ARCHER
The forest is wrong. That’s my first thought. Notquiet. Notstill. Wrong. There’s a difference.
Quiet is natural—predators holding their breath, wind shifting through leaves, the normal rhythm of Redwood Crossing at night. Wrong is when everything feels like it’s waiting for something to break. My tiger doesn’t pace this time. Itpresses. Hard. Constant. Like it already knows what I’m about to find.
I don’t slow down as I move along the ridge line near the eastern border. The patrol behind me keeps formation without needing instruction—tight, efficient, trained. They feel it too.
Everyone does.
“Signs of movement here,” Eli says quietly from my right.
I glance down. Broken brush. Deep prints. Too many to be accidental.
“They’re active tonight,” I say.
“Closer than before?” another shifter asks.
I don’t answer immediately. I can feel it now. Not just movement. Presence. Like something big has stepped into the edges of our world and decided it’s done staying hidden.
“Yeah,” I finally say. “Closer.”
A branch snaps somewhere ahead. Not wind. Not animal. Intentional. I raise a hand. The patrol stops instantly. Silence folds over us again. Thicker this time. Heavier. And then?—
A voice carries through the trees. Calm. Controlled. Familiar.
“Always hated how loud your territory feels,” Damon Rourke says.
My spine tightens instantly. Because there it is. No guessing. No searching. Just confirmation. He steps out from between two trees like he’s been there the whole time, hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed. He’s not alone. Two rogues flank him—far enough back to suggest they’re not bodyguards.
Close enough to say they’re backup if things go wrong. My tiger rises under my skin, low and vicious.
Finally.
“Damon,” I say.
He smiles slightly.
“Archer.”
My name sounds like a test in his mouth. I don’t move. Neither does he. This is how predators measure each other. Stillness first. Then pressure. Then violence.
“You’re pushing deeper than last time,” I say.
“I like seeing how you respond,” he replies.
“Then you’re wasting your time.”
His smile widens a fraction.
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
A pause. The forest feels like it’s leaning in. Listening.
“Your patrol patterns are predictable,” he continues. “Your perimeter shifts every six hours. Your southern route is weakest between 0200 and 0400.”
Eli shifts behind me. Barely. But I feel it. So does Damon. His eyes flick briefly toward the patrol. Amusement. My jaw tightens.
“So you’ve been watching,” I say.
