Chapter 8
Nova
My hands shake as I pin notes to the board, fingers stiff from the cold. The pinboard clutters with scribbled maps, lines of energy, and marker arrows connecting invisible points. All while I mutter calculations out loud like some lunatic medium.
“Air pressure drops twelve percent at coordinates—“
I stop.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. The shack sits perfectly still around me, but something shifted. A sound outside. A break in the pattern of wind.
I lower my hand.
Nothing breaks the silence except the distant howl of coyotes from the north ridge. Not wolves. Different pitch entirely.
But I can’t shake the feeling. The air pressure changed—not magical, physical. Like a body passing too close to the thin wooden walls.
I place my pen down, spine straightening. I didn’t imagine it. Something was here. Something listened.
“Shit.” The word echoes in the cramped space.
The shack isn’t much—a metal desk bolted to the floor, a rolling chair with a broken wheel, a dusty equipment rack, and a narrow cot pushed against the far wall. Functional, not comfortable. Perfect for an interloper they want to contain.
I cross to the door in three steps, and snap the lock shut. It’s flimsy, wouldn’t stop anyone who wanted in, but it might slow them down. I press my ear against the cold metal, straining to hear footsteps retreating through frost-crusted grass.
Nothing.
Just wind through pines and my own breath fogging the air.
But the feeling persists—a disturbance in the quiet. A ripple where there should be stillness. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, agitated. She smells what I can’t name.
“You’re being paranoid,” I mutter, but my hand still finds the obsidian blade strapped under my sleeve. Cool and solid against my palm.
I pull back from the door and stare at my notes. How much did I say out loud? I trace back through my verbal trail—pressure zones, energy signatures, targeted anomalies. Information an Alpha with territory problems would want. Information that makes me valuable.
Or dangerous.
I shake my head and return to the desk. Paranoia won’t map energy patterns. I need to focus.
I pull the detection stone from my pocket, rolling it between my fingers. Still cold. Still inert. Whatever emotional manipulation is happening here, it’s dormant right now—or I’m too far from the source.
I set it on the desk where I can watch it. The moment it pulses, I’ll know someone’s actively working the pack’s emotions.
My fingers trace the display crystal, watching energy readings shimmer across its surface—data collected near the southern boundary rendered in glowing script. The numbers blur. My concentration fractures. The wind shifts outside.
I rub my left wrist absently, trying to ease the persistent itch that’s been bothering me for weeks.
The faint silvery mark there catches the data pad’s blue glow—barely visible, like an old scar or birthmark I’ve never paid much attention to.
I don’t remember getting it. Probably something from childhood.
The itching intensifies for a moment, then fades.
I flex my fingers, pushing my focus back to the data.
“Eastern quadrant shows resonance patterns similar to—“ I catch myself speaking aloud again, and clamp my mouth shut.
The frost spreads across the window like spiderwebs. The metal desk chills beneath my elbows. I pull my jacket tighter.
Any other night, I’d build a fire. Tonight, I don’t dare. Fire means light. Light means silhouette. I can’t afford to be watched through these thin walls.
I click through terrain maps—topographical overlays of Ash Hollow, fault lines illuminated in red. The patterns connect, disconnect, and refuse to align. The screen’s blue glow paints my hands in ghostly light.
One last entry. One more data point in the pattern.
Southern perimeter: energy spike 0300-0315. Pressure differential consistent with directed intention.
My finger hovers over the save icon.
Outside, a twig snaps.
I freeze.
I can’t see who’s there. Can’t hear them breathing. But for a breath too long, I wish they would open the door.
I stand in one fluid motion, gathering my gear with practiced silence. I slip the data pad into my inner jacket pocket and grab my small kit from beneath the flimsy cot.
No time for hesitation. Whatever—whoever—is out there has the advantage. They know where I am. I don’t know where they are.
Time to fix that.
I pull on leather gloves, check the knife sheath strapped to my thigh, and draw my blade. The obsidian catches what little light filters through the dirty window, edge gleaming black and hungry. The grip settles against my palm, familiar as my own pulse.
I scan the shack once more. Nothing worth protecting here.
The window latch sticks, but a firm push pops it open. Cold air rushes in, carrying scents that make my wolf strain forward. Pine. Frost. The metallic edge of coming snow.
And something else. Something deliberate.
I slide through the narrow opening, boots touching down on frozen soil without a sound. The night wraps around me, dark and crisp. My breath clouds over my shoulder as I press my back to the shack’s exterior wall, counting my heartbeats.
One. Two. Three.
The compound sleeps. Lights burn in only two cabins—the central lodge where Dane’s lieutenants gather and a smaller cabin at the eastern edge. Guard shift, probably.
The packs here run disciplined rotations, but they patrol the perimeter. Not the interior. Not the gap between my isolation and the heart of their territory.
Perfect hunting ground for someone who wants to slip between the cracks.
I move in a low crouch toward the treeline twenty yards to the west. Every step measured, each foot placed with intent. Testing the ground before I shift my weight. The forest floor is a patchwork of frozen mud and brittle grass that threatens to announce my movement.
The first line of trees offers shallow cover—mostly pines, their branches reaching upward instead of outward. I press deeper, following a depression in the land where water runs in spring.
A branch snaps somewhere to my right.
I freeze, becoming a shadow among shadows. My wolf coils tight under my skin, straining to catch whatever slipped through the night. Not a random animal. That sound was too discreet. Too controlled.
