Page 50 of Teeth To Rip & Tear

“Kaleb,” The Huntsman turned to the silver wolf. “Guard the Weaver. Ensure she does not hurt herself.”

Kaleb tipped his head in agreement, and the Huntsman led us to a row of cells, each walled off with iron bars.

“No.” I tripped over my feet. “I’m not going in there. You can’t—” Fear clogged my throat. “I won’t weave anything if you put me in a cell!”

The Huntsman chuffed a laugh. He reached out a hand and curled his fingers. “You are part wolf. That part belongs to me.”

With the coaxing motion of his fingers, I felt something sickening rise inside me. Acid through my veins, racing from my toes to my throat like I’d been slowly dipped in stone. I couldn’t move.

“Into the cell.” The Huntsman commanded.

My feet began to move, one step after the other, until I walked past the cell bars and closed the door myself at his command—ignoring the weeping sores as the iron lacerated my hands.

Though Joel had found many ways to make me feel trapped and small over the years, I’d never been imprisoned before—confined to a cell with iron bars that made every breath painful.

When Joel insulted or pushed me into a door, I told myself he’d just been having a bad day. I’d rationalized it because I’d been the one to make him angry. Even Joel’s apologies had been laced with ‘if you hadn’t said this’ or ‘if you hadn’t done that.’

But it hadn’t been my fault. Not even a little bit.

I knew that now.

But as I sat on the cool stone floor and looked at the rusted bars of the cell, the metallic smell turning my stomach with every breath, all I could think of was how I’d been the one to court danger. If I’d been smarter, faster, stronger, I could have done something about my human ex-husband without involving the wolves.

The coin in my pocket felt too heavy. I’d trusted it too much, ignoring the danger because I trusted Grandmother Eva.

I wasn’t even sure who she was anymore.

My grandmother had not been a kind woman. She didn’t bake cookies or kiss my forehead at bedtime. She had been militant in my need to learn—to keep my hands moving and crafting at all times.

Even when I had been ill or had broken my wrist, I had been made to weave. To be insulted for my weak magic while I tried to craft something beautiful—something to wear or keep, instead of magic that dissolved the fabric like acid.

I’d trusted my grandmother’s wards to keep me safe because she had told me they would.

I had trusted that the wolves would help me because she said they would.

Instead, I was in the Huntsman’s clutches. A villain my grandmother refused to speak of.

Kaleb had curled up in a ball at the edge of the cell, his fluffy silver tail over his nose. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep. His dark markings made his wolf look like it was wearing eyeliner.

“Can you hear me?” I whispered, and though the wolf’s ears twitched at the question, he didn’t otherwise react. Dean had mentioned the Huntsman’s call and the lack of control and memories. Kaleb had been pushed deep down, leaving only the wolf and his desire to fulfill his master’s commands.

I wanted so badly for someone to talk to.

It wasn’t Kaleb’s fault the Huntsman had found me. It wasn’t Melly’s, Deans’, or anyone else’s but mine. I should have known how to set a ward or defend myself.

Though my grandmother, Eva, had taught me all I knew about knitting, sewing, embroidery, and any craft that used thread, she had focused on passive magic.

The long game, I now realized.

My Weaver heritage was lauded. Celebrated, though my magic was weak and unruly.

I kept coming back to the Gate.

The rip between the Aos Sí and the Human Realities.

Powerful Weavers could sew the fabric of reality together and tear it apart.

Maybe the Huntsman needed my help, though I was not inclined to aid someone who put me in a cage; sealing the Gate would save lives.

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