3. Chapter 3
Riley
Bleached cattle skulls lined the log entrance to Viggo’s property, their empty eye sockets tracking us as we pulled onto the long driveway. The missing ranger’s place reminded me of a horror movie set.
Morning mist clung to the ground in thin, ghostly ribbons as our SUV crunched over the gravel road.
“Charming,” Freda murmured. Gunnar grunted in agreement as he looked around.
A hand-painted wooden sign jutted from the ground at a sharp angle near what appeared to be the cabin. White letters painted on weathered plank read “Keep Out” with a crude skull and crossbones underneath.
Gunnar cleared phlegm out of his throat, rolled down his window, and spit. “Guessin’ he doesn’t get many door-to-door salesmen out here.”
Bennion grimaced and glanced around. “This place isn’t very inviting.”
He wasn’t kidding. Caustic, jagged energy vibrated from the property line like broken glass embedded in the soil.
Freda pulled the SUV to a stop about twenty yards from the dark, two-story structure. From our angle, it looked like a tree was growing through the roof of the cabin. Smoke-blackened river stones formed the chimney.
“Stay here.” Freda turned off the vehicle and checked her sidearm. I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off. “It’s standard procedure. Bennion and I clear the perimeter and house, and you stay put until we say otherwise.”
The coldness inside me sharpened, dissipating my annoyance. “Alright.”
Gunnar opened his door. “I’ll check the yard and that shed,” he grunted, nodding toward a tilting structure about fifteen yards from the main cabin.
They exited the vehicle in formation, Freda scanning the tree line, Bennion moving toward the rear of the cabin, and Gunnar heading to the shed. My gaze drifted back to the line of skulls marking the driveway. They weren’t randomly placed, but formed a perfect boundary around the property.
A protection circle? The idea surfaced unexpectedly.
Mary, my mentor, taught me about various warding methods used by different practitioners.
Some used salt, others iron filings or carved symbols.
Animal remains were less common but powerful for certain types of boundaries, especially in Slavic countries.
I closed my eyes and reached out, letting my energy expand beyond the vehicle. The defensive vibrations I’d sensed earlier became more distinct, and felt like an invisible net that had been cast over the entire property. Whoever had created this barrier knew what they were doing.
My thoughts circled back to the connection between Viggo and my father. What had they discussed over those maps all those years ago? Were they tracking something or someone? Or maybe a place?
Memories floated just beyond reach, tantalizing but incomplete.
I was young when my father disappeared, and grief had a way of warping reality.
But I remembered Viggo’s voice, gruff and low, like he had a throat full of gravel.
My father sometimes nodded at whatever he said, their conversation hushed and urgent.
Freda approached the front door of the cabin and knocked sharply. The loud sound boomed in the still morning air.
No one answered. She knocked again, louder this time.
Gunnar returned from the shed, shaking his massive head. “Nothing but tools and fishing gear.”
I watched the trio converge on the porch, discussing something I couldn’t hear. I was perfectly capable of defending myself. I’d been doing it long before I became anyone’s Mate.
The coldness inside me shifted. It always seemed worse when I felt trapped or powerless.
Through the windshield, I noticed something odd about the cabin’s windows.
They reflected the morning light strangely, as if something more than just glass were embedded in the frames.
I squinted, trying to get a better look.
Faint but unmistakable symbols had been etched into the glass.
Bennion returned to the SUV while Freda and Gunnar continued examining the cabin’s exterior. He opened my door, his expression grim.
“No signs of forced entry, but no answer either. Place feels empty. Gunnar wants to try the door, see if it’s unlocked.”
I nodded and scooted over to exit the vehicle, but Bennion held up his hand. “Not yet. We’re still assessing.”
Frustration bubbled up again. “I’m conducting this investigation, Bennion. I need to get out to do that.”
“And it’s my job to keep you alive while you do it.”
I sank back into the seat as a rumble came from the gravel road, followed by a rising cloud of dust. A vehicle was approaching.
Automatically, I reached for the sidearm holstered beneath my jacket and stepped out, ignoring Bennion’s hissed protest.
“Stay in the vehicle,” he grumbled.
“I’m a sitting duck in there.”
Freda and Gunnar both turned toward the sound, instantly alert. Bennion moved closer to the SUV, his stance shifting. An ancient Jeep Wagoneer emerged from the dust cloud, its unique brown paint chipped and faded, with patches of rust beneath. It came to a jerky stop about ten feet from our SUV.
