Chapter 24 Jax
JAX
War smells like copper and diesel.
I am a blur of black fur and violence, a creature of shadow moving through the strobe-light nightmare of the floodlights.
I don't feel the mud sucking at my paws.
I don't feel the brambles tearing at my coat.
I only feel the recoil of impact as I slam into a Hunter, my jaws snapping shut around the Kevlar of his throat guard.
He tastes of synthetic fabric and terror.
I throw him aside, ragdolling a two-hundred-pound man, and pivot.
The yard is a slaughterhouse.
My Pack is fighting, but they are losing ground. The UV lights are blinding them, searing their retinas, making them stumble. I see Vance take a round to the shoulder, spinning him around. I see another wolf—one of the elders—limping, trailing blood.
I snarl, a sound that vibrates in my chest cavity, and launch myself at the next target.
Rip. Tear. Silence.
I clear a path toward the porch. I need to get to the cabin. I need to get to her.
Then I see her.
Miranda is on her knees in the shattered doorway.
She isn't looking at me. She’s looking at the ground below the porch, where the younger twin lies in a pool of his own blood.
She looks small. Pale. Her hands are covered in red—Hunter blood or Pack blood, I can't tell—and her face is a mask of devastation.
She stumbles forward, her hand reaching out as if she can pull the life back into the boy.
No.
Panic spikes in my gut, hotter than the rage. She’s exposed. She’s in the open.
I scramble over the hood of a wrecked truck, claws screeching on metal, desperate to put my body between her and the firing line. I take down a Hunter who raises a rifle at her, snapping his arm like a dry twig.
I turn to run to her.
I don't see him until it’s too late.
Gregor steps out from behind the generator shed. He isn't wearing standard tactical gear. He’s wearing a heavy, rubberized coat and holding a custom rifle. It doesn't look like a weapon of war; it looks like a medical instrument.
He locks eyes with me. He smiles.
Thwip.
There is no bang. Just the hiss of compressed air.
Something hits my right flank.
It feels like a bee sting. Small. Insignificant.
Then the capsule shatters inside me.
Fire.
It’s not heat. It’s chemical. It’s acid. It feels like someone has injected molten lava directly into my bloodstream.
I yelp—a high, broken sound that shames the Wolf.
My legs give out. I crash into the mud, sliding three feet. The agony is total. It overrides my vision, my hearing, my sense of smell. It feels like my veins are being scoured with wire brushes.
Liquid silver. Concentrated. Pure.
The Wolf screams in my head, terrified, and retreats.
The shift isn't voluntary. It’s a rejection. My body can't hold the magic anymore. The silver is burning it away.
Bones snap. Muscles shrink. Fur recedes into skin that feels like it’s flayed open.
I’m screaming. I can hear myself screaming, a raw, human sound that tears my throat raw.
I’m lying in the muck, naked, shivering violently. The pain in my flank is a pulsing star of white-hot agony.
"Got you," Gregor’s voice drifts through the haze.
He racks the bolt of his rifle. He steps closer, his boots squelching in the mud. He aims at my head.
"No!"
The scream comes from the porch. Miranda.
"Jax!"
"Get... back..." I choke out, trying to push myself up. My arms are jelly. The mud is entering my mouth, tasting of iron and oil.
Gregor puts his finger on the trigger.
Suddenly, hands grab my shoulders.
"Move, Alpha!"
Remy.
He drags me backward, hauling my dead weight through the sludge.
Crack.
A bullet hits the mud where my head was a second ago.
Crack.
Remy grunts. He stumbles, his grip slipping on my slick skin. Fresh blood sprays across my chest—bright, arterial red.
"Remy," I wheeze.
"Shoulder," he gasps, regripping me with his good arm. "Just a graze. Move your legs, Jax!"
I try. I can't feel my legs. The silver is moving fast, traveling up my nervous system.
Gregor adjusts his aim. He’s going to finish us both.
Then the night breaks open.
AWOOOOO-ROOOOO!
It’s not one howl. It’s twenty or more. Deep, resonant, thunderous howls coming from the south. Not the desperate cries of my beleaguered pack, but the fresh, aggressive roar of reinforcements.
Gregor flinches, looking toward the canal.
Shapes burst from the treeline. Massive wolves. Grey, brown, russet.
Leading them is a man in human form, running with a machete in each hand. He’s older than me, scarred, with eyes like polished granite.
Alpha LeBlanc. The Houma Pack. Fortunately, he came. Remy reached out to him days ago secretly as a last minute gamble. There was no reply but he’s here now.
