Page 4 of Cruel Moon
I force my face into what I hope is a neutral expression and give the kid a nod. He scurries across the street, joining his friends. They shoot nervous glances over their shoulders every few seconds as if making sure I haven’t suddenly decided to give chase.
Once the kids disappear around a corner, a strange sensation washes over me. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch, a restlessness that sets my wolf on edge. My nostrils flare, trying to catch a scent that isn’t there. What the hell?
Something feels off, but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s as if the air itself has changed, charged with an energy I’ve never felt before. My wolf paces beneath my skin, agitated and alert.
For a wild moment, I consider pulling over, drawn by an inexplicable urge to prowl the streets of White Fork. To search for…what? I shake my head, trying to clear it.
As I pass the edge of town, leaving the cheerful preparations behind, there’s this nagging feeling that I’m driving awayfrom more than just White Fork. From something important, something vital. My wolf whines, a sound so pitiful it startles me.
But the coven waits, and with it, a funeral I’m not ready to face. I press down on the accelerator, trying to outrun this strange, hollow ache in my chest. Whatever’s happening back there in White Fork, it’ll have to wait. I’ve got ghosts to confront first.
The familiar curves of the road leading to the O’Connor Ranch appear, and my grip on the steering wheel loosens. The anger that’s been fueling me starts to ebb, leaving a hollow ache in its wake. I hang a right at the fork, heading toward my cabin instead of the main house.
Meredith’s funeral. The thought lands like a body blow, knocking the wind out of me. Suddenly I’m not the big bad wolf anymore. I’m just a guy who’s lost too much, about to say goodbye to someone else he cared about. No way I’m showing up looking—and smelling—like I just crawled out of a fight ring. She deserves better than that.
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. It would be easier to stay angry, to let the wolf’s rage consume everything. But as I pull up to my cabin, I feel the fight drain out of me, leaving only grief in its wake.
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and changed, the bruises on my face already fading to a sickly yellow. Fresh jeans. My nice boots. A crisp button-up shirt and my black Stetson.This is the best I’ve got right now.
The drive to the Banfield Court Coven passes in a haze, my stomach churning with a toxic mix of anxiety and dread. I park my truck alongside the others and climb out.
The words of the entrance spell are thick on my tongue as I stand before the circle of white stones. I speak them and then step inside, the scent of sage and lavender washing over me. Myeyes are drawn to the waiting pyre, its presence both inevitable and impossible to accept.
The crowd comes into focus slowly, a sea of somber faces I’ve known my whole life. Some nod in acknowledgment, others avert their gaze. I feel exposed, raw, like my skin’s been peeled back and every emotion is on display. Part of me wants to retreat, to run back to my cabin or find another fight and punch something until I can’t feel…anything. But I owe Meredith this.
My family is already gathered, everyone except Jackson. I still look for his face. I forget he’s not going to be there for a half a second before the grief slams into me like a bull ramming a rodeo gate.
The pyre looms in the center of the field, holding Meredith’s white-shrouded form.
I take a deep breath, steel myself, and move to join the group.
Liam catches my eye as I approach. Gen stands at his side. His mate’s presence seems to soften the hard edges of his grief, and for a moment, I feel a pang of envy so sharp it takes my breath away.
I push it down, nodding to them both as I take my place.
Aiden, our alpha and cousin, stands tall and proud, but I can see the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. This isn’t just a funeral—it’s a political minefield. The death of Meredith has far-reaching consequences for this coven. She was their leader—their mother superior in a way. The transition won’t be easy. And her daughter is still missing.
On the other side of the pyre, Lawrence stands with his band of hybrid wolf-witches and other male witches or warlocks or whatever they’re called. I don’t know and right now I don’t care. His face clearly shows pain, eyes never leaving the shrouded form of his wife. I believe the pain to be genuine even though he hadn’t seen Meredith in over twenty years. You can’t hide pain like that from a wolf.
A hush falls over the gathering as Lila steps forward, her daughter Alice at her side. They’re both dressed in flowing white robes, their hair unbound and dancing in the manufactured breeze.
It’s amazing how real it feels inside this place, but it’s just a magickal pocket universe. Still, the grass smells like grass. And the air smells of pine and oak and ash from the fires burning in the cottage fireplaces. The sun above us is warm on my face and it will set just like the real sun on the outside. The sky, however, is different, a soft lavender-blue color that never changes.
I like the predictability of it. The consistency.
Lila raises her arms, her voice clear and strong as she begins to chant in an ancient language that makes my wolf’s ears prick up.
Alice joins in, her sweet soprano weaving with her mother’s alto, creating a haunting melody that seems to make the very air vibrate. The breeze picks up, carrying the scent of sage and lavender stronger now, mingling with the distinct aroma of magick—like the air during a storm right before a lightning strike.
My wolf stirs restlessly beneath my skin, responding to the ancient power in the witches’ voices. Around me, I see others affected too—eyes glowing gold—their wolves close to the surface. The old Moonbound legend says the witches of Britannia made us to protect them…to love them.
And we do. This coven belongs to the O’Connor pack and we will fight to protect it with every breath we have.
As the chant builds to a crescendo, Lila approaches the pyre with a torch in hand. The flames dance, seeming almost alive as they reach for Meredith’s shrouded form. With a final, haunting note, Lila touches the flame to the wood.
Fire leaps up, hungry and fierce, quickly engulfing the pyre. The heat sears my face, but I welcome it. It’s easier to blame the fire for the moisture in my eyes.
We all watch in silence as the flames climb higher, carrying our friend, our protector, our aunt to whatever lies beyond. The crackling of the fire is the only sound in the meadow, punctuated occasionally by a muffled sob or a whispered prayer.
