Page 81 of Witch's Wolf

She thrusts her arms forward with her fingers splayed wide. The staff jerks in Helena’s hands, dragging across the soil as if an unseen force is yanking it away.

The tip wavers, tilting toward Roberta. Helena tightens her grip, muscles coiling. Then, with a sharp tug, she wrenches it back. Roberta crashes to the ground in a heap, like someone just ripped the floor out from under her.

“Could a weakling do that?” Helena asks with smug smile. She strides forward, closing the distance between them. She presses the end of her staff under Roberta’s chin and forces her head back. “You vastly underestimate me, my dear.”

No Helena! Too soon.

Roberta flicks her wrist in a quick, vicious motion. Helena’s feet fly out and she crashes onto her back. Even from here I hear the air rush from her lungs. Her staff tumbles from her grasp, rolling uselessly across the dirt.

Roberta is over her in a flash. She bends over her like a predator looming over its prey.

“You stupid goat,” she sneers, her voice dripping with disdain. “You play at being a witch because you like it. I wasborna witch.”

She latches onto Helena’s ankles and with a brutal yank drags her across the ground. Dirt and gravel grind against Helena’s spine. Helena grits her teeth, reaching, straining, for her staff, but Roberta is faster, grabbing it before Helena can.

“Let’s see how much pain you can take before bending the knee,” Roberta taunts.

She rises to her full height, her silhouette stretching under the dim moonlight. The stolen staff swings high then crashes down. The wood slams into Helena’s cheek, snapping her head sideways.

“Look how weak you are!” Roberta snarls, striking again. And again. Every blow lands with sickening force, each one sending a fresh spray of blood into the dirt. “You’re pathetic, van Zant! Beaten to death by your own staff! That’s what your tombstone will read!”

A growl builds in my throat, deep and guttural. The pack shifts uneasily, fur bristling, fangs bared. Yips and barks crackle in the still night air. Saliva drips from my wolf’s jaw, but we don’t move. Not yet.

Helena writhes, blood trickling down her cheekbone, but her lips curl not in pain. In defiance.

“Beating…?” her voice, weak at first, slithers through the noise and cuts through the tension like a blade. “Is this the best a born witch can do?”

Her arm shoots up, fingers closing around the staff mid-air. Stopping it inches from her face.

A glow erupts from her skin. Deep red, pulsing, and furious. It spreads over her, engulfing her from head to toe. Her eyes darken, crimson swallowing the whites.

“I don’t need this,” Helena snarls.

And with a single motion, she shatters the staff in two with a ferocious cry.

Flames race down the length of the staff. Two streams of molten fire, twisting and writhing like living serpents. Heat flares through the night.

Roberta hisses, her skin searing where the fire licks her hands. She throws the remnant of the staff away, staggering back, golden hair falling over her face as she gasps through clenched teeth.

Helena rises, bloodied but unbowed. Roberta’s breath shudders.

“Perhaps not,” Roberta says, reaching behind her head. Metal sings against leather as she unsheathes a silver sword, its tip glinting under the moonlight. She hefts it, letting out a low, guttural grunt. “I’m going to bleed you. Just like I bled him.”

“Bled who?” Helena asks, eyes narrowing.

The blade swings, whispering through the air. The razor-sharp edge slices through Helena’s shoulder, slicing fabric with a sickening rip.

“Dear old Dennis, of course,” Roberta sneers.

I growl, taking an involuntary step ahead.

“He got all sentimental after the plane crashed,” she continues, voice dripping with disdain. “Wanted us to go back to Erica. I wasn’t ready but he was insistent. When he wouldn’t stop, I took his miserable life.”

“My father?” Erica’s voice shatters, raw, breaking open the silence like glass against stone.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Roberta coos, but her gaze never strays from Helena. “He had to go.”

The words slam into the night like a death knell. A feral growl rips from Erica’s throat and she lunges, blind with fury.

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