Page 82 of Witch's Wolf

“Erica, don’t!” Helena’s command is sharp, desperate. “Don’t let your anger take control!”

“Stop worrying about my little girl,” Roberta screams, slamming her boot into Helena’s hip. Helena spins, reeling, her blood spraying through the air. “Worry about yourself.”

Helena stumbles but doesn’t fall. She straightens, breath ragged, pain clear on her face but she smiles.

“Thanks for the advice,” she says, wiping blood from her mouth on her sleeve.

Roberta doesn’t answer, she screams, spinning in a blur of silver and rage. The sword sings through the night, carving a wicked arc. Steel meets cloth, slashing through Helena’s cloak, carving across her chest. The blade stops just shy of her arm. The scent of fresh blood fills the air.

Helena grits her teeth, swallowing the pain. Her knees bend, her fingers twitch, but her eyes burn with something stronger than agony. This fight isn’t over.

Roberta sneers, stepping closer, her sword gleaming with our witch’s blood.

“What shall your epitaph be, weakling?” she taunts, voice dripping with mockery. “Did you give that any thought before you challenged me to this charade of a fight?”

Helena breathes hard, blood running down her tattered cloak, but she lifts her chin, defiance burning in her gaze.

“I did,” she says, flexing her left hand, the palm hovering just above the ground behind Roberta. Her lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl. “I became a legend of the Catskills by snuffing the life out of murdering whores like Roberta Connors.”

A sharp crack slices through the air. One half of her broken staff jerks up from the ground, spinning straight into her waiting palm. Helena’s fingers curl around the charred wood.

Roberta barely has time to register what’s happening when Helena thrusts the burning end of the staff into her gut.

Roberta gasps, her mouth gaping open in shock. The sword slips from her fingers, tumbling uselessly to the ground between them. Helena doesn’t hesitate. She twists the staff, ripping through flesh, tearing through fabric and skin alike. The sound is louder than Roberta’s strangled cry.

“This is my realm,” Helena says, leaning in, her breath ragged. Her eyes glow, the red energy of her magic seeping into her gazelike molten fire. “You don’t threaten my realm and my family without paying the price.”

Helena snaps her head up, looking over her shoulder at the pack.

“Locksmith!” The command cracks through the air like a whip. “Finish her!”

Locksmith doesn’t move alone. A dozen of us lunge.

Roberta’s body hasn’t even hit the ground before we’re on her, fangs flashing, claws raking through fabric and flesh. Snarls and growls ripple through the night as we rip into the monster who brought so much death to our town. Jaws clamp onto her ankles, her thighs, her stomach, her throat.

She wanted to drown Dawson in blood. Instead, she drowns in her own.

And at last, it’s over.

45

SAM

As soon as the fight ends, we rush Helena back to Raul’s cabin.

She won, but she didn’t walk away unscathed. Her face is swollen and both eyes are dark with bruises. Cuts mar her cheeks, thin slashes that sting just to look at. But it’s the gash across her chest that has my stomach twisting. Blood soaks her cloak, spreading in a deep crimson stain. Too much blood.

Monica barely takes a breath before ordering us to carry her to the couch. Then she tells us to get out.

I step outside, inhaling sharply, but the cool night air does nothing to calm the tension coiling inside. We’re not the only ones worried. A crowd gathers, fifty, maybe more. People whisper Helena’s name, the sound rippling through the space between the cabins. And more keep coming. Drawn by the weight of what’s just happened.

“How is she?” A woman’s voice breaks through the hum of the crowd. I don’t look to see who it is.

“She’s badly hurt,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. “But whatever happens, remember this, she fought bravely tonight. Her sacrifice was for us.”

Murmurs spread, hushed but heavy.

“That’s right,” Raul says as he steps out onto the porch. His voice carries, steady and sure. “Helena chose to fight a battle that wasn’t even hers. I don’t know how many of us would still be standing if we’d gone up against Roberta ourselves. Half the pack, maybe. The rest wouldn’t have made it.”

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