Page 8 of Witch's Wolf

Helena’s lips press into a thin line, her gaze shifting back to the lake as though she’s trying to decide how much to say. Her fingers brush the edge of her cloak absently, a rare tell that she is more unsettled than she’s letting on.

“That was my first thought too. But Monica’s only known Erica since college. They’re close, yes, but I need someone who’s known her far longer than that. Someone who’s seen her in ways Monica never has.”

“And what would ever make you think that’s me? Stop dancing around your point, Helena,” I snap, a growl edging into my voice. “If you know something, if there’s a reason you’re this concerned, then just fuckingsayit. What is it about Erica that’s got you so damn worried?”

The words burst out, raw and edged with something close to fear. I don’t like the way my stomach clenches at the possibility she’s about to confirm something I don’t want to hear.

“Alright,” she says, her voice steady as her gaze locks onto mine. “After your little squabble last night, I tried to look into Ms.Connors’s future. To my surprise, I couldn’t. My orb went pitch-black. That can only mean one thing, Samuel.”

Her use of my Christian name rankles. Only my mother called me that and I don’t care about her history with our family, my mother she is not. I growl but she carries on. Either oblivious to my grumbling or not caring.

“Someone has cast a spell on her. Someone strong enough to block me from looking into her life. That is no ordinary dabbler. They’re powerful and they were either close to her once or still are.”

Her words are heavy, foreboding, and for a moment, I falter. Why would anyone bother casting a spell on Erica? What could they gain? The thought twists in my gut before my irritation wins out. I shake my head, scoffing. A spell? On Erica? Who cares?

“So, what? Erica’s got some wizard or witch looking out for her? Is that what you’re saying?”

Helena’s jaw tightens, and her scent sharpens with a mix of sweat and something metallic. I recognize it, she’s frustrated. I also don’t miss the way her fingers twitch, like she’s resisting the urge to slap me.

Go ahead, witch. Slap me and see what happens.

“No,” she says, her voice brittle. “This isn’t protection. It’s… deliberate. Someone doesn’t want her warned about what’s coming.” Her eyes lock onto mine, the faint shimmer of magic flickering behind her pupils. “And, Samuel?—”

My growl cuts her off. “Don’t call me that.”

“Fine,” she says, exhaling sharply and pulling her cloak tighter. “You’re not going to like this… but my gut tells me she’s got witch blood in her veins.”

I snort, looking away. The lake glimmers under the fading light, its surface disturbingly calm compared to the turmoil in my head.

“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t like it. And let’s say you’re also right about her blood. She’s twenty-eight. Wouldn’t she know by now?”

“Not necessarily,” Helena says, rolling her shoulders. “Witchcraft isn’t inherited like your family heirlooms. To awaken it, she’d have to delve into it consciously. If she hasn’t, she might not even know it’s there. But if she does have witch blood, her powers will peak fast. Faster than mine ever did.”

The weight of her words settles on my chest. I don’t know if I buy into her theory, but it’s unsettling enough to make me consider it.

“It’s a stretch,” I mutter, struggling with why this is my problem and more importantly why I don’t feel like I can walk away, which is what I should do. “Fine,” I spit, making a slashing motion with one hand. “I won’t rule it out. Yet. How do we find out? What am I supposed to look for?”

Helena’s eyes spark, the weariness in them momentarily replaced by sharp focus.

“I was hoping you’d ask. Your sense of smell, it’s better than the rest of your family’s, isn’t it?” I half-shrug, half-nod, not liking the claim to fame. “Here’s something useful. Witches’ scents fluctuate with their emotions because their life force is tied totheir magic. When she’s sad, her scent will fade. When she’s happy, it will intensify. Pay attention to that.”

I snort, unease churning in my gut.

“That’s not enough and you know it, Helena. If she’s really a witch, I’ll need more than a theory about her scent to convince her or myself.”

“Fair,” Helena says, her tone approving. “Spend time with her. Get to know her. Watch closely. When you’re ready, come find me. Take care, second son.”

Her words fade, but one line clings to me like a burr stuck to my fur. Spend time with Erica. The thought twists me up inside, pulling me in two directions. One part of me wants to ignore her completely, push her, and all of this, out of my life. The other part? It’s already wondering what I might find if I let myself look closer.

It’s not that I hate her. That would be easier by far if I did, but even so, the idea of getting close to her is its own kind of hell. Her presence, the way her eyes pierced me in that small dressing room. The way her lips curve when she’s annoyed, her sharp wit and the constant stream of sarcasm. She’s a distraction I can’t afford. All that without thinking about her body, which… no. I shove the thought away, clenching my fists.

If Helena’s right, and that’s a big if, then I have to figure this out. I have to get past her beauty, past the pull she exerts on me, and see the truth. Whatever that truth is, I’m sure it’s buried beneath layers of sarcasm and guarded smiles.

And if I’m not careful, I might lose myself trying to uncover it.

5

ERICA

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