Chapter 40 — Ethan
The wind cuts through my jacket like it’s made of paper.
I press myself lower against Branson’s back, burying my fingers in the coarse fur of his scruff as his massive paws find purchase on ice-slicked rock.
Below us, the world has become a blur of white and gray, the path we climbed already swallowed by swirling snow.
Rhiannon’s dark form leads our formation, her movements sure and fluid despite the treacherous terrain.
Akila flanks her left while Conan is on her right and Xander brings up the rear.
Each wolf carries a pack strapped against their body, full of armor and weapons secured for the shift back to human form.
Five wolves and one very cold human, climbing toward a madman in the mountains. It’s surreal.
The barrenness bothers me more than the cold. There are no sounds of other animals, only the howling wind, the scrape of Lycan claws on stone, and the faint smell of smoke threading through the frozen air.
Something’s wrong. Rhiannon’s voice slips into my mind. I’ve almost gotten to the point where I’m no longer startled by it. It’s too quiet.
Yeah, and I smell smoke.
That’s not smoke. It’s magic residue. We’re getting close.
The temple emerges from the mist like a forgotten dream. Its ancient stone walls are covered in frost. Carved pillars depict figures I don’t recognize. Shaman symbols are etched into every surface.
Rhiannon pauses at the entrance, her ears swiveling. The others halt behind her. After a long moment, she peeks inside.
The temple appears to be vacant.
Stone benches flank the doorway. The braziers have long gone cold. Dust motes drift through shafts of pale light. But there are no signs of Holden.
One by one, Rhiannon, Conan, Akila, and Xander shift back into human form.
I slide off Branson’s back, my legs nearly buckling when they hit the frozen stone floor. Pins and needles shoot through my feet as blood rushes back into them. Branson shifts into human form beside me, and I avert my eyes out of habit.
“Clothes are in the packs,” Conan calls out, though he’s already tossing garments to the others.
I stamp my feet against the stone, trying to force feeling back into my toes while they dress. A gaping mouth of shadow marks the temple’s entrance. There are no guards or magical barriers. Only that persistent smell of burnt sulfur and an older scent beneath it: sour and just. . .wrong.
Akila peers inside next with a look of suspicion. “It’s empty. I don’t sense anyone.”
We file in with weapons drawn. The interior extends into a vast circular chamber. When we enter the chamber, I stop short.
Hundreds of candles are burning in precise geometric patterns across the floor, their flames unnaturally still despite the draft.
A salt hexagon dominates the center, each point marked by a crystal that pulses with inner light: blue, red, green, amber, violet, white.
Etched runes cover the stone walls, appearing to crawl at the edges of my vision.
Then it hits me: a deep tremor that starts in my chest and radiates outward. It builds, swells, then recedes like a wave pulling back from shore.
“Shit.” Branson goes pale. “I recognize this from my time with the Gorg Pack. This is Shaman ritual magic. Old magic.”
The vibration surges through us again, stronger this time. The crystals flare in sequence.
Rhiannon scans the chamber. “What kind of ritual?”
“Can’t say, but the pulses are building.”
“How long do we have?” Akila asks.
Branson’s jaw tightens. “Not long. Three more surges. Maybe four.”
“Looking for me?” The voice echoes from the shadows behind the altar. Holden steps into the candlelight, his white robes pristine against the grimy stone. His expression radiates the kind of calm that comes from knowing he’s on his own turf. He belongs here. We don’t.
The bitter tang of Blackroot floods my sinuses. The stench of damp earth and sharp medicine is so strong, I can feel it coating my tongue.
The pack moves as one. Xander takes point, Branson and Conan flanking wide.
Akila drifts left. Rhiannon shifts right, positioning herself between me and Holden’s direct line of sight.
The move is casual, but deliberate. She doesn’t look at me, but her awareness of me wraps around me like a second skin.
Another pulse hits. The stone groans beneath my boots, and the crystals begin to burn so brightly I have to squint. The vibration climbs through my legs, my chest, my teeth. Then it fades, leaving a thick stillness behind.
Xander moves closer. Authority rolls off him in waves, and even without being in wolf form, predator radiates from every cell in his body.
“You dare manipulate my pack.” His words come out controlled and precise.
But each syllable carries such a threat of violence that it’s enough to root me in place.
“Jayme is a good Lycan — a man who’s spent years trying to prove himself.
And you twisted his mind. Made him attack those he’d die to protect. ”
Holden tilts his head, studying him like he’s examining an interesting insect.
“You treated him like nothing more than a pawn,” Xander continues.
Holden’s lips curve into a thin smile. No flinching. No guilt. Just cold satisfaction.
“The Scarlet was a blunt instrument,” Holden agrees.
“But effective, nevertheless. Every attack pushed my father closer to abandoning his precious negotiations.” He spreads his hands, palms up, as if presenting an obvious truth.
“Fear is a better teacher than diplomacy. Surely you understand that, Alpha. Your kind always has.”
Akila’s hand tightens around the hilt of her blade. “You’re a coward.”
Holden’s gaze shifts to her. Assessing.
“This temple is sacred to your people,” she continues. “Holy ground. And you’re using it as a base for your scheming? You’ve corrupted everything your ancestors built here.”
The next surge of magic begins to build. It starts in my sinuses first. Pressure thickens the air, pressing against my eardrums. The flames of the candles rise unnaturally toward the ceiling.
Holden’s composure flickers.
A flash of raw, wounded fury bleeds through before he smooths it over. When he speaks again, his voice is flat. Cynical. It’s the voice of someone who made peace with his choices long ago.
“Sacred.” He speaks the word like it has the taste of poison. “This temple’s sacredness didn’t stop Lycans from slaughtering my mother on these very steps.”
The surge crests and holds. The air thins around me.
“She wore white ceremonial robes that day...the day the Moon Curse ended. She was conducting the spring blessing, like her mother before her, and her mother’s mother.
” Holden’s eyes become distant. Seeing something none of us can.
“I found her collapsed on the entrance steps. Blood spreading beneath her like spilled ink. Claw marks dragged across her side. Her back.”
Quiet settles. Dense. Suffocating.
“When I found her here,” he continues, “She was still alive, but it was too late. I held her hand as she drew her last breath. That was your kind’s handiwork.”
The image burns into my mind: a tanned woman in white, her long white hair matted with blood that seeps into the stone. The wet, red mess of wounds that no healer could fix. Her son kneeling beside her, watching the light leave her eyes.
Holden’s attention returns to the present, and to us.
“That’s what peace brings.” His lip curls. “My mother’s blood in the snow. Weakness invites slaughter. My father never understood that.”
Xander doesn’t leave room for silence to take hold.
“So, you’d kill your own father for his position?” He closes the distance. “Betray your blood for power?”
Another surge crescendos and it feels like a fist to the sternum. Stone dust rains from the ceiling. The crystals blaze white-hot, and for a heartbeat, I swear the runes on the walls are moving. Creeping toward the altar like living things.
Holden spreads his hands, utterly calm.
“He forfeited his authority when he chose so-called peace over justice.” Maniacal certainty hardens his tone. “The Shaman need a leader who will act, not kneel. This ritual will make that unchallengeable.”
The candle flames stretch impossibly high, blue-white with heat and hungry. The pressure in my chest builds again, faster than before.
Then Holden’s focus locks onto me.
With predatory rapidity, his eyes twitch down to my torso, and his whole body stiffens. His composure falls away. “Why do you have my sister’s talisman?”