I count thirty breaths. Nothing moves.
The path curves, following the contour of the land as it slopes toward a narrow ravine. Water trickles somewhere ahead, muffled beneath a skin of ice.
My skin prickles.
There’s a pressure change. Subtle. A body moving through space, displacing air.
I duck behind a boulder, pressing my spine against cold stone, and wait. Three breaths. Four. Five.
Nothing.
But the feeling persists. A presence. Watching.
I reach inward, calling to my wolf. She rises, eager, our senses merging. Her vision is sharper in the darkness. Her nose is more discerning.
I catch it then—a scent that doesn’t belong. Not prey. Not predator. Something ... specific.
Heat flushes along my spine. My wolf recognizes it before I do, muscles tensing with something beyond alertness. A response both primal and new.
I know that scent.
I start moving again, no longer fleeing but hunting. Following that trace through the underbrush, past a fallen tree, and around a stand of naked aspens.
The energy changes. Air pressure shifts again. Not paranoia—physics. Someone big just moved. Someone is tracking the same pattern I am.
A tingle races across my scalp. The forest around me seems to hold its breath.
I’m not alone.
And whoever it is ... they’re letting me go deeper.
I pause, listening to the silence. My pursuer thinks they’ve outsmarted me. That I’ll keep moving forward, straight into whatever trap they’ve laid.
Bad bet.
I scan the terrain—creek bed to my left, rise of land to my right. The trees thin ahead where moonlight slices through branches. Perfect funnel point. Someone who knows the land would position themselves there, using the natural contours to predict my path.
I drop down on one knee, press my palm to the frozen earth, and close my eyes. Vibration travels better through frozen ground. I filter out the distant sounds—night birds, water trickling under ice, wind through pine needles.
There. Footfalls. Heavy but controlled. Northwest position, moving parallel to my path.
I pivot and circle wide, cutting northeast through denser underbrush. The thorns catch at my jacket, but I move with practiced silence, placing each step with precision. My wolf vibrates under my skin, wanting to break free, to hunt properly. Not yet. Human form is quieter for this.
The ground slopes upward. I use it for cover, staying low as I double back toward where I detected movement. My pursuer will expect me to keep running forward, away from the compound. Away from safety.
But I don’t run from threats. I eliminate them.
I find a fallen log and crouch behind it, knife in hand. The forest holds its breath around me. I regulate mine—shallow and silent. Three breaths. Four. Five.
Movement. A shadow among shadows. Big. Deliberate.
My pursuer pauses at the spot where I changed direction, head turning slowly. Scanning. His profile cuts clean against the darkness—broad shoulders, the set stance of a predator tracking prey.
Dane.
My wolf recognizes him before I do, rising with a surge of heat that catches me off guard. I push it down.
He takes another step, and I launch.
I hit him from the side, using momentum instead of weight. He grunts—surprise, not pain—as we crash to the ground. My blade finds his throat in the same instant my knees pin his arms.
“Looking for me?” I press the flat of the blade against his skin.
His eyes lock on mine, sharp with fury. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. The rage rolls off him in waves, hot enough to melt the frost around us.
Even pinned beneath him, I’m aware of his size—6‘4“ of broad, hard muscle, combat-scarred and built for war.
His ash-brown hair falls across his forehead, and those steel-gray eyes burn gold at the edges.
The black shirt stretches across his chest, utility pants that have seen action, and steel-toe boots that could crack bone.
Everything about him suggests controlled violence held in careful check.
“Why are you following me?” My voice comes out harsher than intended.
“Why are you running?” he counters, jaw tight.
“I’m not running. I’m hunting.”
Something flashes across his face. “In my territory.”
“Someone was watching me.” I don’t ease the pressure of the blade. “Was it you?”
His chest rises beneath mine. “You left your cabin. Made yourself a target.”
“I can handle threats.”
“Clearly,” he says, voice low and dangerous.
The air between us changes, thickens. His scent hits me—pine and iron and something deeper. His heat seeps through our layers, wolf-hot against the night’s chill. My position suddenly feels less tactical, more ... risky.
His muscles tense beneath me, and then—
Movement blurs. The world spins. My back hits frozen ground with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. The knife clatters away as Dane reverses our positions, his hands pinning my wrists, his weight settling over me.
“Can you?” His face hovers above mine, expression unreadable in the darkness.
I surge upward, twisting my hips to throw him off balance. We roll, a tangle of limbs and curses, neither yielding. My elbow connects with his ribs. His hand catches in my hair. We crash against the base of a tree, pine needles showering down around us.
When we stop, he’s half on top of me, one leg wedged between mine, one hand still gripping my wrist. His breath burns against my neck, coming in harsh pants that match my own.
Neither of us moves.
His weight should feel threatening. It doesn’t. It feels ... necessary. Like gravity finding its center.
My free hand rests against his chest, not pushing away, just ... there. Feeling the thunder of his heart beneath my palm.
“Get off me,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
He shifts, bringing our faces closer. “Not until you tell me what you found.”
“I didn’t—“ My words catch as his scent washes over me again. Stronger now. Charged with something beyond anger.
His pupils dilate, black drowning out color. His grip on my wrist loosens, but he doesn’t release me. “Nova.”
The way he says my name splits something open inside me. Raw. Hungry.