Chapter 26 #2
Parker glared at him but did as told. “I’ve run six spectral filters already. There’s nothing. No visual disturbance, no energy spike, no nothing. It’s like he walked into a goddamn black hole.”
Kazimir paced the window, steps silent even on the tile. “Witchcraft,” he said, biting the word in half. “It’s always power plays with these witches. Always want more.”
King Rafe nodded, arms still crossed. “That bitch wants something that will position her above the rest of us. You can bank on that.”
“My mother’s grimoire. She wants my mother’s grimoire.” My words stilled the room as all eyes turned to me.
I licked my lips and took a deep breath.
“She’s obsessed with magic. Old magic. She wants to be the most powerful witch in North America—maybe even the world.
But she’s already top-tier. There’s only one thing she doesn’t have.
” My fingers fidgeted, nails scraping my thigh through the leggings.
“She wants the grimoire. Or my blood. Or both.”
Parker spun around in her chair, chair legs shrieking on tile. “Do you know why?”
“I’m pretty sure,” I answered. “Oscar says there’s a spell in the grimoire—one my mom hid—where a witch can drain magic from anyone, and make it their own. If the Wyrdmother had it, she could become a goddess.” I paused, realizing the room was holding its breath. “Or burn the world down.”
Juliet’s hand found mine. Her palm was soft, but her grip was iron. “Aspen. Tell me you have the grimoire.”
“I… It’s in the safe at the house,” I said, voice gone small.
Rafe grinned, all wolf, all menace. “She’ll make contact with you, little witch. When she does, you bring the book. We’ll take care of her then.”
“Can we?” I asked. “She’s way more powerful than me. Than any of us.”
Kazimir’s fangs glimmered when he spoke. “All the better. I like challenge.”
Menace looked at me with a solemn nod. “We’ll get him back, Aspen. But you need to be ready to run point. She’ll want you, not the rest of us.”
I was watching Parker tweak a new security script when the thought hit me. “She’s probably waiting with a message for me at the bakery,” I said. “Last time she tried to reach me, that’s where I was.”
Bronc, who’d appeared in the entry at some point, gave a hard nod. “Let’s check it out. All of us.”
I stood, legs shaky, and Oscar scrambled to perch on my shoulder. “I’ll get the grimoire.”
Juliet pressed a thermos into my hands. “Coffee. You’re running on fumes.”
I took a sip and let the heat settle my nerves. “Thanks.”
Maddie hugged me so tight my ribs popped. “Bring him home, sweet girl. He’s counting on you.”
I nodded, throat too tight for words.
We rolled out, the whole rescue team moving with military precision.
The cold outside bit my cheeks, and the moon was still hanging heavy and low, as if it wanted a front-row seat.
Arsenal drove, Wrecker rode shotgun, Bronc and Menace flanked me in the back with Parker and Oscar in the third row.
Juliet and Maddie stayed behind to coordinate any backup we might need, and I felt the loss of their comfort instantly.
The ride to the bakery took less than ten minutes, but every second felt like an hour. The closer we got, the more I felt the thrum of magic—dark and oily, seeping through the cracks of the world. The grimoire was in a satchel under the seat.
We rolled up to the bakery, the yellow glow of the streetlights giving the building an eerie, washed-out look.
My heart hammered so hard I thought it might vibrate the bones right out of my chest, but I kept my hands steady as I unlocked the truck and led the way up the dark sidewalk.
Behind me, Bronc, Menace, Arsenal, and Wrecker fanned out in a practiced wedge—men built for violence and for moments just like this.
The bakery’s front window was dark, the neon “OPEN” sign off, but taped smack-dab in the middle of the glass was a sheet of paper—no, not paper, but thick, textured cardstock, the kind you’d use for invitations or funerals.
There was something written on it in dark red ink that looked like it might have come from a vein instead of a pen.
I glanced back at Bronc, who nodded for me to go ahead. I peeled the tape, trying not to rip the edges, and the note came away with a sickening tack. I didn’t realize my hands were shaking until I tried to unfold it.
On the front was a hand-drawn map—scrawled, but accurate, every turn and street labeled in a spiky, precise hand. There was a red X about fifty miles south of Dairyville, where the highway branched toward Morgantown. Beneath the map, in jagged script, were the words:
brING THE GRIMOIRE TO THE STAR OR YOU’LL GET TO SEE YOUR MUTT IN PIECES.
Wrecker whistled, low and soft. “Subtle, ain’t she?”
