Page 19 of Witch's Wolf

10

ERICA

Leaving the Interstate, the scenery shifts, but even the beauty of upstate New York in spring does nothing to calm the storm raging in my head. Trees blur past, their dark silhouettes framed by the first rays of the rising sun. As the road twists and turns, fear claws with chill fingers. Sharp and insistent, and no amount of deep breathing keeps it at bay.

I replay Monica and Raul’s stories about Helena and what little I know of her. A witch capable of outsmarting vampires and overpowering shifters? How could I ever measure up to that? Just imagining her feats, the spells, the strength, and sheer audacity makes my hands clench tighter around the steering wheel.

Sam’s truck leads the way, steady and confident, as if he doesn’t carry the same doubts weighing me down. He trusts Helena. He’s made that much clear, which, good for him, but I don’t know how to trust anyone, not right now. Hell, not even myself. Afterall, I don’t know who I am anymore.

My car hugs a hairpin turn, the valley below yawning wide and treacherous. Dawson’s rooftops scatter below, their smallnessamplifying my feelings of insignificance. A shudder ripples through me. Then, just as we round another curve, a red light hovers ahead, faint but unmistakable. It pulses, steady as a heartbeat, glowing unnaturally against the foggy morning.

Sam reacts instantly. He veers his truck off the road, tires digging into the dirt shoulder. Dust blooms around him in a thick cloud and I follow, feeling like I don’t have a choice. My car protests, the front bumper scraping against uneven ground, shocks groaning as bushes crunch beneath me. I wince with every jolt, silently apologizing to the BMW for this undignified detour.

The light hovers higher then glows brighter, like it’s alive and waiting. My pulse quickens, and I have to force myself to focus on the trail Sam’s truck has carved out. When he finally comes to a stop, I slam the brakes and kill the engine. I sit for a moment, listening to my heart pounding in my ears. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and then step out into the settling dust. My legs are trembling, but I push forward. Sam is silhouetted against the red glow, his broad shoulders steady as ever.

“It’s Helena!” he says, his voice carrying over the quiet.

Helena. My stomach twists at the name. Sam beckons me closer, but my feet hesitate, rooted in a mix of dread and curiosity.

What will she see when she looks at me? A fledgling witch too scared of her own shadow to harness her power? Or worse, will she see nothing at all? No spark, no potential, just an ordinary woman desperately out of her depth?

I force myself to move, one shaky step at a time, until I’m close enough to see Sam’s expression. It’s calm, almost reverent, his eyes fixed on the light.

For me, that light isn’t a beacon, it’s a warning. A reminder that I’m walking toward something I don’t understand, something that will very likely unravel what’s left of the fragile identity I’m clinging to. And yet, I keep walking. Because if I’ve learned anything in my life it’s that fear doesn’t wait for courage to catch up.

“No kidding…” I groan, sidestepping a pile of brush. “Why did we have to come here? Couldn’t she meet us down in Dawson?”

“Because here is where you need to be,” a voice answers before Sam can.

I stop dead in my tracks, my breath hitching. Helena steps out from nowhere. One second, it’s just Sam and me and the next, she’s standing directly in front of us. Her presence is as sudden as it is commanding. The air around her has a faint hum as if the world itself knows better than to ignore her.

“Get the box for her pup,” she says, her tone calm but firm.

Clenching my jaw tight, I glance at Sam, but he doesn’t look surprised at all. If anything, there’s a flicker of something else on his face. Reluctance, maybe? Annoyance? He goes back to my car and opens the trunk to retrieve the box.

Helena’s eyes flick over me, sharp and assessing. They gleam in the dim light, as if she’s already mapped every thought I’m trying to keep hidden. I swallow hard, my mouth dry as sand, my legs feeling like lead as I step closer to her.

“A little warning would’ve been nice,” I say.

“Where’s the fun in that?” she asks, her lips curving into a faint smile.

I’m about to fire back when I notice what’s behind her. A large, square hole in the side of the hill. The jagged edges of an old iron gate hang overhead, rusted and forgotten. The faint glow of polished oak flooring stretches out beneath her feet, reflecting the red light that clings to everything like a warning.

“I’ve been here before,” I murmur. The memory tugs at the edges of my mind, fragmented but undeniable.

Sam’s return to my side eases my anxiety, but only a little. The aged dust of the box in his hands tickles my nose causing me to sneeze.

“Yes,” Helena says, her voice softer now. “When Monica and Raul started dating.”

Her words pull the memory, sharp and unwelcome. The way Monica’s face lit up with Raul, how he looped his arm protectively around her shoulders. How out of place I felt then, even surrounded by friends.

“Yeah,” I say tightly, forcing the thought away. “Hard to forget that, even if I wanted to.”

Sam’s voice breaks through the tension, low and measured.

“Why are we here, Helena?”

“It’s Monday morning,” she says, ignoring his question and turning back to me. “And you’re back in Dawson less than twenty-four hours after you left.” Her gaze lingers on me, unrelenting. “I had a feeling you’d received some... significant news. Something about yourself.”

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