But there’s something I want to try first.
As Ridge walks a perimeter around our temporary encampment, I shift back to human form, not even bothering to dig into my pack for clothes. I don’t expect to be in this form for long, but I need to access my magic, and it’s pretty much impossible for me to call up and control when I’m a wolf.
Without Gwen’s magic giving me a boost, it’s harder to find the room inside my mind that leads to the tunnel. I get a few false starts and dead ends before I finally dig deep enough into my own magic to find that place.
The tunnel is just as shadowy as it was when Gwen helped me through, and I can’t help but remember all those terrible nightmares again. Always walking dark tunnels, always afraid for my life because of what was waiting for me on the other end. Were they premonitions of this?
Maybe every step I’ve taken since I ran for freedom from my uncle’s truck has been leading me to Gwen and discovering this bond with Cleo. Shit. If I look at it like that, I fear the bond between me and the coven leader even more. It feels… inevitable in some way.
But I want to know what’s happening. Too much time has passed since I saw Lawson being tortured, and I’m terrified we’re too late. I want to know where the coven is and what their next move is, so that we can adjust our plan accordingly. All we know now is that Cleo has the information; we don’t know how she’ll use it.
But when I come out of the tunnel and into Cleo’s mind, the images and sound are fractured. I don’t get the whole picture. I only get hints of sound and dialogue. It has to be because Gwen isn’t here to buoy me up with her magic, and it stings that I’m not skilled enough on my own to handle this.
Will I ever be? Is my lack of control due to a lack of training, or is it because of the fact that I’m not a full witch?
“—closest?” Cleo’s sharp voice cuts through my thoughts. I catch a flash of a man’s broad face and a table covered in a map.
“East Pack, prob—” The man’s gruff voice fades out before he finishes speaking, and colors blur and fade around me.
“—weakest too,” Cleo muses, the words coming in loud and clear once more. The room flares back into view as she taps a segment of the map with a long nail. “We leave at—”
Then they’re gone again.
I’m back in the dark tunnel, and no matter how hard I try to press forward, I’m not able to break through and get any more glimpses into Cleo’s mind.
But I heard enough.
The East Pack.
My heart flutters in my chest as I think of Malcolm, lying in his sick bed and unable to fight for his pack. Turning on my heel, I race into the darkness back toward my own mind and away from the bloodthirsty witch at the other end of the bond.
I open my eyes to find that Archer is sound asleep, curled against my side. Trystan—for all his ranting and raving—is passed out on the other side of Archer, arms and legs akimbo as if he flopped onto the ground and fell asleep where he landed.
A soft, dark warmth on my other side tells me Dare is resting against me, though I can tell he’s awake and watchful. Ridge is the only one of my men not lying down. He’s sitting a few feet away, his nose tilted toward the sky and his mind probably a million miles away.
“Ridge,” I whisper urgently, standing up and extricating myself from the pile of warm, furry bodies that surround me. When I’m clear of the others and won’t disturb them, I shift back to wolf form.
Beside me, Dare’s ears perk up. He’s clearly awake, but he remains still even as he listens carefully.
Drawn by my voice and my movement, Ridge turns and looks over at me with his beautiful honey eyes. You should be sleeping.
I saw into Cleo’s mind again.
Tension ripples through his body at my words. He stands and pads closer, his hackles bristling up along his spine. What did you see?
I relay the few words I managed to hear and finish with, I think they’re going to attack the East Pack first.
He nods once, and even his wolf’s face looks grim. Then we readjust our course for Archer’s pack.
18
Ridge
I’ve never been more happy to see another pack’s territory than I am when we race into the East Pack village.
I lost feeling in my legs ages ago. I’m running on fucking autopilot, putting one paw in front of the other because I have no other choice. If I feel this exhausted, this much like a worn out piece of shit, I can’t even imagine how Sable feels. She had no time to get used to her wolf form before we ended up racing all over the fucking state of Montana.
But she hasn’t said a thing. Wolves are built for running, and shifters can go harder and faster than most, but even still, we covered more miles in the past twenty-four hours than I ever thought possible. I want to get her to Archer’s cabin where she can rest and recuperate. All of us, really. We don’t need to be racing headlong into war while our bodies collapse.
The East Pack village is untouched since we last saw it, and for that I’m thankful. The whole way here, I worried we would be too late. I worried we’d find the village in flames, bodies strewn everywhere, Malcolm dead in
