Page 73 of Witch's Wolf

40

SAM

Twenty-four hours of almost constant patrolling.

One full day of running on four legs, scouring the woods, tracking even the smallest of clues. Footprints, paw prints, scents, the faintest trace of disturbance. Raul and I push as far as the outskirts of Turner Falls, seventeen miles north of Shandaken. Moving in close enough to pick up the murmur of human voices.

All that time, all that distance, and we’ve got nothing but empty woods and the nagging sense that we’re chasing ghosts. We’ve covered miles but found the square root of zero. For all intents and purposes, Dexter’s pack has vanished.

Maybe they ran. Maybe they did slink back to Mercer. Hell, maybe they went to Boston for all I care. One thing is certain, they aren’t here, and that kills my theory. If Dexter wanted war, he’d have stayed. He would’ve fought, but instead he and his pack seem to be gone.

Meeting back at Raul’s cabin, Nora and Ray confirm the same. They patrolled the western borders of Dawson. No tracks. No scents. No signs of life.

A heavy silence settles between us. Nora crosses her arms tight across her chest. Ray drives his fist into an overhead cabinet, the sharp crack of impact breaking the quiet. Raul folds his arms behind his head, elbows jutting forward, his jaw tight. None of us say it, but the truth hangs heavy in the air. This doesn’t add up.

A sound cuts through the thick tension. A buzz. Voices. The occasional shout. My pulse kicks up and I’m first to move. Striding to the door, I yank it open. Outside, about thirty yards away, a crowd is approaching. Their steps are purposeful, and their energy charged. Just like that, things get worse.

“You’d better get out there,” I tell my brother, fingers slipping from the doorframe.

The second I step outside, the crowd murmurs, voices rising. Their fingers jab in my direction. Tension crackles in the air like a coming storm. At the front, leading the charge, is Jonathan Locksmith.

“I don’t need to ask what the problem is, do I?” I ask. I try not to be challenging, but I’m drained of patience.

“You are,” Jonathan growls, his steps slowing to a measured march. “Or rather, your bitch is. Her mother took my wife.”

The words might as well be a slap to my face. I clench my fists, grinding my teeth and take a step forward.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Locksmith,” I snap. “I know you’re grieving and I am sorry, but that doesn’t give you the right to insult me or her.”

“Jonathan,” Raul’s voice is cold. “Take that back, or I swear to God, you’ll be joining Karen sooner rather than later.”

Jonathan’s face twists with rage.

“It’s come to this? Our pack leader, the one who’s supposed to protect us, threatens one of his own? Why the fuck did you take out Brad? You’re no different than he was.”

“Silence!”

A woman’s voice rips through the night, laced with fury.

A red light explodes across the sky, illuminating the night. It spreads faster than I can follow and slams into the crowd and into me too. Raul and I fly in opposite directions. I hit the ground hard, pain bursting across my back.

Groans fill the air. Protesters struggle to rise, their bodies scattered like fallen leaves. And then she steps out of the light. Helena.

Clutched tight in her grip, her staff glows. Her eyes skim over me, then flick toward the others, filled with nothing but scorn.

“You utter fools,” she barks, her voice a whipcrack. “I knew I was dealing with pups, but I didn’t realize just how stupid you all really are.”

“Ah…” Locksmith sneers at Helena. “Look who it is. The mighty witch of Dawson. You’re useless too. We all saw that Connors bitch hand your ass to you.”

Helena tilts her head, eyes darkening.

“Insult me again, Locksmith, and I’ll bleed you all over Dawson,” she says in a voice that is soft but lethal. “I’m disappointed in you. But be glad that it’s the Crawfords who’ve let me down the most this night.”

“What? Why?” Raul asks, walking up to the witch with one hand on his lower back.

“You’ve been chasing your tails and you still haven’t figured out Roberta’s plan.”

My stomach knots. She’s not wrong. I hate her for calling us out but I can’t deny the truth of her words either.

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