The cabin’s so quiet I can hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. Fucking loud as hell.
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.
I want to rip the motherfucker off the wall and hurl it out a closed window just so I can watch the glass shatter. I don’t know how Archer lives with the damn thing with his heightened shifter hearing, but I’m reaching my limit.
Sable, Ridge, Amora, and Archer sit around the table playing cards, while Trystan wears a groove into the floor by the front window. He’s the only one who looks how I feel—on edge, ready to break apart at the seams.
The witches were supposed to come yesterday. Sable saw it in Cleo’s mind the last time she checked on the witch coven. Plain and clear, they were planning on yesterday, but they didn’t come. The day passed in a haze of worry and choking tension as we all waited for hell to break loose. But then night came, and… nothing.
None of us slept. At least, no one in this cabin did.
I had my hopes up for a fight. I was raring for it, ready to make some witch heads roll. Literally. Now… the uncertainty isn’t something I’m used to.
Did Sable get the day wrong? Or did they trick us somehow? Is all our planning fucked?
Trystan stops in front of the window and peers out once more, then turns to settle back into his pacing.
“Trystan,” Sable says, and I can tell she’s as tense as he is. She’s just hiding it better. “I probably got the day wrong. Without Gwen helping me through the bond, I couldn’t get an entirely clear picture.”
“And if you did get it wrong?” he growls. “What then? Why are they taking so long?”
She sighs and looks back down at her cards. “I don’t know. I must’ve screwed up the connection somehow.”
Amora draws a new card. “The magic you did to reach Cleo isn’t an exact science. Nobody blames you.”
“Of course nobody blames you,” Archer adds, shooting Trystan a slightly annoyed look. “We’re all just keyed up.”
Sable plucks out a card to lay down on the shared pile. Her hand hesitates as she releases the card, and she glances up, worry in her expression. “Should I look into Cleo’s head again?”
“No. Absolutely not.” I shake my head, speaking up before she can run with the idea. “It’s too big of a risk. You know what happened last time.”
She grimaces but nods. “I know. And if we’re being honest, I don’t want to do it again. If I break the barrier and she figures out we’re connected, I’ll basically be handing her all our secrets on a silver platter.”
“Exactly,” Ridge agrees. “It’s not worth it.” He grunts, then cranes his neck to look toward the front of the house. “Trystan, sit down. We can’t do anything yet. You might as well rest.”
But even as he finishes speaking, a howl goes up out in the village. The keening cry is followed by a second, and a third, until a chorus raises an alarm.
I spring to my feet, already shifting to wolf, trusting that someone else will open the front door so I don’t have to break it down.
The attack has begun.
Trystan reaches the door a split second before me and wrenches it open. I barrel past him out into the yard as magic begins to shimmer over him, transforming him to wolf form as his clothes shred away from his body. I can hear Ridge shouting and Archer giving calm orders, but I’m already out the door.
We’ve gone over the attack plan at least a dozen times. Now is the time to do it.
All around us, East Pack shifters burst from their cabins—some in wolf form, some still in human form and carrying guns. Black smoke fills the air, and the sizzle of witch magic is so strong I can taste it with every breath.
When I catch sight of our attackers racing toward us, my stomach clenches.
Shit.
There are a lot of them. And they’ve already managed to breach the protective perimeter around the village, tearing past the sigils burned onto the trees as if we drew them on the bark with fucking crayon.
Chaos explodes around me.
The crack of gunfire fills the air as tendrils of magic reach toward wolves l
ike hands. Shifters racing into smoke fearlessly, refusing to sit back under the force of the attack. Through the hazy darkness, I can see witches dodging jaws or being tackled by massive furry forms.