Page 43 of Werewolves and Witches AU

“There’s no one safer for him to be with.” Guardian’s words draw my focus. “Your wolf is a born pack leader, Ranger. He’s already redistributing the strengths of your pack and moving your unit into strategic positions to defend him. You’ll do what needs to be done, and none of us could do that better.”

I exhale, shoulders lowering. “The moment ye get those pictures, any time of day or night, ye send them over. Milo and I’ll use the time to learn more about this Luna del Lupo, but with our Intel Corps monitoring the Witches Council, and the General’s Office not being forthcoming with the intel they do have, I don’t know how successful we’ll be.”

“He’s a witch, isn’t he?” goads Tuesday. “Just saying, we all have people we go to when we’re in a pinch and need to keep things hush-hush. Maybe you don’t know who that is, but he will. Put him to work, boss. Make him an honorary Dog and give him a mission of his own.”

“You sly bastard,” calls Thriller, rising from his seat. “You know Ranger follows the rules and won’t fuck where he sleeps if he makes Milo a temporary Dog. You said that on purpose to rig the pool.”

“Rig the what? The pool?” The penny drops. And so does my stomach.

“Ah come off it, Ranger, course we have a pool.” Thriller holds his arms wide, indicating that the entire unit is in on this. “Especially because you wouldn’t let me call dibs.”

I stand so fast that Delilah has to strike like a snake to catch his laptop before it crashes to the ground. “Come again?”

Thriller steps closer, eyes gleaming with the hope of a challenge. “You heard. Poor Ranger, stuck home alone with the Package. I’m sure Guardian’s right, though.” He grabs his dick through his combat trousers and squeezes. “The Package’s best interests will be very well attended.”

My chest heaves with the effort of holding back my wolf, and my next words are soaked with my authority. “Ye’ve got a mission to prep for, and a bag to pack. But first, ye’ll do a thorough perimeter check so that ye don’t leave yer Nest, or yer alpha, undefended.”

Everyone stands and salutes, even Guardian, who isn’t susceptible to the effect of my alpha command.

One by one, they file out to do as I instructed, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Thoughts that absolutely and categorically align with the fact that Milo is an asset in need of protection, and nothing more. I’m the pack leader of the Dogs of War, and the fate of the entire Romulan Bloodline rests on my shoulders. Anything less than my best right now could compromise everything.

18

Dreamscapade

Milo

The salty coastal breeze whips through my hair, directing the longer layers into my eyes. Tucking them behind my ear is futile, as the very next gust of Atlantic air drags them back out, and sends them every which way. I let out a sigh and close my eyes to guard against the sharp tips.

When I next open them the vista has changed; for the fifth time, the sequence has reset.

Sarah Blackwood is, once more, seated on a simple chair in front of her pinewood dresser as she brushes through her long dark hair.

This isn’t like the last time I travelled here. No matter what I do, she can neither see nor hear me. We’re both stuck in some sort of repeating dream sequence in which she silently goes about her day, and I follow—undetected—behind.

Just like my studio-style apartment, Sarah’s home is also contained within one larger room. Her single bed, pushed into the corner, has been neatly made, and only a few dried sprigs from the lavender and mugwort bouquet that compose her dream-pillow are visible. Her bare floor is swept, and the hand-woven rug aligns perfectly underneath the window where rays of the early morning sun stream in. Dust motes catch in the light as they dance through the air, lending a hazy and surreal quality above and beyond what I’ve gathered must be happening.

In a few moments, Sarah will place her brush down beside the large basin of water, twist her hair until it coils up against the nape of her neck, pin it, then secure it all under the cotton bonnet that hangs on the back of her chair. There are no mirrors here, so the whole process is conducted by feel, a routine practiced so many times she now performs it easily.

Before she scrapes the chair across the wood floor to stand, I move closer to the door that will lead us outside and wait by her dainty leather boots. While she readies herself, I look down at my socked feet and wiggle my toes—I’d taken my boots off before falling asleep earlier, and it’s an interesting observation that astral travel is conducted in whatever state of undress you’re in at the time.

Sarah eases into her boots, smooths down her long cotton skirt, loops her arm through the handle of a wicker basket, and settles it about her elbow before she steps out into the fresh, Roanoke Island air.

Our next stop along this predetermined route is a small herb garden, contained within a raised bed, not far from some kind of communal kitchen building. Smoke pours thick and fast from its chimney into the clear blue sky, and multiple metal kettles rest on iron racks over a small fire beside the open door.

Ignoring them, Sarah bends to tug out a few errant weeds from between the herbs. There’s no point sitting, even though my legs are tired from the continuous nature of this circuit, because we won’t stay here long—we don’t remain at any of the various locations for any real length of time.

She edges slowly along the sturdy wooden frame, examining each plant in turn until she chooses one to rub gently between her thumb and forefinger. It’s always the same one, a short and bushy looking herb with evidently soft leaves. I’ve tried talking to her, asking her why I’m here and what the importance of showing me her herb garden is, but as I’m not really here, she continues about her business without so much as a glance in my direction.

After testing a few leaves, she selects the same ones each time to pluck from the plant. Bringing them close to her nose, she inhales their aroma deeply and closes her eyes in satisfaction, then lays them gently inside her basket.

Shielding her face from the sun by bracing her soiled hand against her forehead, she looks around as if to check for anyone who might be watching, then sets off northward through an overgrown grassed path.

Together—although I might as well not be here—we cut through the long grasses, and I wrap my arms around my torso to brace against the chill of the wind. Sarah doesn’t seem bothered as we head inland, but she’s wearing a thick woollen shawl, and I’m only in a T-shirt because I discarded my leather jacket on the floor before crawling into bed.

Eventually, we come to a stop on the bank of a small lake. Here, the wind blows harder, and when Sarah sits beside the water’s edge to shelter from it, so do I. The salty coastal breeze whips through my hair, directing the longer layers into my eyes, and I give an exasperated sigh.