Menace took the note from my hand, eyes narrowing as he traced the lines. “This is deep in Morgantown territory. Not their usual spot for business. If she picked it, she wants the wolves watching.”
Bronc studied the map with the calm of someone who’d run a thousand ops like this and survived all of them. “That explains why the Morgantown pack has been snooping around,” he said, mostly to himself. “She’s got muscle to back her play.”
Arsenal stepped back from the bakery’s entry, sharp eyes scanning the street. “There’s activity up by the main road. Could be a tail.”
“We knew she wouldn’t make it easy,” Bronc said, folding the note and tucking it in his vest. “Let’s get moving.”
Before we could even step off the curb, two sets of headlights swung into the lot: a matte-black Mercedes, and a new-looking Cadillac Escalade with the plates blacked out.
Kazimir emerged from the Benz in a tailored suit, not a hair out of place, and Rafe rolled out of the Caddy, wearing his “Sunday best”—which, for him, meant a pearl-button shirt and jeans that looked poured on.
Menace strode over and handed Kazimir the note. He read it with a sneer, then offered it to Rafe, who just shook his head and muttered, “She’s a real piece of work.”
I caught Rafe’s gaze—he was one of the few who could look me straight in the eye without flinching. “You ready for this?” he asked, voice pitched so only I could hear.
“Born ready,” I lied. I was shaking inside, but I didn’t have time to let that show.
Kazimir’s gaze flicked to the bakery. “You have book?” he asked, blunt as a hammer.
I nodded.
Bronc clapped his hands, commanding attention. “Oscar, you have any idea what to expect at the drop?”
Oscar’s face popped up over the third row seat. “There will be wards. Strong ones. I suggest Miss keeps the book close at all times—do not let them separate you.”
Rafe gave me a quick, fierce smile. “We’ll be right at your back, little witchling.”
Menace had already started back toward the Expedition, barking assignments.
Wrecker took the shotgun seat and glanced back and winked at Parker.
Arsenal sat behind the wheel. I climbed in next to Bronc and pulled the satchel from under the seat to hold in my lap.
I felt a reassuring squeeze of my shoulder from the third row. I was glad to have Parker along.
Oscar sat up straight, eyes clear and anxious when my phone rang. “Miss, I recommend you do not answer the phone number. It is a ruse. You will want to see her in person before making any deal.”
Bronc smirked. “That’s fine. We’ll see her up close and personal.”
I kept my hands in my lap, nails digging into the leather of the satchel, the only thing that kept them from clawing my own skin. Every mile we drove, the world got colder; the moon climbed higher, and the sky settled into a solid, bottomless black.
We rode in silence for most of it, the truck’s engine the only thing steady. Every now and then, Bronc would glance over at me, checking for cracks. I made myself meet his gaze, even when my throat wanted to close up.
At the halfway mark, Arsenal clicked off the headlights and took the next ten miles by moonlight and the barest hint of dash back light. “No sense in giving them a clear shot at us,” he said, which I assumed was code for “buckle up, this gets dangerous from here.”
We crossed into Morgantown territory, marked only by a battered county line sign and the sudden, sharp stench of burned sage in the air. Witches used it to mask the scent of their workings, but to a wolf—or a witch bred for this—it was a dead giveaway.
We pulled off the highway onto a dirt road, winding deeper into the brush. I saw the map’s red X in my mind, felt the bond to Papa stretch and twist like an over-wound wire. Somewhere out there, he was waiting. Somewhere out there, the Wyrdmother had set her trap.
Oscar shifted in my lap, voice barely above a whisper. “She will not harm him until she has what she wants. You must not let her have it.”
“I won’t,” I whispered back.
The truck’s cab was a tomb. No one spoke.
Arsenal drove like he wanted to squeeze the last bit of life out of the steering wheel, both hands locked at ten and two, every muscle in his neck straining against the collar of his shirt.
Wrecker’s eyes were pinned to the dark horizon, lips moving silently as if he was counting seconds or bodies or both.
I sat smashed between Bronc and Menace, the satchel now clutched to my chest, Oscar a barely contained tremor between Bronc and me.
Parker’s fingers clicked across her laptop keys as she still looked for hidden clues in the third seat.
Behind us, Rafe and Kazimir followed in their own cars, neither wanting to risk being boxed in.
Gunner rolled up with several enforcers in the boxy MC van, which probably had more firepower hidden in it than a National Guard armory.
I took a sort of mean comfort in that—if the Wyrdmother wanted a war; she was about to get one.
But mostly, I hurt.