Page 17 of Enspelled

Are the wolf souls changing her? Is such a thing even possible?

More rain splatters against the window, obscuring most of my view of the forest just outside. “And what the fuck do I do about it when all my focus needs to be on who killed my pack?” I mutter.

I’d happily ignore the consequences of what the souls were—and are—doing to Briar, if it wasn’t for the fact that the only reason I’m not a charred bit of flesh is because of what she did. She shoved me out of the way of Diana Calla’s magic hit, one that made Jonas so crispy as to be almost unrecognizable.

So now, as impossible as it seems, I owe her. Which means I have to fix her.

Somehow.

I’m working out how I’m going to balance these two competing priorities when someone pulls open the truck passenger door and climbs inside.

I have my claws pressed against their neck a second later.

Cool brown eyes meet mine with not the least bit of fear in them. Just like in our previous meetings, baggy black pants, and a hoodie drown her figure.

My eyes go to the distinctive red burn on the side of her face.Mara. “You’re brave, surprising a wolf by climbing into his truck.”

“We have to talk. Can I pull the door closed? I’m getting rained on.”

“Okay, not brave. Suicidal. Youdoknow what I have pressed against your throat, don’t you?”

“I’m not stupid. But time is running out.”

“For?”

Why the fuck am I even listening to this witch who could well be responsible for everything happening in town?

“You, me, the town—but most especially for Briar.”

My eyes narrow and I press my claws harder into the witch’s throat. Two blood drops well against pale, smooth skin. “Why would Briar’s time be running out?”

“Can I close the truck door?”

How does this witch possess no fear at all? Is she crazy?

But then I remember Abigail, the witch who loved to use her magic to smash me against trees over and fucking over again. And when she was done, she thought I’d be grateful for a cup of mint tea.

Fucking witches.

“Why would Briar’s time be running out?” I repeat. More blood wells, sliding down the witch’s throat.

Mara gives no sign she’s in the least bit of pain. “She has a pack of wolf souls inhabiting her body. Is she behaving differently yet? Because if she isn’t now, she soon will.”

I debate the merits of ripping Mara’s throat out and kicking her out of the truck, because anyone—particularly a witch—suddenly being helpful is something I don’t trust. At all.

Mara has an endgame. I don’t know what it is yet, but there will be one. There always is with witches.

I pull the claws from her throat. “Tell me what you know.”

“Layla Markham killed your pack.”

Her quiet words explode in my mind.

She leans away from me.

I lunge at her,juststopping myself from plunging my claws into the back of her neck when she grabs the door handle and pulls it closed.

When she’s done, she turns to me, takes in the claws about an inch away from severing her head from her spine, and sits back in her seat. “I’m not lying,” she says in that same cool, unflappable tone.

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