A woman with flowing snow-white hair framing her sharp, lined face sat behind the wheel. She had high cheekbones and lush lips, but it was her eyes that drew me. Her irises were pitch-black, seeming to absorb the light. She stared right at me.
Beside her, sitting upright in the passenger seat, was one of the largest domestic cats I’d ever seen. Its tawny, spotted coat and bobbed tail made it look more like a wildcat than a house pet. The animal’s intelligent, amber eyes fixated on me with uncanny focus.
When the woman stepped out, a familiar energy radiated from her. It washed over my skin like static electricity before a storm. The astringent scent of witch hazel hit me, reminding me of my former landlord. The cat climbed out and sat at her feet.
This woman possessed that same wild, primal power linked to herbs and earth magic, along with blood rites under the moon. She was a witch, or maybe a vedma, and practiced some form of the old ways.
She wore olive pants tucked into quality boots and a flowy cream shirt beneath a crimson velvet embroidered vest. The cat walked at her side as the woman came toward us.
No one spoke as she looked over our group before settling on me. She stared as if she knew me, but the silence stretched. I sent a tendril out to read her, but she’d created some kind of static shield.
“I’m Agent Riley Blackthorne with the Investigative Services Branch, and this is my partner, Gunnar Alfson. Freda and Bennion are here for backup.”
She glanced at the shifters, then looked back at me. “Hello, Riley Blackthorne. You carry your father’s energy signature, like wind chimes in a hurricane.” She had a faint Slavic accent and a charming, if enigmatic, smile.
My breath caught when she mentioned my father, but before I could start asking questions, Freda stepped between us.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The woman’s gaze remained locked on mine as she answered. “I am Zaria Novak, Viggo’s neighbor. I live down the road.” She gestured vaguely toward the east. “Viggo and I tolerate each other, and I am the one who reported him missing.”
Gunnar approached, his massive form dwarfing me. The cat arched its back slightly before settling back into a watchful crouch at Zaria’s feet.
“You know where Viggo is?” Gunnar’s voice rumbled like distant thunder.
Zaria raised her eyebrows. “If I did, you wouldn’t be trampling all over his property like lost cattle.” She tilted her head, studying me again.
“You knew my father?”
Her eyes drifted away, unseeing. “Yes. We knew each other before he disappeared. He was friends with Viggo.”
Gunnar nodded toward the cabin. “We need to look inside and see if we can pick up any clues.”
Zaria's black eyes cut to him. “Viggo would sooner shoot you than let you trample through his home.” The cat at her feet let out a chuff as Zaria turned back to me. “But he would probably allow Elijah Blackthorne’s daughter inside.”
She knew my father by name, not merely as a passing acquaintance or colleague of Viggo’s, but well enough to recognize his energy in me. Another thread emerged, linking my father to this place, to Viggo’s disappearance, and to this witch.
“How did you know we were coming?” I asked.
“Beau Harlon called.” She gestured toward Gunnar. “He said one is a troll and the other has a white streak of hair. You two are very distinctive, even more so together.” She glanced at Freda and Bennion. “He didn’t mention the wolves.”
Freda’s jaw tightened. “We’re the Alpha Mate’s bodyguards.”
Zaria turned back to me with a raised eyebrow. “An Alpha’s mate? You’re an interesting person, Riley Blackthorne. I can sense your Resonance and your bond, but it is faint. You have winter growing inside you. I can help you slow the spread.”
I tilted my head. “Where is your home country?”
“It has been called many names.”
“What kind of accent do you have? It’s Slavic, but I can’t quite place it.”
She inclined her head. “I am Slovenian. I will let you and Mr. Alfson inside to search through Viggo’s home, but do not disturb the wards or anger the tree.”
Bennion folded his arms. “Anger the tree? What the hell does that mean?”
Everyone ignored him, and Gunnar stared at Zaria. “Do you think Viggo’s still alive?”
Zaria’s gaze shifted to the cabin. “Viggo is resilient and clever, but there are strange forces in these mountains.” She turned back to study me.
The coldness inside me twisted, as if responding to her words. What had Dad been involved in, and what had he and Viggo been studying on those old maps all those years ago?
“Will you help us?”
Zaria’s lips curved. “I already am.” She turned toward the cabin, the massive cat padding silently beside her. Pulling an ancient-looking iron skeleton key from her pocket, she slipped it into a lock that hadn’t been there seconds before.
“Touch nothing without asking first. Viggo has safeguards.” I wondered what kind of “safeguards” a retired ranger needed in his home.