Page 14 of Pack Rage
I wasn’t sure about that. “Del taught me all about weapons. How to protect myself. I used to stash a knife made out of pipe and duct tape under my mattress. I had that kind of stuff hidden all over Southern. Del made it a part of my training—to find or make weapons, to know how to get my hands on them, and to never forget they were there.”
“How many do you have stashed in the compound?” Glen asked.
I thought for a moment. “Nine blades tied to tree branches, unless some of them came down in a storm or somethin’ after I left. Four… no, five spools of wire and three jars of my ghost pepper-cinnamon blend.”
Sergeant cleared his throat. “Would you be willing to share where those things are? So the unranked women could have a few more weapons they can handle,” he explained when I hesitated. There weren’t many I would tell about my secret caches of weapons, but Iris and her crew had helped me more than once. They could have any weapon they wanted. Except maybe my steak knife.
“Sure.” I listed out all the places, and when I was done, Glen was wide-eyed and Sergeant was almost smiling.
“I’m impressed.”
“That was all Del. He taught me everything I know.” Something had been bothering me, and I gestured to the markings on his skin. Sergeant had said he’d given up his magic, but I’d smelled an almost unnoticeable hint of a lie. “He made sure I knew that the best weapons we have are the ones we’reborn with. Our minds, our feet, and in your case, magic. You still have that weapon, don’t you? It’s just hidden.”
His bushy eyebrows furrowed. “What are you getting at?”
“It’s where we need to get into that’s the issue.” I took a deep breath. “We can’t storm Eastern with an army, though it might be a good distraction if they think that’s our plan. We need to sneak in, me and Glen. But to do that, we need magic. We needyou, Uncle.”
For a moment, seeing the pain flicker across Sergeant’s face, I felt bad calling him out. “I wasn’t lying, Flor. I don’t have access to my magic. Not the witchcraft side, anyway.”
I softened my tone. “But you still have it?”
He hesitated, running a hand over his marked arm before answering, “Yes. Magic is in the blood. You would have it, too.”
“My scar.” I pressed a hand to my chest, and he looked at the star curiously. “Do you think it’s blocking whatever magic I might have? Maybe that’s the reason I can’t shift, or not like I should.”
He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes on the end of the scar that poked up over my neckline. “You could be right; getting that scar before you were even born could be the reason for a lot of things. Whatever spell the witch from Florida cast might have affected both branches of your magical heritage.”
“Both?” Glen asked.
He nodded. “Witchcraft and wolfcraft are sides of the same coin, phases of the moon’s power. Their separation is what’s killing our kind. Or so I believe.”
Glen was the one to hum this time, thinking about what that might mean, I supposed.
Sergeant sighed heavily. “If I could use magic to save your mates, and our people, I would. These scars are spells, though, ones I chose. I’d have to carve them out of my skin to use mywitch magic again. It would most likely kill me. Though if it would save my pack, my family, I would make the attempt.”
Now I did feel bad. I wanted a way into Eastern that wouldn’t get anyone killed. Okay, not anyone on our side. “Well, shit. I’m sorry,” I muttered. “We can’t lose you.Ican’t. You’re my favorite great-uncle.” I forced a smile that became real as he grumbled about smart aleck nieces.
Glen and Sergeant discussed options for ways past technological defenses as we made our way back to the center of the compound. Glen knew a lot about the cameras and other tech equipment they’d used, though as far as he knew, the only way to disable them was from inside the Mansion.
My steps slowed as we approached the back of the Pack House, the darkness around us growing lighter and filling with the sounds of dozens of shifters. Someone had strung lights in some of the trees that ringed the flat space behind the dining hall. It was almost cheerful.
Of course, the music probably helped. Someone had turned on a radio, and a country song was playing, with guitars and fiddles and a deep-voiced singer going on about his aching heart.
Dean and a bunch of the rogue males had gathered in the center of the dirt ring that had been one of Callaway’s favorite places to deliver public punishments or announcements. For some reason, Dean had chosen this spot to… teach them steps to something?
“Are theydancing?”
“Yeah, it’s a line dance! I know this one,” Glen said aloud, pulling me toward the ring. I shook my head and let him go, pushing him on when he tried to stay with me. I could tell he wanted to dance. When he started, the rest of the rogues did, too, as well as a few of the unranked women.
The dust flew up around their feet as they repeated the steps, turning in each direction. I wanted to join in, but I couldn’t. Thisplace might still feel weirdly like home, but it had never been a happy one.
The ground where they danced was the same spot Callaway had announced me as the prey for the Hunt. I almost smiled, thinking about the arrangements that dotted the packlands now, the remains of those who hunted me serving as a grisly reminder that power could change hands. And abusing the weak could cause you to lose yours—your hands, or heads, or any other part—when the wheel turned.
I glanced around in the shadows of the trees, noting the sour looks on the faces of the previously ranked Southern members. I wasn’t sure if they disapproved of the dancing, or if they wanted to join in and felt like they couldn’t.
When that song ended, a new one began, and Glen came back to my side, smiling.“Why aren’t you dancing, princess?”
“This place holds a lot of bad memories,” I said after a moment. “This exact spot. I don’t know if this place will ever feel like the kind of pack I should dance in.”
