Chapter 41 — Ethan
My hand rises instinctively to the crystal hanging beneath my shirt.
For protection, Haron had said.
When I don’t answer right away, ugly hatred twists Holden’s features.
“Haron always did prefer sentiment over strategy.” He takes a step toward me, and Rhiannon shifts to block his path. He doesn’t even acknowledge her. His focus stays fixed on me like I’m the only person in the room. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”
The pieces click together. The cloaked figure on the perimeter. The dagger spinning toward my chest. Rhiannon staggering as the blade meant for me sinks into her instead.
“It was you,” I say. “You’re the one who attacked us outside the fortress.”
His smile returns. Spiteful. Vicious.
“Truth Seer, indeed,” Holden sneers. “You’re not half as clever as you think.” He touches his ribs absently and glares at Conan. “Three against one was hardly fair. Though I must thank you for providing such convincing evidence of the Scarlet Wolf’s attack on yet another victim.”
My stomach turns. Holden set Jayme up by using the wounds Conan gave him while defending me. He must not have trusted his control over Jayme after what happened to Haron, and the coward didn’t want to risk himself.
Holden turns back to me. “You got lucky that day, human. I won’t make that mistake twice.”
The fourth surge begins to build. The pressure feels like it’s crushing my skull from the inside.
His gaze lingers on my throat, like he can see straight through the fabric to the crystal resting against my skin. “Not even my sister’s bleeding heart will stop me.”
Stop him? The words snag in my mind. He’s not just angry that Haron gave me her charm, he’s afraid that it’s powerful enough for me to use against him.
Holden lunges.
No warning. No posturing. One second, he’s standing by the altar, and the next, he’s a blur of white robes and killing intent, closing the distance between us.
My training kicks in. Dodge. Run. Evade. But Holden moves faster than any human ever could. His hand reaches for my throat, for the crystal, and I can see exactly how this ends.
Then, Rhiannon burst.
She doesn’t shift in any usual sense of the word.
There’s no time. But her wolf takes over.
Her eyes flash gold, pupils contracting to vertical slits.
A snarl rips from her chest that sounds nothing like a human voice.
She slams into Holden mid-stride, driving him sideways with enough force to crack the stone where they land.
The impact should have ended it. Should have pinned him flat.
But Rhiannon doesn’t stop.
She’s on him before he can recover, claws and elbows and knees finding flesh with brutal precision. Each strike lands with primal fury. A force of nature that’s stopped thinking about tactics and started thinking about pure annihilation.
“Rhiannon!” Xander’s shout pierces through the chaos. “Formation!”
She doesn’t hear him. Or, she can’t.
MINE. TOUCHED WHAT’S MINE. KILL HIM. KILL—
Her thoughts crash through our bond like a wildfire, raw and incoherent.
Holden deflects a blow, rolls, and tries to create distance. Rhiannon follows like his shadow, relentless and savage. Beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
The pack scrambles to adjust. Conan moves left, trying to flank, but Rhiannon’s wild assault keeps putting her between him and the target.
Akila circles right, blade at the ready, waiting for an opening that doesn’t close as soon as it appears.
Branson hovers at the edge, muscles locked, unable to assist without risking friendly fire.
They’re reacting now, not coordinating. Rhiannon’s uncanny ferocity has turned our plan into chaos.
But it’s working.
Holden can’t find his footing. Each time he tries to gather magic, she’s on him, disrupting his concentration with another vicious strike. Blood streams from his nose. His perfect white robes are torn and stained.
Xander finally finds his angle. He surges in low while Rhiannon drives Holden high, and together they slam him to the ground. Branson’s there instantly, his massive hands pinning Holden’s wrists. Conan drops a knee onto his chest.
Holden’s head cracks against stone.
His eyes roll back.
He goes limp.
For one breathless moment, hope floods through me.
No one moves. Akila’s blade lowers an inch.
“Is it over?” Conan asks, chest heaving.
Then, Holden’s eyes snap open.
Not dazed. Not defeated. Amused.
The air changes again.
It erupts from within me before I’ve fully registered its presence.
A pressure wave that starts in my chest radiates outward, denser than the previous ritual pulses, and colder — fundamentally rotten.
The candle flames bend toward Holden like flowers seeking sun.
The crystals in the salt hexagon pound in rapid sequence, their light no longer building but feeding into him.
Sounds break through at the edge of my awareness. A voice that isn’t Rhiannon’s, bleeding through our connection like radio interference.
