Page 65 of Wolf of the Storm
A wolf lunges at me. I meet him human, using the plank to deflect his trajectory. Shift. Wolf-form tears into his flank. Shift back. Human hands grab a second attacker and throw him against the wall. Shift.
The world becomes a blur of transformation, each one faster than the last. I'm not just one or the other anymore. I'm both, seamlessly flowing between forms like water taking different shapes.
The storm matches my rhythm. Lightning when I need it. Wind when it helps. Rain that blinds my enemies while my storm-enhanced senses cut through it like it's not even there.
Above me, thunder roars in time with my own wolf's snarl. Are we making that sound together? I can't tell anymore where I end and the storm begins.
One of Connor's wolves—a brown male with military precision—breaks past my guard and hits the inn's door. Wood splinters. I hear Nessa scream inside.
White-hot fury floods me. Not my human rage or my wolf's aggression. Something deeper. Primal. The Storm Alpha defending his territory, his pack, his mate, an innocent child.
I shift one last time.
But this shift is different. My form doesn't stabilize into wolf or human. I'm something else, something in between and beyond. My body crackles with electricity, fur standing on end as lightning plays across my skin. My eyes glow with storm-light. Wind whips around me in a vortex that tears at clothing and fur alike.
I am not Declan in human form.
I am not the black wolf.
I am the living storm.
The brown wolf freezes, his eyes wide with primal fear. Every wolf here feels it—the presence of something greater, something wild and ancient and unstoppable.
I let the lightning strike through me.
It doesn't hurt. It feels right, like breathing. The bolt forks from the sky, channels through my body, and explodes outward in a wave of concussive force. Every enemy wolf within twenty feet is blown backward, stunned and smoking.
The rain falls harder, responding to my will. It's not random now. It's a weapon. Sheets of water slam into Connor's people with the force of a fire hose, driving them back, making them slip and stumble.
I advance on the inn, this storm-form moving with fluid grace. No one challenges me. No one dares.
Inside, I hear Eliza's voice: "Stay down, Nessa. Don't look."
My radio—somehow still functional despite everything—crackles with Tessa's voice: "Declan, we lost the western cove. Finn got Grayson out, but the earth-warden is dead. Connor succeeded there."
No!
"North?" I demand, my voice layered with thunder.
"Rafe couldn’t hold it. The druid-blood fell."
"South?"
"Kian's still engaged, but he's fighting a losing battle."
Five seals broken now. Connor needs just one more death plus Eliza—the Fae-blood in the south or Nessa here in the village.
And Eliza. Always Eliza, the keystone that holds everything together.
I turn to face the remaining wolves. They're regrouping, calculating. They know they're losing here, but Connor's probably promised them fortunes. Enough to risk a Storm Alpha who's stopped holding back his power.
One of them—a lean grey female with scars across her muzzle—takes a step forward. Tests my resolve.
I let the thunder roll, low and continuous. The ground trembles with it.
She backs down.
"Leave." My voice carries across the courtyard, human words wrapped in storm-sound. "Tell Connor he failed here. Tell him this village is under my protection, and any wolf who crosses that line again won't walk away."
