Page 63 of Curses and Casualties
“And I don’t like how simple this plan is,” Jules mutters, pulling ingredients from a pouch at her belt. “Simple plans die quick deaths.”
“OK. Then we make it complex,” Georgia says, surprising everyone by taking charge. The firelight catches in her hair, and for a moment I see not my gentle geologist but the Alpha female she’s becoming. “Three-pronged assault. Úlfhéðnar from the north at moonrise, witches and fae from the east just before, and whoever’s craziest hits the compound directly as a diversion.”
“That would be me,” Scarlett volunteers immediately.
“And me,” Lucien adds with a theatrical sigh. “I suppose centuries of existence have made me sufficiently crazy.
“OK then,” Georgia continues. “Scarlett, you and Lucien will lead the direct team. Make as much noise as you can, draw their best fighters and”—she glances at Amara, who gives her a nod of confirmation—”buy us time to reach the Soulcave. If they think we’re going brute-force and head-on, they’ll throw everything at you.”
“Sounds like suicide,” Lucien says, though he looks more interested now.
“You’re immortal,” Scarlett points out.
“I can die,” he retorts, playing with a charmed ring that allows him to endure sunlight. “I just don’t want to die in this god-awful place.” He slaps a mosquito buzzing around his head and mutters, “Disgusting little blood suckers.”
Ethan coughs a laugh. “What about you?” he asks Georgia and me. “How are you going to get in that cave when the only opening will be guarded?”
“I’ll portal them in,” Amara says, stepping forward. “Tomorrow night, just as the moon crests the mountains. We’llneed to be about a mile from the cave—any closer and the magical resonance interferes with my spells, any farther and their witches will be able to track us. The Soulcave’s energy should mask my signature on entry if I’m careful.” She pauses, meeting my eyes. “I can put you in the cave system through the old tunnels, but you’ll have to reach the main chamber on foot.”
“Or paw,” Georgia says quietly, and I notice the way her fingers flex, like her skin can’t quite hold her wolf anymore.
“The ritual needs to begin within an hour of moonrise for maximum power,” the silver-haired witch adds. “Any later and you risk the bond being incomplete.”
“What exactly are the fae bringing to this fight?” Ethan asks, studying the three otherworldly beings with obvious wariness. “I mean, no offense, but I don’t know what you guys actually do.”
The deer-like fae’s form flickers, becoming more solid. “We manipulate reality itself,” it says, its voice like rustling leaves. “Illusions that become truth. Paths that lead where they should not. Time that warps around intent, not logic.”
“We can make their enforcers chase shadows,” the willowy one adds, stretching fingers that definitely end in thorns. “Lead them in circles while you reach your destination.”
“And when the moon rises,” the color-shifting fae says, “we can amplify the magical resonance. Make your ritual’s power reach farther, hit harder.”
“No pressure,” Georgia mutters.
“Speaking of outside interference,” Amara’s gaze sharpens as she scans the perimeter. “Are you aware there’s a wolf prowling our magical boundaries?”
“We know,” Georgia says quickly. “We think it’s Magnus’s.”
Amara’s eyebrows rise. “The broken Alpha? Isn’t he bound?”
“He was when we saw him last,” Ethan supplies. “But he and Scarlett seem to be mates. His wolf went nuts when he saw her. Pushed against its cage.”
Amara frowns deeply. “That’s... unusual. Especially for a binding done by someone as powerful as Evanora. I mean, it’s not unheard of, but if the wolf has actually broken its cage, we could be dealing with something more?—”
She’s cut off by the sound of an engine approaching. My wolf recognizes the rumble before my human mind processes it. Owen’s old truck.
“That’s Owen,” I say, already moving.
The headlights cut through the trees before the engine dies. Owen emerges looking haggard, medical bag slung over one shoulder. I step out of the magical perimeter, and we stop three feet apart, a decade of living in the same world but with two completely different experiences of it yawning between us despite our continued closeness.
“You look like hell, little brother,” he says finally.
“Still prettier than you.”
It’s an old joke, worn thin with time, but it cracks something open between us. Then we’re hugging, fierce and desperate, like we’re boys again before the world went mad.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For leaving. For everything.”
“Shut up.” He pulls back, eyes fierce. “You survived. You found your mate. That’s all that matters.”
