Chapter 26 #3
The mate bond was still new and hadn’t ever been tried. Now it felt like the bone had been yanked out entirely, replaced with a steel rod that pulsed cold with every mile we got closer to him. I wanted to scream, to claw the air, but I just hugged the grimoire and tried to breathe through the pain.
Arsenal grunted. “We park a mile out, go in quiet. Anything else is a fucking suicide run.”
Bronc mapped out a strategy. “Menace and Aspen are with me. If it gets ugly, we’ll need to clear a path. Wrecker, Parker, and Arsenal that’s on y’all.”
Oscar hopped up on my lap, voice the sort of calm that you get right before a volcano blows.
“She will be expecting violence. And will be ready for every tactical approach. But the grimoire may distract her. If she is like other witches of her type, she will want to verify its authenticity before harming Sir.”
Oscar’s shiny black eyes fixed on me, the rest of his body covered by a leather jacket except for the tip of his white-furred tail. “Miss, do not allow her to touch your skin. If you can, do not allow her to speak your full name. She may try to leverage a blood name ritual to gain power over you.”
“Can she really do that?” I asked, my tongue thick.
“Yes,” Oscar said, and left it at that.
Bronc looked over at me. “She’s not going to win, Aspen. We don’t let our own get taken. Not ever.”
I nodded, teeth set. “I know.”
Arsenal slammed on the brakes a mile from the X on the map, rolling the truck behind a screen of juniper and brush. The air reeked of sage and bitter smoke. “It’s time,” he said.
The rest of the team fanned out. Rafe and Kazimir took the north approach, cutting through the dark with inhuman speed and grace.
Gunner and his team ghosted west, barely visible as they melted into the trees.
Menace led Bronc and me east, where bonfires crackled in the distance. God, I hoped they weren’t naked.
The ritual site was laid out in a clearing ringed with rough wooden posts.
At the center, three bonfires burned so hot I could feel the singe on my face from thirty yards away.
Between the fires, I saw the Wyrdmother had Papa strapped to a large rune-covered wooden slab.
It was set at an angle so he could see our approach.
Papa was bound to the slab by his wrists and ankles.
Through his tattoos, I could see he was bleeding.
He’d clearly put up a fight. He was stripped to his boxers, and blood ran down his arms, legs and sides onto the slab.
His face was swollen where he’d been beaten.
His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, but he was alive.
My knees almost buckled. I took a step forward, but Bronc’s hand clamped around my shoulder, holding me steady. “Not yet,” he whispered. “Let her come to us.”
The Wyrdmother stood between two bonfires; coven sisters fanned out behind her like a murder of crows.
She wore the same black robe, hood thrown back so her hair blazed silver in the firelight.
Her hands glowed faintly green, crackling with power.
Her eyes, when they landed on me, felt like stepping in front of a high beam—so bright they left spots dancing across my vision.
Kazimir and Rafe stepped into the clearing, and a look of fear passed across her face for a fleeting moment. She recovered before she spoke, gathering her power.
She called out in a voice that didn’t belong in this world. “Well. If it isn’t the little Waters bitch. Haven’t you accrued quite an impressive team of support?”
Bronc bristled beside me, but I stepped forward, Oscar’s weight steady on my shoulder.
“I’m here,” I called. “Let him go.”
She laughed, a sound like a crow choking on glass. “Do you think you can bargain with me, child?”
My voice came out steadier than I felt. “That’s the deal, isn’t it? The book for the man. Or are you a liar as well as a thief?”
She snarled. “Do you have the book or don’t you?”
I pulled it from the satchel, holding it up so she could see the battered leather, the iron clasps, the faded sigil on the front. “Proof of life first,” I demanded.
She considered, then flicked her fingers. One of the coven women slapped Papa’s face. It jerked violently to the side.
He looked up, blood and sweat in his eyes. “Sunshine,” he rasped.
I nearly broke, but Bronc’s hand kept me grounded.
The Wyrdmother stepped forward, her feet barely disturbing the grass. “Give me the book, Dud. Or I’ll start carving pieces off your mate, one finger at a time.”
The air thickened with ozone. I felt the spell before I saw it—a crackling wave of green light that rolled out from the Wyrdmother’s outstretched hands. My knees locked mid-step. Bronc’s grip on my shoulder became stone.
Panic flooded my throat as I realized I was the only thing still moving.
“Clever trick, yes?” The Wyrdmother stalked toward Papa’s bound form, her dagger catching firelight. “Your mongrels make excellent statues.” She pressed the blade beneath Papa’s jaw, drawing a bead of blood that slid crimson down his throat. “Now. The grimoire. Or I unmake your pretty wolf.”
“Last chance, little moth,” the Wyrdmother purred, her shadow elongating into talons. “The grimoire… or watch his blood water these boards.”
My fingers twitched on the grimoire, the ancient leather warm as a heartbeat in my hands. The spell to rend power, I thought. To unmake every witch. Across the ground, Papa’s eyes fluttered open—bright, achingly alive. His gaze found mine, and for a fractured moment, the world thawed.
“Don’t,” he rasped, blood flecking his lips as he strained against the chains. “You know what she’ll become.” His voice softened, a cracked plea. “I know what you are, Sunshine. Who you are.”
My name in his mouth undid me. Days ago, it had been a beautiful song at my neck; now it was a dirge. I stumbled forward, the grimoire’s weight suddenly unbearable. “I can’t just—!”
“You can.” Papa’s smile was a blade. “You think I’d want eternity if it’s built on your ashes?
On everyone’s?” His throat bobbed, the chains clinking as he lifted his head.
“I loved you before I knew your face. Before time. Before reason. I’ll love you after the stars burn out.
But not like this. Never like this. Please don’t trade our love for evil. ”
The Wyrdmother’s snarl ripped through the moment. “Enough!” Her palm slammed down on the altar, veins bulging black beneath her parchment skin. “Choose, child—or I’ll peel his beating heart from his ribs and let you wear it as a pendant!”
My hand closed around the grimoire’s spine. I could feel its pulse now, ancient and hungry, pages whispering promises of desolation. Papa mouthed a silent no, tears cutting paths through the grime on his face.
Two futures split my soul:
A world drowned in the Wyrdmother’s shadow, every heartbeat mine to crush.
A pyre of my own making, grief carving me hollow.
Happiness, I thought wildly. The word tasted foreign.
Weeks stolen between doubt—Papa’s laugh tangled with dawn light, his hands steadying me in the bakery when I picked up big cakes.
His sweeping floors and refilling napkin holders.
Simple things that were truly big things.
Just the way he loved me. A lifetime’s worth of peace crammed into stolen hours.
“I love you,” Papa whispered, the words a sacrament. “Now end this.”
My fingers tightened. The Wyrdmother lunged.
And I understood with devastating clarity that some choices aren’t made—they’re endured, teeth gritted against the fracture.