Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
IZZY
Iwake early the next morning with a singular focus—find Christian and bring him home.
A part of me wishes I could be a normal girl and think about my date last night…and my time with Emery following it. Or maybe remember the feel of Ethan’s and Grayson’s hands on my skin, their mouths devouring my own.
But I can’t.
Today, I need to hunt down my feral mate then sit my birth fathers down and ask them all the questions that have been plaguing me since discovering the truth of the supernatural community.
After dressing casually in leggings and a sweatshirt, I hurry downstairs, where my foster fathers are already waiting for me. Hale zips up his backpack and tosses it over his shoulder.
“We’re meeting the others there,” he tells me, and I assume the “others” mean my mates and birth fathers. “When we arrive, Gerry will shift into his wolf form and try to track him. He’s the best tracker in town.”
A hint of pride seeps into his expression when he glances at his mate.
“It’s why the Council hired me,” Gerry tells me, throwing on his familiar leather jacket but leaving it unzipped.
“Is that what you were doing when I first moved in? Tracking someone?” I query, thinking of my first meeting with the rugged wolf shifter days after I arrived here.
He was gone—on business for the Council—and I never thought to ask where he’d been. It didn’t seem to be any of my business. Now the question niggles at me, scratching at my brain like poison-tipped talons.
Gerry and Hale exchange an unreadable look, and alarm bells go off simultaneously in my head. They’re not the type that scream DANGER, though, so I don’t press the issue.
For now.
“We should get going,” Hale says quickly. Too quickly, if you ask me, which only reinforces my theory that they’re hiding something. “I sent Jake ahead early to grab some supplies—”
“What supplies are you talking about?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Listen, kid.” Gerry places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze, and my unease ratchets up a dozen notches at the sight of his grave expression.
“You have to understand that Christian isn’t himself currently.
The most important thing is to get him somewhere secure so he isn’t a danger to himself or anyone else. And to do that, we might need to…”
He releases my shoulder and heaves out a breath.
When he doesn’t immediately finish his sentence, I ask, my voice shaky, “We might need to what?”
“We’ll do what needs to be done,” Gerry tells me cryptically, already turning towards the door.
A mixture of panic and rage surges through my chest. “Wait. Wait. Wait. Slow the fuck down. We can’t hurt Christian! He’s my mate!”
“We’re not going to hurt Christian,” Hale reassures me.
“Everything we’re having Jake pick up is non-lethal.
Traps and tranquilizers and things like that.
” Hale must see the mounting panic on my face because he takes a single step towards me.
“I promise, Izzy, that no harm will come to your mate. But do you really think Christian will be okay if he accidentally hurts someone while he’s out of control? If he accidentally hurts you?”
The anger inside of me quickly morphs into grim understanding.
No. Christian would not be okay if he hurt someone, even accidentally. He would hate himself.
Forgive me, Christian.
Hale nods once—obviously seeing the reluctant acceptance on my face—and opens the door.
Only to immediately pause when he comes face-to-face with a familiar woman.
Her black hair has been haphazardly braided away from her face, though a few loose strands cascade limply down her cheeks. She wears an oversized sweater, loose sweatpants, and flip-flops. Dark circles rim her eyes, which look glassy and red.
Mrs. Harthorne.
Ansel’s mom.
Fuck.
She wrings her shaky hands together as her gaze flicks from Hale’s stunned face to Gerry’s stoic one. She doesn’t seem to notice me yet, standing just behind them.
“Is… Is Isabella here?”
“And who are you?” Hale’s voice is soft—almost coaxing.
“I need to talk to Isabella. Only Isabella.” The older woman pushes up on her tiptoes and finally spots me, standing slightly inside the house in the foyer. Her almond-colored eyes widen. “Isabella! Please! I need to… I can’t find…”
Tears rush down her cheeks as tremors rock her frail body.
I carefully squeeze my way between Hale and Gerry until I’m standing directly in front of the trembling woman.
“Can you give us a second?” I ask my foster fathers, not lifting my gaze from hers.
I don’t even have to see them to know they’re exchanging a glance over my head.
“We’ll be just inside. Call if you need us,” Hale informs me.
Gerry seems reluctant but follows Hale inside, leaving the door wide open.
I can’t help but wonder if they know the truth about Mrs. Harthorne’s past. If they know that she was once a Hunter who killed shifters like them.
But if they knew, why did they let her live? Is it because her mind is so shattered that she doesn’t pose a threat anymore? Some other reason?
I would never wish to see harm befall her, though, despite her past. She’s Ansel’s mother, for fuck’s sake, and I know he still loves her fiercely, even if he hates what she did.
I fold my arms over my chest and study her intensely, trying to ignore the blistering wrath scalding my insides. I have to continually remind myself that she’s Ansel’s mom—well, adoptive mom. Though I’m not sure that term really applies to her, since she kidnapped him when he was a baby.
“You’re here about Ansel, aren’t you?” I ask, my tone glacial.
Her expression falls—that’s the only word I can think to describe it. I physically see her lips droop and her eyelids lower as she sucks in a deep, shaky breath. Her fingers curl into fists before straightening out and smoothing down the sides of her crumpled sweatpants.
“They took him, didn’t they?” Her voice, rife with pain, is practically a whisper.
I don’t need to ask her to clarify who “they” are. There’s only one group of people who would be desperate enough to get their hands on him.
The same people she stole him from in the first place.
“Yes,” I respond simply, and she releases a jagged exhale that almost sounds like a sob.
Her face drains of all color, making the purple under her eyes stand out prominently—a testament to the fact that she hasn’t been sleeping.
“He told you about what I did, didn’t he?” Again, she phrases it as a question, but I have a feeling she already knows the answer.
At my nod, Mrs. Harthorne twists away from me like she’s in physical pain.
“I didn’t have a choice,” she whispers. “I had to protect him.”
“From the evil witches?” My upper lip curls, though I try to stifle my anger, reminding myself repeatedly that Ansel still loves her, that she has changed.
Still, I can’t help but wonder…how many supernaturals has she killed over the years?
“From Delaney.” She takes a single step towards me, her eyes wide and earnest.
Hearing my aunt’s name causes panic to claw at my gut and icy-cold fingers of dread to creep down my spine. This isn’t the first time Mrs. Harthorne has mentioned her.
“Why would you need to protect Ansel from Delaney?” My heart begins to pound even faster in my chest, each consecutive thump threatening to batter my rib cage.
Delaney isn’t Ansel’s mother, is she? Because that would mean Ansel is my…
Nope. Not going there.
The mere thought makes bile crawl up my throat.
Oblivious to the direction my thoughts headed down, Mrs. Harthorne begins to pace. “You don’t understand! You just… You don’t get it. You don’t know what she’s capable of. She’s not a good person. She’s a wicked, wicked witch. She’s…”
Her ranting turns inarticulate as she begins to mumble under her breath.
I watch her warily for a few moments before finally interjecting. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the full story. How do you know Delaney? What did she do to you?”
Mrs. Harthorne stops pacing abruptly and then whirls to face me, her eyes flaring with a predatorial lethality that has something akin to fear churning in my stomach.
Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that she’s a cold-blooded Hunter who has killed people like me just because we’re different.
But when she’s staring at me like that, with fire from hell flaring in her eyes, it’s clear as day.
Her mind may be broken, but she’s still a threat.
“Delaney”—she practically spits the name—“killed my husband. And once she knows the truth about Ansel, she’ll kill him too.” Her tears begin to fall faster and faster, leaving streaks on her gaunt cheeks. “If he’s not already dead.”