Page 337 of Warlords, Witches & Wolves

The instant I stepped across the threshold a cold shiver skated down my spine.

Everything’s fine, I won’t find anything.

I shined the flashlight around the space, landing on the nearest workbench.What the…?I crept closer. Jar after jar, filled with leaves, plants, powders. Vines and sticks weaved together in strange hanging ornaments like on those supernatural TV shows I watched. More proof Joan was a witch.

Tucking the flashlight under my arm, I screwed the lid off one jar and lifted it to my nose. Dried herbs.

That wasn’t so bad.

I swept the light around the space, turning in a full circle. At the far end, an oversized metal cabinet caught my attention, and I gravitated to it. My hands shook so much I barely unlatched the lock.

Dread rolled around in my belly.

I creaked open the door and aimed the flashlight on the contents.

I gagged, slapping a hand over my mouth.

More jars stacked the shelves. Only this time, not filled with dried herbs, but…bits. Fingers, eyeballs, fur, pieces of flesh floating in pale orange liquid. I gagged again, inspecting the closest jar. Inside were two amber eyeballs.

Did Joan use them in the concoction she gave the Cole family? Or had she used them to fight the hunter compulsion?

A wolf howled deep in the forest, startling me. I cocked my ear in the direction. The howl sounded different, not Noah. Maybe one of his brothers?

I waited. Listened. When the wolf didn’t howl again, I turned away from the cabinet and aimed the flashlight at the roof. The metal cabinet was nothing compared to this. Huge animal traps hung from the solid timber beams, chunky meat cleavers, rusted metal chains. The shed resembled a freaking horror movie.

Sick to the stomach, I spun to leave. The flashlight landed on a thick, leather bound book with an ancient symbol embossed on the cover.Oh, no.I inched closer. I opened the book and flicked through the pages. Spells. Hundreds of them. Pictures of the same woven sticks and vines that hung in the shed, sketches of wolves, and strange symbols.

This wasn’t an ordinary old book. This was a grimoire.

A folded piece of parchment tucked between the pages caught my attention. I slipped it out and aimed the flashlight so I could read it. It contained a detailed Whitcome family tree at the top of the page, ending with my name. Below was a list of about a dozen surnames with one underlined, written above all the others.

Elizabeth Whitcome.

I staggered back.

Noah was right. The Whitcomes were hunters. But not just any hunters. I had an awful feeling my ancestor was the powerful witch who created the curse.

Chills scratched along my spine.

A wolf howled again. This time the lead weight sank lower in my stomach. Something was wrong. I dug my hand in my back pocket reaching for my cell only to realize I’d left it on the porch.

Damn it.

Noah said they caught the hunter from the waterfall, that the forest was safe. But was it? Oh, dear Lord, with Joan dead, would more hunters come here to search for shifters? Were they related to me?

As a teenager, I always felt safe in the woods. Clearly, that safety was thanks to Joan and all this magical witch business. Plus, I hadn’t lied when I said Thor protected me. He was with me every time I ventured into the forest and never left my side.

I should call Noah. I didn’t like what he said, but he’d told me the truth. I had so many questions and only he could answer them.

I closed the cupboard and turned to leave.

From the corner of my eye, a shadow passed the window of the shed. I stilled. Was it Noah? One of his brothers?

Someone else?

I switched off the flashlight until I knew for sure. In the darkness, my pulse whooshed in my ears. My heart lodged in my throat as the seconds ticked by, ears straining with every slight sound.

Gravel crunched around the side of the shed, moving toward the door. It creaked open. A shadowy figure loomed in the doorway.

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