Page 24 of The Wolf and the Witch

“Gunter called. He tailed them at Helen’s insistence.” Gabriel shifted his eyes to the female in question before looking Greta in the face. “There was an attack,” he was saying, but she couldn’t hear him, just the phantom screams of her sister witches.

“No,” she mumbled, staring at the Lycan without seeing him. A hand landed on her arms and she jerked away, backing away like a cornered animal.

“No,” she kept repeating, tears stinging her eyes.

“Luna!” Gabriel shouted, drawing her eyes to him then glancing around at the other Lycans suddenly watching her fall apart.

“Luna,” Gabriel repeated, edging closer, hands held up. “Gunter is on his way back. There were two groups of rogues. One attacked Geralt and his warriors, but—” He broke off, closing his eyes for a moment. She remembered his twin went with her mate.

Red eyes met hers when he snapped them back open. “He called as soon as he broke away. There’s another group headed here. For you.” Numbness spread from the center of her chest. She blinked dazedly. They’d never leave her alone, she realized, eyes darting to the window behind Gabriel and the crowd of Lycans.

Dark clouds obscured the sun, reflecting her mood. Her magick changed the moment she met Geralt, transforming into something violent and volatile. Like a Lycan, a dark voice whispered in her head.

Her mother warned her against using her emotions as fuel for power. “Nature demands balance,” her mother would chastise her when she lost control of her temper, causing the pipes in the house to burst.

Well, Hecate demands balance too, Greta thought to herself, looking each Lycan in the eye, forcing stiffness into her spine. Life and death, two dueling brothers fighting for dominance, Mother nature acting as mediator. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed again, calling to the violence in her veins.

She didn’t trust them and she owed them nothing, but this pack belongs to Geralt, her Geralt. They’d kill and die for her, a dark voice whispered to her, teasing the violence clawing for release.

“Let them come,” she said, venom lacing her words. She tired of running, of looking over her shoulder. They’d never stop until she gave them a reason to stop.

“Let them come, and let their blood feed the soil, serving as sacrifice in Hecate’s name,” she snarled, anger twisting in her gut, overriding the dread from moments before.

She tired of losing home after home, no place a permanent sanctuary. Lightning flashed again and Greta swore the room flashed red before returning to full color. She ignored it, giving Gabriel a stiff nod.

“What do we do?” she asked Gabriel, readying herself for battle.

Slay thy Kin

Geralt groaned, rolling onto his side, trying not to irritate the claw marks slashed across his torso. The night sky winked down at him. A new moon darkened the sky, Selene’s bane.

His limbs felt weak as he pushed himself to his hands and knees. Unfocused eyes searched for his packmates, Rex, Brice, and Gabriel’s brother. Darkness greeted him. Ryker snarled and clawed in his mind, but the absence of the moon weakened them.

Geralt held little hope for shifting, his wounds healing slowly. Animalistic rogues gave up the reins to their beasts, making them more vulnerable than fully shifted Lycans during the phases of the new moon. It served as his only advantage when they attacked Geralt and his packmates, oblivious to the coming threat.

If the rogues possessed the ability to reason, they’d have recognized the signs of the new moon’s appearance. His legs trembled, buckling under the weight he attempted forcing on them. Urgency clawed beneath his skin. Mate, Ryker whimpered weakly.

Bare feet stumbled forward, disturbing fallen leaves, twigs, and the nests of inferior creatures. Except for the occasional whimper from Ryker, his mind felt eerily quiet. He refused to believe his warriors died beneath the claws of rogues.

“Sebastian!” he shouted, disturbing the night air. Nocturnal creatures hooted back at him, complaining of the disturbance, no doubt. If any of them survived, he placed his bet on Sebastian. The male lived as a rogue for years before joining Crescent Moon pack, even outliving a mate, something few survived.

“Rex! Brice!” Geralt called out, ignoring the scampering of creatures underfoot, insects buzzing around his head. Greta, Ryker whispered, voice growing faint. Fuck, he thought. He needed to find his warriors and return to his pack.

He couldn’t lose another mate. Limping through the woods, calling out the warriors’ names, he held hope close, blowing on the dying ember. But doubts and skepticism swam unbound in his mind. Only Ella knew he was traveling to the Silver Lake pack.

Outside of his pack, only his cousin knew he returned with a witch after fleeing the deathly claws of Redwoods. A growl rumbled in his chest, betrayal splintering through his heart. Ella conveniently visited his pack, informing him of an escaped witch. Scared, little Beta Ella whined about Abbigail’s abuses at the hands of the king.

Geralt kept stumbling forward, like the stupid animal he was born to be, shocked he hadn’t unearthed the truth sooner. He never considered himself a kin slayer, but there was a first time for everything. Besides, is it really kin slaying if you’re only related through marriage?

Only the mocking calls of animals claiming the darkened woods home answered him. He grinned, breaking open the split in his lip, tongue sweeping out to taste his own blood. He couldn’t wait to teach a certain Beta a lesson about what happened when you tempted the big bad wolf. Renewed vigor stiffened his limbs, carrying him forward toward vengeance and home.

Home Defense

Howling signaled the beginning of the end. A calloused hand clamped around her mouth, silencing any stray sounds from escaping. Greta crouched behind the back of the packhouse, Helen’s warmth leaching into her skin from their closely huddled position.

The rain had stopped, but thunder boomed, a chorus to the howling and lightning brightening the night sky, joining the sliver of a crescent moon. Gabriel and select warriors prowled the surrounding woods, mindful of the bespelled traps Greta spent the past twenty-four hours setting. Exhaustion dogged her, her battery nearly drained, but bloodlust urged her to act, to partake in the slaughtering.

Both of her hands drifted to her flat stomach protectively. A couple of days after they started preparing for the attack, she dreamed of a three-headed animal, standing at a crossroads lit by torches. Dreaming of one symbol belonging to Hecate served as a warning, usually danger. Two symbols indicated death. She blinked rapidly, anxious for Geralt’s swift return. Three symbols meant life, a premonition of pregnancy.

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