Page 71 of Wolf Hunter

What is he thinking right now? With the darkness of night slowly giving way to dawn. Is Reid in his bed as awake as I am, thinking about what we’d done? Thinking about everything that still has to happen?

He let me go home to the coven my parents had abandoned years ago, and they’d surely believe the only reason I returned was because I did the job. I killed Reid.

He’s safer if they think that. If Reid stops the yearly ceremonies, then maybe the Redcliff Pack and the Buson Coven will never have to interact again.

Talk about a perfect scenario.

Sighing, I shrug out of the winter wear and let it fall soundlessly to the ground. The door closes behind me, shuttering me inside the prison I made for myself.

A shower, I decide. A shower, and then maybe I’ll have a better idea of how to get out of this fucking mess.

The witches can’t know Reid is alive. I’m going to have to try to convince them while alternately working to get the truth. Probably like prying open the jaws of an alligator. They won’t want to let me into their confidence, sure, and they have no reason to trust me.

The feeling is mutual.

I sit down hard on the edge of the bed and stare around at the dingy carpet, the peeling wallpaper, and the thrift store paintings above the headboard that I’ve always thought to be made of cardboard. Calling this roomhomefelt right at the time because I had no way to step back into the place Carmen and I had shared, literally or figuratively.

There are too many memories of her and my failure in Buson. I see it clearly now. They’d kept me up at night for years, so I’d escaped the only way I knew how to escape. Coming back seemed like the next logical step at the time, and instead, I found a greater mystery inside a deeper mess.

Sighing, I scrub my face in an attempt to clear it of sleep, but I still can’t rouse myself to get to the shower. I stare down at my hands. The same ones that held onto Reid as he thrust into me over and over.

The room doesn’t feel like a sanctuary anymore.

I somehow manage to get a shower and let the scalding water cascade over my shoulders like it will somehow clear the burden for me. My fist pounds against the tile, and a bit of the grout loosens and quickly disappears down the drain.

Changing into my own clothes is the only good thing about coming back. After a few restless hours of sleep and wearing a brand-spanking-clean sweater and boots, accompanied by the softest socks I own, I almost feel prepared to face Mae and the others.

Almost.

None of them know I’m coming. I was given a deadline of a month to get the job done, and after the debacle with the skin burning, surely none of them see the need to remind me a third time.

I pause at the door—this is becoming a habit with me—and roll up the sleeves of the shirt, running a finger over the freckles on my arm.

And we harm none. A witch’s motto. The main rule for wielding magic.

It sure seems to me like these witches have no qualms about harming others. Anyone who stands in their way, in fact. Did that attitude play into the reason why my parents left the coven?

I wonder…

I remember asking them about the other witches once, those with power like Carmen, like me. And my father’s response made no sense at the time.

“One day, Tasha, you’ll come to see there are all shades of black and white and gray in this world. And you’ll have to figure out where you stand on the spectrum.”

Shivering, those words shimmer at the forefront of my brain like some message I’m too stupid to understand. Maybe I still am. Stupid. Maybe I’m looking at this entire situation from the wrong angle.

The disconcerting sense of wrongness hounds me out the door and down the street.

Finding the Buson Coven isn’t an issue.

They always gather at the coven mistress’s house, and I know where Mae lives. She gave me the address once she paid and told me I’m free to stop in whenever I want—her attempt at an olive branch to welcome me back into the fold.

I wrote her off at the time.

Now I thank my memory for keeping the address stored there.

Hands dug low in my pockets, I head into the wind toward the quaint little house with the shutters painted robin’s egg blue. A fairy-tale cottage located directly off the main street in downtown, and in summer, surely shows heaps of flowering gardens. The image flashes in my mind for a moment before dying.

Hopefully I’ll still feel this way after our meeting.

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