Page 61 of Fated to the Lone Shifter
“Pleasure to meet you...again,” I say to Bode, offering only a thin smile.
The tension between the two men is thick enough to ignite.
Just as Noah’s grip tightens, the firehouse alarm screams through the hallway.
Captain Greene appears, his expression tense. “Suit up. We’ve got a wildfire west of Coyote Ridge. Move fast.”
Saved by the bell.
Ten minutes later we’re grabbing the rail on the back of the truck, engines roaring, tires spitting gravel as we tear away from the firehouse.
It’s a long ride—this fire is farther than any I’ve seen so far. I hold on tight, wind ripping through my jacket, the scent of smoke thickening with every mile.
I shout over the engine noise, “Do you think it’s the arsonist again?”
Noah leans toward me, his jaw tense. “I have no idea,” he calls back. “But we’re going to find out.”
It’s nearly a half an hour later when I finally say what’s been gnawing at me since the firehouse. “Your uncle was way out of line.”
Noah snorts. “I would’ve bet the farm he was the arsonist.”
I grin. “Guess not. Just a dweeb.”
We both laugh, tension cracking just enough for him to reach across the rail and squeeze my hand.
It’s a simple gesture, but it nearly sends us flying as the truck skids around a curve and comes to an abrupt stop.
“Hold on!” Marcus shouts over the intercom. “We’re going in on foot—the road’s washed out.”
We jump down, boots hitting packed dirt.
Around us, the forest is too quiet, the air charged with something electric. Along the ridge, I catch the blur ofmovement—dark shapes weaving through the trees like smoke given form.
Wolves. A pack.
Noah lifts his head, sniffing the air. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost to himself. “This is the same arsonist. Or at least connected.”
I don’t ask how he knows. I trust it—trust him.
We move fast, the scent of fire pulling us forward, and deep in my gut, I already know: this blaze isn’t natural.
Not even close.
The fire rages in scattered pockets—hot tongues of flame licking dry bark, flaring high before sputtering, then flaring again with renewed hunger at dry trees and grass, devouring everything in uneven bursts. The smoke is thick—oily and acrid—making it hard to breathe, even through our masks. It clings to our skin, seeps into our clothes, coats every breath with ash.
I’m paired with Tori and one of the senior crew, cutting trenches and setting backfires. I focus hard on the rhythm—cut, burn, retreat—letting the muscle memory take over. Each controlled blaze we light is meant to eat up the fuel before the wildfire can, but today… it isn’t behaving.
“Something’s wrong,” Tori mutters behind her mask, eyes narrowed at the tree line.
I see it too. The wind shifts—hard and sudden—pushing flames against the natural slope, driving the fire uphill faster than it should. Heat pulses from underground, warping the air in strange directions. A patch we cleared ten minutes agois burning again—spontaneous re-ignition. That shouldn’t be possible.
“This pattern doesn’t make sense,” I say tightly. “It’s like it’s—”
“Moving with intention.” Tori finishes grimly.
Exactly.
I steal a quick glance at the forest beyond the line. There’s something in the energy here—something coiled and watching. My magic prickles like it’s trying to warn me. This isn’t just wildfire.
