Page 7 of Wings and Shadowthief

Everyone was telling him what he already knew. If he wanted answers, he had to go to someone who had been there with him that day.

Gwen.

1stof November 2157

If the werewolf writhing under her care didn’t stop snapping his teeth threateningly, Gwen was going to give him a reason to see her as the enemy.

“You have to stay still,” she snapped, her frustration rising.

Restorative magic was supposed to be natural to her kind—water witches—but the only thing that she found natural was causing storms, snowfalls in July, and the occasional downpour on a sunny beach. Healing anyone was hard enough without having to deal with growls, snaps, and flailing.

She sighed. Who had died and made her the chief healer in this place?

Her gibe wasn’t even close to funny, given the fact that the official head healer of Oldcrest was currently out for the count. Vincent wasn’t dead, but his condition had been touch-and-go for a moment. After the chaos of the latest battle, she was doing her best to keep the inhabitants of her home alive, like every witch here.

Gwen remembered a time when her life had been boring. She’d remained stuck inside her home most of the time, as her magic was too volatile for her to walk around unchaperoned. Here in Oldcrest, a territory ruled by vampire royalty and harboring a pack of ancient werewolves, dozens of witches, and hundreds of young sups who had no idea how to control their powers, she might as well have been a kitten. The authorities didn’t consider her dangerous.

She should be terrified of this place, these powerful, unhinged people around her, but she wasn’t. Oldcrest felt like home. Everyone here was family.

The werewolf male flashing his fangs definitely wasn’t her favorite honorary cousin, but she was going to help as much as she could nonetheless. He—along with most of the members of the pack—had come to their aid when they’d been attacked. Without the werewolves, the battle could have ended differently. There was a chance more of her friends could have been hurt, or worse. It was the least she could do.

Her heart still hadn’t stopped thundering in her chest, although the self-appointed queen’s followers had been killed or beaten back outside of their borders. She was safe. Most of her friends were safe.

It didn’t feel like it. Not when her closest friend here had almost died.

That wasn’t right. No almost about it.

Chloe had beendead. Cold and still as ice.

She shook her head, not allowing herself to dwell on it.

Gwen let her magic coat her fingers, willing it to remain in her control, and to do as it was bid. All she wanted was for it to heal the wolf’s broken shoulder and the two puncture wounds on his neck.

In her exhaustion, Gwen had dropped most of her physical and mental shields, as well as the complex spells she’d used to make herself faster and stronger during their fight against the vampire enemies who’d wanted to destroy them—destroy her friends, and the current rulers of Oldcrest—to establish their dominion.

Oldcrest may be a small stretch of land in the wilderness of Scotland, but to the supernatural world, it represented far more. It was a seat of power for the seven greatest vampire families—the first ones ever created, turned directly by Ariadne. And though the rest of the supernatural creatures didn’t like to admit it, vampires ruledthem, too. They were immortal, physically stronger, and could often wield magic. Pissing them off wasn’t smart for any race, any clan, any coven.

Now six of the seven houses on Night Hill were destroyed. The black Eirikrson manor stood alone at the summit.

Gwen wasn’t entirely certain what had occurred, how the fire had stopped—how the air had suddenly cleared. She’d figure it out eventually. For now, her one priority was making sure that their allies saw another day.

As energy transferred from her palm onto the rough silver-gray fur, the wolf shifted on his flank, pain evident on the animal’s features. With her adrenaline still running high, she saw the mouthful of fangs opened wide, closing in on her slower than it might have approached. Seeing it didn’t mean that she had time to do anything about the oncoming threat. Damn her mortal strength, her human speed.

She closed her eyes and flinched in apprehension, imagining those long, curved fangs sinking into her skin. She couldn’t blame the wolf. Healing was a painful business. When the wound was consequential, it itched and burned with such intensity that patients often passed out.

Pain never came.

“Stay.” The low, domineering command held so much strength it could only have come from an alpha, but she knew that voice. It didn’t belong to anyone who was part of the First Pack.

Cracking her eyes open, she found familiar silver-blue eyes fixed on the beast at her feet.

Jack Hunter.

He was…a friend of a friend? He and Chloe were pretty tight—he had smiles and nicknames for the hot vampire blonde Gwen had clicked with since their first day at Oldcrest. Though they ran in the same circle, Gwen couldn’t remember exchanging more than a few words with Jack Hunter in the space of a year.

She was confused to find him here, so very close to her, exuding the kind of commanding aura wolves always responded to. If he’d been a beast, there was no doubt that Jack would have been an alpha.

He must have worn a shirt at some point today, because she could see what remained of it—ribbons of fabric barely hanging over his tanned, ripped chest. He had a number of wounds—his chest, his arms, his face, his legs all seemed to have been either bruised or cut—but they were superficial, and nonthreatening. Still, she itched to reach out and heal him as best as she could.

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