We spend a bit of time discussing the strategy we’ve come up with to fend off a coordinated witch attack. Malcolm has been heavily involved in the planning of it, even though he won’t be physically able to join the fight. A few times, as we discuss flanking strategies and contingency plans, I catch him grimacing slightly.
I think back to my heated response when Archer asked me last night whether I wanted to fight the witches, and I have a feeling Malcolm would give anything to be able to join the battle and protect his pack.
He gives me another hug before we leave, and I drop my gaze to the floor as we break apart, blushing slightly. I have no idea who my parents were, but despite all the lies Clint told me about them, I have a feeling he was telling the truth about them being dead. And in their absence, all I had in the way of family for a long time was an abusive man who turned out to not even be a blood relative.
Malcolm’s kind, fatherly demeanor makes my eyes burn and my chest ache in a pleasant way. It’s strange, but so… so damn nice.
Finally, my two mates and I head back to Archer’s house. We’re seated in the small, slightly cramped kitchen eating sandwiches for lunch when Trystan and Ridge return. I hear the front door open and the low rumble of Ridge’s gravelly voice reaches my ears—and suddenly, I’m running. I race through the house and right into his arms, dragging Trystan into the hug too. They’re both so big and broad my arms barely fit around them together, but I squeeze as hard as I can anyway.
“Well, we’re happy to see you, too,” Trystan teases, dropping a kiss to the top of my head. “You smell like bread. Is there food?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes. There’s food.”
Ridge slides his hands around my waist and kisses me, his honey eyes glittering. “You smell better than food, little wolf.”
Once we’re all seated at the table and Trystan is slathering a pound of mayonnaise on four slices of bread, Ridge catches us up to speed.
“Everything is set. We came back straightaway to get things moving here,” he says, leaning his elbows on the old wooden table. “Our packs are coming later, and they’ll bring what supplies they can.”
My heart lightens a little at his words, and I glance toward Trystan. “Your pack too?”
“Yup.” He nods. “They’ll be here.” He hesitates, then adds, “Took a bit of convincing, but they’re coming. They wouldn’t miss a chance to go up against the witches.”
Something about his tone makes me think it wasn’t quite as easy to convince them as he’s making it sound. I’ll have to ask him about that later. Of the three remaining packs in Montana, his is the one I know the least about. I’ve spent time in both the North and East Pack lands, but the West Pack is a bit of a mystery to me.
“That’s good.” I smile encouragingly. “Combining strength will give us a better chance of standing up against the witches.”
“Much better odds,” Archer agrees. He runs a hand through his golden hair. “So I guess now we just need to tell my pack what’s happening.”
“And,” Ridge adds, shooting a glance at me, “tell them that they need to get on board with having a witch fighting on their side.”
I grimace and stare down at my half-eaten sandwich, wishing it could give me strength. Getting all three packs to accept me seems a whole lot harder than fighting a coven.
The East Pack’s council building is much nicer than the North Pack’s old corrugated metal barn. The exterior walls are covered by clean, white siding, and the interior is finished with linoleum floors and drywall. There are even enough chairs for everyone in the pack, it seems. When we arrive, the place is absolutely brimming with shifters.
When Malcolm put out word that he was calling a meeting, he’d indicated it was mandatory for all to attend—including himself. His presence alone is enough to drag out every single member of the pack who has been wanting to see him or speak to him throughout his illness.
Archer told me it’s a rare occurrence for Malcolm to get out of bed these days. The old man is weak of body, but strong of spirit, and I can see it in the way his presence seems to take up all the space in the room. A steady line of people wait to greet him with a smile and a handshake as he sits in his wheelchair at the front of the meeting space.
Being surrounded by all these shifters makes me nervous, and this is only one of the three packs who need to be convinced to let me help them. But although I’m terrified to broach this subject—even with my mates at my side—I’m determined too.
I used the couple of hours before the meeting to pore over Gwen’s book and practice some more spells. I paid particular attention to sigils meant to keep control, because the last thing I need is to lose control of my power in front of yet another pack of shifters. At this rate, I’ll end up with a reputation I don’t need while I’m trying to integrate with the pack world.
A dull roar fills the room as the shifters greet one another and find their seats, and I wonder how Malcolm will ever get them to quiet down so he can speak. But he apparently doesn’t need any special tricks, unless you count him standing wearily from his wheelchair, using only the podium to guide his weak legs. By the time he positions himself behind the shiny mahogany stand, the room has gone dead silent.
“My pack mates,” he says, his voice booming with an authority that’s a complete contrast to his