He hates Gregor. He hates Hunters more than he hates anything in this world.
"Clear the field!" LeBlanc roars, diving into the fray.
His wolves hit Gregor’s line like a tidal wave. The Hunters, focused on grinding us down, aren't ready for a flank attack. The screams change from wolf to human.
"Go!" Remy shouts, hauling me up.
Miranda is there. She’s at my other side, her shoulder wedged under my armpit. She’s small, but she’s strong. She smells of gunpowder and blood.
"I got him," she pants, her face inches from mine. Her eyes are wild, terrified. "I got you, Jax."
They drag me away from the fight. Away from the cabin.
We slide down the embankment to the water. A small skiff is hidden in the reeds—an emergency extraction boat.
They dump me into the bottom of the aluminum hull. I hit the metal hard, crying out as the impact jostles the silver in my veins.
Miranda jumps in beside me. Remy shoves the boat off, jumping in the back and ripping the cord on the motor. It sputters, then catches.
We shoot out into the dark water, leaving the chaos of the floodlights behind.
The boat bounces over the chop. Every impact sends a fresh wave of nausea through me. I’m cold. So cold. My teeth are chattering so hard I think they might crack.
"Jax, stay with me," Miranda pleads. She’s ripping the hem of her shirt—the flannel I gave her. She presses the cloth against the wound in my flank.
"Hurts," I grind out.
"I know. I know." Her hands are trembling, but she keeps pressure. "We have to get the bullet out."
"It ain't... a bullet," I whisper, my vision tunneling. "Liquid. Glass... broke inside."
She pales, her face looking ghostly in the moonlight. "Liquid silver?"
"Poison."
Remy steers us deep into the trackless marsh, navigating by instinct. The sounds of the battle fade, replaced by the roar of the engine and the rushing of blood in my ears.
"Where are we going?" Miranda shouts over the motor.
"Elder Boudreaux’s fishing shack," Remy calls back, his face grim, clutching his own bleeding shoulder. "It’s off the grid. Iron-lined. He told me to drag your asses there if it gets worse. It’s safe… for now."
I look up at Miranda. She’s leaning over me, shielding my face from the spray. Her hair is a mess, her clothes are ruined, and she has blood smeared across her cheekbone.
She looks like a warrior.
"You fought," I whisper, reaching up with a hand that feels like lead. I touch her arm. "You fought."
"I told you I would," she says, her voice breaking. "I keep my promises."
"Your injuries, does it hurt?"
"Don't think about it," she says softly. "Focus on breathing. In. Out. Match my rhythm, Jax. Do it."
I try. I try to sync my lungs to hers, but the hitch in my chest makes it impossible. The fire in my flank is spreading. I can feel it moving into my gut, wrapping around my spine. It feels like ice and lava at the same time.
The boat slows. We drift toward a rotting dock hidden under a canopy of weeping willow.
Remy ties us off. He and Miranda haul me out. I can't help them. My legs are dead weight.
They drag me into the cabin. It smells of stale tobacco and dried fish. They hoist me onto a table.
Miranda tears my jeans open, exposing the wound.
I hear her sharp intake of breath.
I strain to lift my head.
The wound isn't bleeding red anymore. The veins radiating out from the puncture site are black. A web of necrosis is spreading across my hip, reaching toward my navel. The skin is grey, puckered, and burning hot to the touch.
"It’s moving fast," Remy says, his voice tight with fear.
"Give me a knife," Miranda orders. "I need to cut the tissue out before it hits the femoral artery."
"It’s liquid, Miranda," Remy says, gripping her shoulder. " It’s in the blood. You can't cut it out."
I let my head drop back against the wood. The ceiling is spinning.
The cold is settling deep in my chest now. It’s numbing the pain, which is a mercy, but I know what that means. The healing factor is dead. The Wolf is silent.
I look at Miranda. She’s frantically searching the shelves, grabbing jars, looking for anything to stop the rot. She’s vibrating with that need to fix, to solve, to repair.
But I’m not a clock.
"Miranda," I whisper.
She freezes. She turns to me, her eyes swimming with tears.
"Fix it," she whispers to herself. "Just fix it."
"You can't," I say. The realization is calm, quiet. "It’s too deep."
She comes to my side, gripping my hand. Her skin is warm. Mine is freezing.
"Don't say that," she begs. "Don't you dare quit on me, Jackson Roux."
I squeeze her fingers, but I can barely feel them. The darkness is creeping in at the edges of my vision, soft and inviting.
"I ain't quitting," I murmur, my eyes sliding shut. "But I think... I think the engine’s dead."