Chapter Thirty-One
Bast O’Connor
Real Monsters
The hollow space in my chest burns with each step through Salem’s ancient streets.
Where our bond should pulse with life and love, there’s only emptiness—an absence so complete it makes breathing feel like molten lead is pouring through my veins.
The physical pain is almost welcome. Gives me something to focus on besides the screaming void where Bridget should be.
My wolf’s senses flood with information as we move through the shadows.
The charred scent of smoke mingles with freshly cut grass and something older, darker.
Magick. It hangs thick in the air here, woven into every blade of grass, every weathered cobblestone, every pristine colonial facade.
Different from the magick the witches use back home.
This feels controlled. Contained. Wrong.
Rachel signals us to pause in the shadow of a towering oak. Around us, our forces move like ghosts—wolves padding silent through manicured gardens, along with witches from Lawrence’s coven.
“The wards start here,” Lawrence whispers, his massive frame unnaturally still. “They’ll sense any spells we use.”
I nod, every muscle coiled tight. Through our tether—that last fragile connection to Bridget—I feel flickers of pain that make my wolf howl for blood. They’re hurting her. The knowledge burns hotter than the broken bond.
We split into smaller groups, using the neat rows of hedges and trees for cover as we close in on our target.
The white colonial house rises before us, red door gleaming like fresh blood in the afternoon sun.
It looks exactly like its neighbors—perfect paint, perfect shutters, perfect lies hiding years of cruelty.
Behind that perfect red door, every pulse of pain through our remaining connection feels like a knife twisting in my gut. The thought makes my wolf surge forward, claws pressing against the inside of my skin. The urge to shift—to tear through those walls with fang and claw—is almost overwhelming.
Stay focused. Stay human. For now.
Movement catches my eye. The front door flies open with enough force to rattle windows.
Two women burst out, bare feet slapping against wooden steps.
The first has curly red hair like the Scottish Disney princess, her nightgown torn and bloodied.
Emma. The second is dark-haired, her face a mess of bruises, but the resemblance steals my breath.
If her hair were longer, I might have mistaken her for Bridget.
The same grace in her movements, even as she limps.
I wait a half a second, hoping, praying Bridget comes out next. But she doesn’t and I break cover, sprinting across perfectly manicured grass. “Emma!”
A third figure appears in the doorway a few seconds later, hands already weaving a spell that makes the air crackle with lethal intent. But Lawrence’s power zaps across the lawn like a lightning strike. The pursuing witch crumples mid-step, body hitting the grass with a dull thud.
My wolf snarls in satisfaction at the sound.
Emma and the other woman stumble to a stop in front of me, gasping for breath.
Up close, the other woman’s resemblance is even more unmistakable—same heart-shaped face, same determined chin.
One of her eyes is swollen shut, the other wide with fear and desperate hope.
Plus, my wolf recognizes the scent of family—subtle notes that match Bridget’s storm-and-lavender signature.
“Brianna?” The name comes out rough.
Her good eye fills with tears as she nods. “You have to help her.” The words tumble out between sobs. “She made sure we got out. We have to go back—”
“We will.” I grip her shoulders, steadying her. “She’s alive?” The tether pulses weakly in response, but I need to hear it. Need confirmation from someone who saw her.
“Yes, but—” Brianna’s voice cracks. “She stayed behind. Made us run while she held them off. They were coming for us and she just…she wouldn’t let them take us.” Fresh tears spill down her bruised cheeks. “Please, we have to—”
Movement ripples through the perfect neighborhood. Doors slam open in unison—a choreographed attack we should have expected. I shove Brianna and Emma behind me as Court witches pour from their perfect houses, my wolf’s growl vibrating through my chest.
Rachel’s hands move in swift patterns as she deflects the first attack. Blue light shatters against her shield, spraying harmless sparks across the lawn. Behind her, our witches move with lethal precision. The sound of bodies hitting grass punctuates each flash of power.
“Get them to the cars,” I order one of Lawrence’s male witches, already scanning for the next threat. But Brianna jerks away from his reach, her heartbeat spiking with fresh fear.
“No.” Steel enters her voice, so like her sister’s it makes my chest ache where our bond used to live. “I know the spell to open the Court. The gateway. You need me.”
“It’s too dangerous—”
“I won’t leave her again.” Her chin lifts in defiance, despite the tremor in her hands. “Not this time. I watched them break her once already, making her choose them over…” Her voice cracks like brittle ice. “I won’t fail her again.”
Lawrence appears beside us. More Court witches fall as his people move through the neighborhood with brutal efficiency. These male witches have waited decades for this fight. For vengeance against the women who called them monsters.
