“I’m thinking like someone who doesn’t want to be caught off guard.”
Same difference.
“Then start keeping notes,” he says. “Anything unusual. Anything that feels off.”
“I will.”
And I mean it. Because for the first time since all of this started?—
I don’t feel like I’m just reacting. I feel like I’m contributing. Like I have some measure of control in a situation that’s been spiraling since the moment I walked into this town. Delilah smiles faintly.
“That’s exactly what we need.”
After they leave, I grab a notebook from behind the counter and set it down in front of me. Blank page. Fresh start. I tap the pen against the paper, thinking. Then write:
Suspicious behavior log.
It feels ridiculous. And necessary. Because if the rogues are watching?—
I’m going to watch back. I glance toward the front window, where people move along the street like any other day in any other small town. Normal. Ordinary. Except it’s not. Not anymore. I press the pen to paper again. And start paying attention.
22
ARCHER
The forest doesn’t lie. That’s the first thing I learned when I started leading patrols, and it’s the one rule that’s never failed me. Tracks fade. Scent shifts. But the forest always tells you when something doesn’t belong. Right now?—
It’s screaming. I crouch at the edge of the logging road, fingers brushing the disturbed earth where tire tracks cut too deep into the dirt. Fresh. Within the last twelve hours. Not local.
Not ours.
“They came through here,” I say quietly.
Behind me, three of the younger shifters spread out, their attention sharp, movements careful. They’ve improved since yesterday. But this? This is different. This isn’t training. This is real.
“How many?” one of them—Eli—asks.
I inhale slowly. The scent is faint. Masked. But not enough.
“More than a scouting pair,” I answer. “At least four. Maybe six.”
Eli swears under his breath.
“Rogues?” another asks.
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No doubt. I rise slowly, scanning the tree line.
“Spread out,” I order. “Check for markers. Don’t stray too far.”
They move immediately, fanning out with ease. I step off the road and into the underbrush, following the pull of instinct more than anything visible. That’s when I find it. A claw mark. Deep. Intentional. Carved into the bark of a low-hanging tree. My jaw tightens. Cougar. Not subtle. Not accidental. A message.
I step closer, running my fingers just above the mark without touching it. Fresh. Deliberate. And placed at eye level. They want us to see it.
“Archer,” Eli calls quietly from my left.
“I see it,” I reply.
