the other side of the creek, bounding away as they approached the cabin’s worn porch.
Wise animals, she thought, as she took in the obscene number of deer skulls and antler racks decorating the rickety railing. A rusted metal folding chair was the sole furniture on the deck, its seat padded with the pelt of some unfortunate animal.
“You said someone actually lives here?” Mace coughed, sounding too winded for comfort. “Even in the winter? This is crazy remote.”
Skoll gestured to a nearby shed that was bigger than the cabin. “He’s got a snowmobile and a UTV, but I doubt he lives here during the winter.” He shrugged. “But who knows? People who live off the grid are nuts, but they’re hardy nuts.”
Scotty eyed the werewolf. “Didn’t you grow up off the grid?”
Apparently, his parents, Luc and Kar, kept a low profile for their family’s safety. Scotty didn’t know much about it—she didn’t know Skoll or his sister, Luca, that well—but she’d heard things.
“Yep,” Skoll said. “That’s why I can speak with authority on the subject.”
Mace, who was more of a hotels-over-tents kind of guy, glancedaround in disgust. “This is messed up. Bet there’s not even a coffee maker.”
Jon’s get-serious look was a waste of time. Mace was rarely serious. But she doubted he was joking about the coffee maker.
“Quiet,” Blade murmured, one hand dropping to his favorite combat knife. “Door’s ajar.”
It took less than a heartbeat to read the situation and each other. By mutual, silent consent, they all drew weapons like a smooth, well-oiled machine. Nice. Scotty, Mace, and Blade didn’t always get to work with other teams that synced well with theirs.
Blade nudged the door open with his boot, its ominous creak sounding too loud in the peaceful surroundings. She wasn’t getting any evil vibes from inside, but some creatures could suppress their sinister aura.
“Trust your instincts,”her dad liked to say.“But don’t be an idiot.”
Blade and Jon burst inside. Scotty and Skoll put their backs to the doorframe and kept watch outside, ready to back up the others if needed.
Mace slumped onto the chair and studied a pair of bald eagles soaring overhead.
Damn. That was so not Mace. He wasn’t one to bird-watch if he could be in the middle of the action.
“Clear!” Blade’s deep voice called out. “There’s some blood on the floor.”
Scotty and Skoll helped Mace inside. She expected a murder scene, maybe an overturned chair and some broken glass. But aside from a few drops of dried blood, the place was clean and neat, smelled of the wood used to build the cabin, and was much cozier than she’d expected. The furniture was simple and utilitarian, consisting of a futon, a rocking chair, and a sturdy, four-person table, but plush blankets were draped over the seats. The wood stove on the far wall had seen better days, but it looked inviting, thanks to the bearskin rug spread on the scuffed wood floorboards.
Bunks built into two of the walls could sleep four, but the tiny bathroom would struggle to fither, let alone any of these big guys. The heavy, military-issue green blanket serving as a door was a sad attempt at privacy.
Almost as disappointing was the kitchen. The best that could be said was that it had a large pantry filled with canned goods, military rations, and pouches of freeze-dried meals—real prepper stuff thatalways tasted like reconstituted crap. The knives and cookware were in good shape, though. The guy obviously wanted to cook his tasteless survival food in the best pots and pans on his propane stove. Then he got to wash them in the sink rigged with a foot pump that brought water in from the stream, where she’d just seen an eagle take a dump.