“She’s right.” Lawrence’s eyes scan the street as more of our forces converge.
Already shifted wolves—the hybrids—move in perfect sync with the witches, covering blind spots, guarding them.
“We need that spell.” A vicious smile curves his lips as another Court witch falls.
“And we need to move now. Before they have more time to prepare.”
I meet Brianna’s gaze—one eye swollen shut, the other burning with determination and love for her sister. She’s not running, no matter what I say. Just like Bridget wouldn’t run, if our positions were reversed. “Stay close to me.”
She nods once, sharp and certain. The same stubborn tilt to her chin that I’ve seen a dozen times on her sister’s face.
We push through the front door, past the unconscious witch on the lawn.
The house’s interior is pristine—polished wood and perfect paint hiding horrors beneath.
Two more Court witches lie crumpled on the floor, evidence of Emma and Brianna’s desperate flight.
The scent of their terror still hangs in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of spilled blood.
“This way.” Brianna leads us through the house, past formal sitting rooms and spotless kitchens. Everything perfect. Everything controlled. Everything fake.
The back door opens onto a perfect lawn stretching toward a circle of white stones. My wolf rises closer to the surface, ready to fight.
“That’s the gateway,” Brianna whispers. Her hands shake slightly as she steps toward the stones. “But they’ll be waiting on the other side—the Mathairs. They don’t…” She swallows hard. “What they’ll do to her…”
“I’ll get her back.” The words come out in a growl.
I hear our allies behind us, spreading across the lawn like a war party.
Wolves strip down without hesitation, muscle and skin already rippling with the promise of fur and fang.
Lawrence’s witches gather into formation, their power building until the air tastes like lightning.
The tether pulses weakly—she’s alive, but in pain. So much pain. My wolf howls inside me, desperate to reach her. To tear apart anyone who dares hurt what’s ours.
Before Brianna can step into the circle, I grab her arm. Push her toward one of Lawrence’s male witches—a massive man with kind eyes and deadly grace. “Take her back to the cars.”
“No!” She fights against his grip like a wild thing, all teeth and righteous fury. So much like her sister. “I told you, you need me—”
“I need to focus.” I catch her face between my hands, make her meet my eyes. Let her see the wolf rising there, gold bleeding into brown. “I can’t save Bridget if I’m worried about keeping you alive too. Please.” My voice cracks on the last word. “Let me bring her back to us both.”
Something in my voice must reach her. The same desperation I hear in hers. She stops struggling, tears spilling down her bruised cheeks. “The words are ‘Dorcha geata oscail’. You have to be touching the stones when you say it.” Her good eye holds mine. “Bring her home.”
I nod, already reaching for the buttons of my shirt. The wolf paces beneath my skin, hungry for the change. For blood. “Get her out of here.”
The male scoops her up despite her following protests, moving swift and silent back through the house. Away from what’s coming. Away from the violence about to explode.
“Ready?” Lawrence’s voice carries across the lawn.
Our forces have spread out—a dozen massive wolves with hackles raised, witches with centuries of pain fueling their power.
This isn’t just about Bridget anymore. This is about every child they stole, every family they broke, every lie they used to maintain their control.
I strip the last of my clothes, letting the shift ripple through me. Fur replaces skin, claws dig into perfect grass. My wolf welcomes the change, all thought of patience or planning burning away in the face of pure, primal need.
Find mate. Protect mate. Kill enemies.
Rachel steps forward, one hand pressed to the nearest white stone. Power crackles around her fingers as she speaks the words. “Dorcha geata oscail.”
The air shivers and twists like heat waves rising from summer pavement. Reality bends and warps, showing glimpses of another world behind the perfect lies. We leap through the shimmering barrier, leaving Salem’s careful facade behind.
A vast courtyard stretches before us, bordered by towering stone walls that pulse with ancient power.
A castle rises in the distance, dark and imposing—nothing like the welcoming warmth of Meredith’s village court back home.
This place reeks of control and fear, of power bought with broken spirits and stolen lives.
I touch the wolf charm hanging around my neck—Jackson’s last birthday gift to me. On the nose. That was his style. I’d give anything to have him at my side right now. He would’ve loved Bridget.
Between us and that castle, a line of witches waits. Some wear fighting leathers, hands already weaving deadly spells. Others stand in flowing robes, faces serene beneath the strange lavender sky. They don’t look worried. Don’t look afraid.
They should be.
I bare my teeth in a snarl that promises death. Let them see what real monsters look like.
Time to tear down their perfect world and get back what is mine.