Page 8 of The Wolf and the Witch

Dazed, Geralt glanced around the room, wishing once more he’d taken a chance on the consequences of disobeying the king and kept his daughter at home that night.

His best warriors stood in a semicircle before him. Rex, Jaxon, Brice, and Gabriel waited for his instruction. Geralt’s eyes wandered to Ella. He speculated on her usefulness when she’d hesitated at telling the truth. His instincts urged him not to trust the female. Traitor, Ryker voiced in his mind.

“How do you want to proceed, Alpha?” Rex asked. Blue eyes gleamed with a hunger for violence. Blonde hair hung in uneven spikes around an angular face. Jaxon’s green eyes shifted in Ella’s direction frequently as well. Geralt suspected the dark-haired male pondered the same question as him. He trusted Gabriel filled them in on the details before they entered his office.

“With all due respect, Alpha, going against the king would be suicide,” Brice spoke up. He’d pulled his blonde hair up into a bun atop his head. A few wayward strands weaved in front of hazel eyes. Geralt gave the male a curt nod, acknowledging the truth of his words.

“Ella, if you know more than you’re telling, speak up now.” Geralt sent a menacing glare her way, lips twisting with a scowl. Once Abbigail returns home, he never wants Ella darkening his door again. No one meant more to him than his pup, the only bloodkin he had left.

Biting her lip, Ella nodded. “If you want to get Abbigail away from the king without endangering your pack, your best bet is a witch.”

“A witch?” Jaxon scowled at the suggestion. Only the king and his men were reckless enough to hunt for witches, enslaving them for their magick. Geralt preferred keeping magick out of his pack. Rogues provided enough trouble. Hunting witches was only borrowing more trouble than the pack could handle.

“We’re not witch hunting, cousin,” Geralt stated firmly, a hint of irritation in his voice. His skin still felt tight after two shifts, and Ryker kept pressing insistently for release, for blood.

Ella brought those doe eyes up to look directly into his. “I’m not suggesting you enslave a witch like the king does.” She glanced back down at her hands. The constant twisting and tugging had him fighting the urge to rip the damn things off her. Ryker purred his assent. What’s a threat with no hands, the beast taunted.

Ella continued, “A witch escaped the palace. There are rumors she’s found refuge in Redwoods?—”

“You mean the cursed forest near the palace? The one where anything living goes in but never comes out? Are you trying to get our Alpha killed, Beta?” Rex took a step in the female’s direction and Gabriel shifted to his left, positioning himself in the male’s path.

Geralt snapped, “You four will clean up any blood that spills on these floors.”

Brice placed a gentle hand on Rex’s shoulders. Rex snapped his jaws at the hand, stepping away from Brice and Gabriel.

“I don’t trust this female. Why hasn’t Abbi contacted Geralt herself?” Rex asked.

“Ever consider she can’t?” Jaxon fired back, brows dropping low and arms crossing over his chest.

“Enough!” Geralt had heard enough. “All of you, get out. Except Ella.” His red stare pinned her in place. “I want to hear more about this witch.” Turning to Gabriel, he said, “Book me a flight to New York. You will be in charge until I get back.”

Jaxon stepped forward, but Geralt stopped him with a warning growl. If a witch and a cursed forest were all that stood between him and his pup, he’d take his damn chances.

“I can trust that you three will back up Gabriel and ensure everything runs smoothly until I get back?” he questioned his team. Gabriel acted as Beta, a second in command. But he considered Rex, Jaxon, and Brice as his Delta, Gamma, and Theta, respectively. They weren’t official positions but outside of the Elders, he trusted their counsel and they protected the pack fiercely.

As one, the males nodded their heads in agreement. Some of the tightness in Geralt’s chest eased. He had a lead and a destination. It was a start. I’m coming, baby girl. He made a silent vow to Angel that he’d bring their daughter home, no matter the cost.

Let's Ride

Vervain made Geralt’s limbs heavy and mind foggy, but at least it quieted Ryker for the commercial flight to New York. The last thing he needed were humans filming him so he could become the next “American Werewolf in Paris”. His fingers felt clumsy with his claw tips sheathed, and his head felt near to bursting with the constant commotion of over a hundred humans surrounding him. Sunglasses shielded his eyes whenever they shifted to red. A mask covering the lower half of his face didn’t do a decent job of diluting the scents assaulting his sensitive nose. His jaw ached from the constant grinding of his teeth.

He hated flying commercial but a private jet landing near the mountains would draw the Lycan king’s attention. Gunter risked life and limb by placing a hand on his forearm, giving him a gentle pat. Geralt closed his eyes against the impulse to reach over and strangle the male. He insisted on coming with Geralt under the guise of putting Helen’s mind at ease. Her complaints about his plan fell on deaf ears as he packed his things for the two-day journey.

Helen would be upset if he killed Gunter, he reminded himself. Bile climbed into his throat as the plane jolted, causing his teeth to clack. His fingers tightened on the armrest, and he prayed to Selene for a safe landing. A plane crash could definitely end a Lycan’s life.

Gunter chucked softly. Geralt shot him a glare behind his shades. To his altered vision, the plane resembled a fun-house mirror, painted in reds and orange. Human chatter drove a pick axe into his skull. He fought his body’s desire to shift.

“Get me off this fucking plane,” he muttered, knowing the older Lycan could hear him perfectly.

“Yes, Alpha.” Laughter tinged his words, but the male pulled his phone out, fingers flying across the screen. Geralt shoved his head back into the seat, breathing as little as possible. His chest wouldn’t loosen until he could hold his daughter in his arms. The upholstery complained from the claws seeping out of his fingertips. Control slipped through his fingers like sand. He couldn’t stand another minute on the plane or he risk exposure.

Gunter gripped his arm firmly. Leaning over, he whispered in Geralt’s ear, “Gabriel chose this flight specifically. The pilot is from the Lakeside pack in California. He’s going to make an emergency landing.” Geralt released his hold on the armrest. Nodding eagerly, he brought a trembling hand to wrap around the watered down glass of whiskey in the cupholder. Feeling solid ground beneath his feet couldn’t come quick enough.

Into the Woods

Howls disturbed the quiet of the woods bordering the palace of the Lycan king. Geralt stayed downwind, stepping carefully over broken twigs, traveling away from the direction of the howling. Gunter remained back at the hotel in Lake Placid. After touching down in Boston, the pair drove the remaining four hours to the Adirondack mountains.

Geralt insisted on finding the witch alone, commanding Gunter to book a room and only come searching for him if he didn’t make contact in 24 hours. The inn they’d passed was merely 25 miles east of where Gunter dropped him off. The pack mindlink would snap back into place as soon as they were within 10 miles of each other. Now, he had 24 hours to a find a witch in a haystack.

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