Did I kill any wolves in my attack? Did I hurt any of my mates? I wasn’t even throwing spells, just pure, raw magic. I had no control.
“They’re okay.” I feel him nod, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on me at all. “What the hell was that?” he rasps.
“Magic.” I swallow, tears pricking my eyes. “I don’t know what happened.”
“It’s okay.” I can hear the strain in his voice. He still hates witch magic, and I almost can’t believe he can stand to touch me after watching what I just did. But his hand smooths over my back as he adds, “You took a shitload of the witches down, moonlight. Whatever you threw out knocked them back hard. Your magic didn’t kill them, but it gave us the opening we needed.”
I nod, pressing my face against his chest and squeezing my eyes shut to force the tears back. I wish I could pretend any of that was on purpose—that it wasn’t just blind luck that the witches were hit and not my friends. Not my mates.
Before I can say anything else to Dare, I catch Trystan’s scent behind me. A second later, I’m being swept up into his arms. My other two mates join us a moment later, and as I feel all four of them surround me, the awful feeling that’s stayed with me ever since I pulled the torrent of magic back into myself finally begins to fade.
They’re all alive.
They’re all here.
I cling to all of them, letting myself take comfort in their presence even though my limbs feel heavy and weak, and my heart aches for what we lost today.
We held the witches off.
But did we really win?
As the packs begin cleaning up in the aftermath of the battle, Malcolm demands to be taken home.
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Hope says softly as she sponges his head with a cold, wet rag. “He’s feverish. Slipping in and out of coherency. I think moving him right now would be detrimental.”
But the alpha is too strong-willed to be denied.
“I refuse to die on anything but my own damn land,” he snarls, voice stronger than he looks. He doesn’t even open his eyes, but there’s a note in his tone that says if we don’t obey, there will be hell to pay.
Archer’s eyes are shiny with unshed tears as he says, “We’ll bundle him in a blanket. Carry him that way. Gently. If he wants to go home, we’ll take him home.”
Amora graciously slips out to help organize efforts in the cleanup. Trystan, Ridge, and Dare help Archer get Malcolm wrapped in blankets, and then the four of them convey the alpha back to his cabin.
It’s a solemn parade that trudges through the streets, carefully avoiding bodies in the process. As we pass, every shifter stops what they’re doing and turns to bow their heads in respect. Malcolm’s eyes open and close periodically, at times seemingly cognizant of the destruction, and other times so far away that I wonder if he’s already passed.
But he’s conscious as my four mates carefully place him in his bed. His green eyes roam his bedroom, where the curtains are still open on the village. Shifters move through the streets outside, gathering the dead and sweeping up shotgun shells. I see him acknowledge the grim tableau, his face crumpling in despair for only a moment.
His home is untouched by the battle, which I hope gives him a little peace in light of such horror. Hope returns from her room in a fresh pair of her signature blue scrubs and bustles around her charge, ensuring he’s covered and warm. With deft fingers, she sets up a line for fluids, even though I know—and she knows—they’ll do nothing but help keep him comfortable as the end comes.
Archer steps up beside her next to the bed, his voice a low murmur. “Have you been able to do… anything?”
Hope shakes her head gravely. “No. Whatever injuries he sustained from the magic, it’s beyond my abilities as a healer. There are no lacerations. No bleeding to be found.”
“It’s the spell itself.” I speak up, my voice cracking. “It’s inside him, poisoning him.”
Archer’s jaw tightens. “Perhaps there’s a witch injured but still alive on our streets that might know how to fix it.”
“I’ll go look,” Ridge offers, giving Archer’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. He strides from the room, but not before I see that he’s just as affected by Malcolm’s situation as I am.
It’s hard to watch a strong man be weak. I imagine it’s even harder when you’re a strong man yourself, as if you’re looking down a tunnel toward your own possible future.
Archer’s green gaze meets mine. “Sable. Is… is there anything you can do?”
My blood runs cold, my stomach dropping. “No.” I swallow. “I mean, not that I know of. I only have the one book that Gwen gave me, and there are no healing spells in it, nothing for health at all, just a bunch of charms and hexes, lots of binding…”
I trail off as I realize I’m rambling. I want to help. I want to do something, anything, to keep Malcolm from dying.
My mate’s bloodshot eyes take on an almost manic gleam. “Can’t you just lay hands on him? Do something?”
A fissure opens up inside me, reminding me how little I know. How little control I really have, no matter what happened today on the battlefield.
None of that was under my control. I’m just lucky that all the anger and pain inside me channeled toward taking the witches out and not something worse.
And rage won’t help me now. I need control, experience—and I still don’t have it.
“I don’t know how,” I admit, my heart breaking. “I’m not good enough.”
“Archer.” Hope’s calm voice chases away some of the mania in his gaze, and he slumps against the edge of the bed as she continues speaking. “Sweetheart, Malcolm has been sick for a real long time. We’ve been planning for the
