Page 86 of The Fated Hunter Wolf
Ivan cut off mid-word.
Gone.My vampire brother simply wasn’t there anymore. I felt his absence like a scab being ripped off. One moment a pale figure stood between twin pines, the next there was only empty air and the acrid scent of sulfur.
My supernatural senses reeled, trying to process what had happened. Vampires didn’t just disappear. They moved fast, yes, but they left traces. Scent trails. Displaced air. Something.
This was erasure.
The remaining vampires shifted nervously, their supernatural confidence fracturing as they realized something was hunting them in return.
“Where—” one began, and disappeared.
Another vanished. Then another.
Rhys growled and stepped closer to me, the pack filling the space where he’d stood in formation.
The oppressive cold that had accompanied the vampires was being replaced by something different: clean mountain air and a scent so ancient it made my bones ache.
Within seconds, the clearing was empty. The vampires had been systematically removed from existence, as if they’d never been there at all. The crushing weight of their presence lifted sosuddenly I staggered, my vampire senses finally able to function without being overwhelmed by predatory dominance.
The pack started to shift back to human form.
“What the fuck—” Kenza started.
A figure materialized in the center of the defensive circle and the wolves scurried back, getting ready to attack, if necessary.
Mariyah stood there in her collection of tattered robes, looking like she’d been taking a casual evening stroll instead of single-handedly disappearing a vampire assassination squad. Her ancient eyes surveyed us with a glint.
Her scent was elemental. She looked at me and tilted her head. While she’d looked old with her sunken eyes when she’d visited my cabin, now she looked bone-tired.
She offered the smallest of smiles. “You’re welcome,” she said.
And vanished.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved. We stared at the empty air. I tried to process what we’d witnessed, to understand what kind of power could make centuries-old vampires simply cease to exist.
And triednotto think too hard about what it meant that Mariyah had been watching. Waiting. Ready to intervene when the threat was too great for us to handle.
29
RHYS
The Bellweather mansion squatted in downtown Dallas like a guilty secret wrapped in architectural arrogance.
Between the drive to Seattle and the four-hour flight, we arrived just in time for the seventy-two-hour deadline. The Southern Council always met at the Bellweather mansion, but I’d never been the one to attend. It had always been Logan. From the street, humans saw nothing but an empty lot, probably assuming it was designated for some future strip mall or overpriced condos. But step through the glamour barrier, and you were suddenly face-to-face with an antebellum monument that made you wonder if someone had pickled the entire Confederacy.
The Southern Council sure enjoyed their pomp and circumstance. The Bellweather mansion ticked every box.
White columns stretched three stories high, supporting balconies that dripped with wrought-iron swirls detailed enough to make a wedding cake weep with envy. Spanish moss hung from ancient oaks that had no business thriving in the urban concrete, and the circular drive was paved with stones that predated Texas statehood.
“Subtle,” I muttered, climbing the marble steps beside Sable. “Nothing says ‘secret supernatural government’ like cosplayingGone with the Windin the middle of a major metropolitan area.”
The massive front doors, carved with magically moving constellations representing shifter politics, swung open before we could knock. An orc in formal evening wear with a giant staff greeted us with a practiced smile as two others stood like statues behind him.
“Welcome to the Southern Council,” he said, gesturing for us to move into a foyer that belonged in a museum. His tusked smile was polite but perfunctory as he looked us over. “And you represent which pack?”
“Orion,” Logan replied simply.
The orc froze mid-gesture. His greenish skin went the color of old parchment, and his ceremonial staff trembled in his grip.