. . .never felt anything like. . .more powerful than any Shaman the pack has ever. . .
It’s Branson’s voice. Branson’s thoughts, filtering through Rhiannon’s bond with her packmates and somehow reaching me.
The realization hits like cold water. I’m catching echoes of the pack-bond through whatever links me to Rhiannon.
But there’s no time to process it.
Holden is making his move.
Not physically, because he’s still pinned, but the magic bursts from him in a concussive blast that sends Branson, Conan, and Xander flying. They hit the walls with sickening thuds. Stone cracks. Dust rains from the ceiling.
Rhiannon staggers, but holds her ground.
Holden rises, taking his sweet time. Blood drips from his split lip, but he’s smiling.
“You think you could win that easily?” He brushes dust from his torn robes like it’s a spot of lint he discovered before a formal dinner. “You don’t even understand what you’re fighting.”
The temperature plummets. My breath fogs in the air. Frost crawls across the stone floor in spiraling patterns, radiating outward from Holden’s feet.
“My father’s magic.” Holden spreads his arms, and the runes on the walls blaze to life, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. “Every attack, every failure of the peace talks. It all served one purpose: weakening him. Breaking him down until the transfer ritual could begin.”
. . .transfer. . .no. Rhiannon’s thoughts come in fragmented bursts.
Commander, get yourself under control. Xander’s Alpha voice cuts into our minds.
I watch her force her breathing to slow. I sense her pushing her wolf down like trying to push lightning into a bottle. The connection between us steadies and tightens, snapping back into place like a dislocated joint.
“What did you do to Elder Stasio?” Akila asks.
“My father clings to life in that infirmary bed, surrounded by Lycans who pretend to care. But his power?” Holden’s smile widens. “That left him the moment I finished the incantation, though you almost interrupted me. Every ounce of magic he spent decades cultivating now flows through my veins.”
The temperature drops another ten degrees. My teeth start chattering.
“The transfer ritual.” Branson pushes himself up from the rubble. “That’s forbidden to your people. Your father will die.”
“Forbidden by cowards.” Holden’s eyes flash. “My father’s generation forgot what we were. What we could become. He let Lycans slaughter us, enslave us, drive us to the margins of our own lands...and called it peace.”
The crystals in the hexagon pulse faster now. Brighter. The light they emit has shifted from white to a sickly green that makes my eyes water.
“Once this ritual is complete, his magic becomes permanently mine.” Holden speaks with absolute certainty. “No reversal. No counter-spell. My father’s legacy, centuries of accumulated Shaman power, will be mine forever.”
Xander finds his feet, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. “And then what? You think your people will follow a patricidal warmonger?”
“They’ll follow the one who will help them to avenge the massacre of their Elders.”
The words hang in the frozen air.
“What massacre?” Conan finally asks.
“I’ll summon every Elder to this temple.” Holden’s gaze sweeps across us. “My father’s magic signature is unmistakable. A beacon his fellow Elders won’t ignore. They’ll come running to help him. And I’ll sacrifice them all, frame your pack for my father’s and their deaths.”
“You mean, you’ll slaughter them,” Xander says.
“Sacrifices must be made for the good of our people.”
“You’d commit genocide against your own people just to incite hatred against us.” Rhiannon’s eyes glow with rage.
“I’d give my people a cause to rally behind.” Holden’s eyes blaze with fanatical light.
“When they find their beloved Elders lifeless, with wounds from claws and fangs, even the most servile Shaman clinging to my father’s false peace will beg me to lead them to war. We will burn your kind to ash.”
He’s different now. Beyond confident. Beyond dangerous.
He’s just wrong in a way that bypasses my higher-order thinking and goes straight to my lizard hindbrain, which is yelling, run, run, run.
The magic pouring off him is a ticking bomb.
Every nerve in my body screams that detonation is seconds away.
Rhiannon signals the pack. They try to form ranks, to overwhelm, to use their numbers against a single target.
Holden raises one hand.
The blast catches Branson mid-stride, lifting him off his feet and hurling him into Akila. They go down in a tangle of limbs. Xander dodges left, Rhiannon right, but Holden’s already turning, already tracking, magic crackling between his fingers like static electricity.
Fuck, he’s gotten faster. Rhiannon’s frustration hits me. And stronger.
He counters all of their attacks. The pack’s coordination means nothing against someone who can swat them aside like gnats.
But he’s not just fighting.
He’s moving defensively. Repositioning constantly, always keeping himself between us and—