22. Ava
By the timewe make it downstairs, it’s nearly time for the others to arrive. Brody sets me on the counter, and we pass the time with mindless chatter as he cooks. Domestic bliss wraps around us so comfortably that when an alarm blares on his phone, I shriek in shock, my heart skipping a beat.
The sound is jarring, demanding attention, but my phone remains silent, indicating this is no widespread emergency.
“Shit.” Brody dives for his phone, pressing a button to silence it. The potatoes begin to burn on the stove, forgotten as his eyes scan the message with grave intensity.
All the hair rises on my arms. “What is it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, sensing the sudden shift in the air.
“Hunters,” he says, his voice low and tense. He turns off his phone with a swift motion. It’s as though his entire demeanor shifts, transforming from a relaxed cook to a warrior on edge. “We need to go,” he declares, shutting off the stove and abandoning his apron, leaving our quiet domestic scene in disarray.
“What? What do you mean?” The words tumble out of my mouth as I blink at Brody, who lifts me gently from the counter and sets me on my feet.
“Hunters attacked a young cub close to town,” he explains, his brows furrowed with concern and urgency. “We need to go now.”
“Are they okay?” I ask, my hands wringing together, a wave of nervousness washing over me as Brody rushes to gather a few essentials.
“I don’t know. We need to get to the clan house as soon as possible,” he says, turning to assess me briefly. “Do you feel comfortable going?”
“Of course,” I reply without hesitation, grabbing my crutches and beginning to hobble toward him. “How can I help?”
“You can’t. Right now, we need to regroup,” he states, leading me into the garage and assisting me down the steps. “The clan will divide into three—women and cubs will split down the center into two groups, and all able-bodied members will form a third group. Group one heads north, and group two goes south, to the safe houses,” he explains quickly as he helps me into a jacket then assists me into the car.
Brody shuts the door swiftly, activates the garage door, and climbs in beside me. He pulls out of the driveway with expert speed, a sense of urgency zinging through the air.
“Are we going north or south?” I ask, trying to understand our role in this plan.
“We’re heading to the clan house,” he responds, looking into the distance like he’s listening to someone, a hint of frustration in his tone. It’s clear he’s not pleased with the situation, but there’s no time to dwell on it now. “Ty and Ethan are almost there.”
As twilight engulfs us, a chilling realization grips me—the Puritas Umbra’s willingness to target even a child, or as he said, a cub, underscores a hatred profound and chilling. In this harsh reality, aligning with the spiritkin, those who embrace magic and shapeshifting, feels like not just a choice but a calling.
“Hold on,” Brody warns, his focus iron-clad as the car accelerates down the road, my heart pounding not from excitement but from a growing dread.
“Brody!” I exclaim, gripping the seat belt as if it’s my lifeline. A man, with balls of brass, strolls into the middle of the road like he owns it. “Watch out!”
“No.” Ignoring my panic, Brody presses harder on the accelerator, his resolve steeling against the impending confrontation.
“What the hell are you doing?” Panic spikes through me as we barrel toward the man. That’s when I spot it—a harpoon gripped in his hand, his smile more of a snarl as he lifts his weapon like he’s welcoming the challenge.
I’m frozen, my brain screaming for action but my body refusing to comply.
“Get down!” Brody’s command is sharp and immediate. He doesn’t wait for me to react. His hand is on my head, pushing me down, just as the world explodes with the sound of shattering glass.
My scream is swallowed by a wave of fear so intense, it leaves me shaking.
“Knew you’d move, you asshole,” Brody snarls, his voice edged with a ferocity that sends shivers down my spine.
I’m quaking, my hands clamped over my ears as I try to make myself as small as possible. Is this normal for spiritkin? This constant edge of terror and feeling ready to bolt at the first sign of danger?
This is no way to live.
Blood trickles down my arms, but I press my hands tighter against my ears, trying to block out the howling wind coming through the broken windshield.
“Stay with me, Ava,” Brody orders through the howling wind, his voice both gentle and firm, steadying me. “We’re almost at the clan hou—” His words slam to a halt as the car swerves violently, the world suddenly flipping upside down. I’m tossed against the console, pain shooting through me like a lightning strike. The worst part? The sound of Brody’s head hitting the window. It’s a crack that sends a shiver down my spine—the kind of sound you never forget.
The car’s out of control, spinning like a top on ice. I hold my breath, every muscle tensed for the crash that has be coming, but it doesn’t. Somehow, miraculously, we stop spinning, and everything goes still.
Just when I think it’s over, eerie laughter cuts through the silence, sending chills up my spine. It’s like something out of a horror movie, dark and full of malice, echoing around us before silence slams down again. The quiet’s almost worse than the noise, like a thick, suffocating blanket of nothing that leaves us hanging in limbo as I try to wrap my head around what just happened.
Breathing shallowly, I force myself upright. The accident might not look like much, but the pain tells a different story.
I turn to Brody, his head lolled to one side as blood dribbles from his nose. Heart hammering, I check his pulse, nearly sobbing with relief when I find it steady and strong.
He’s okay, but we’re far from safe with a hunter probably watching us from the shadows.
Fear tightens its grip on my throat, but stubbornness is a powerful antidote. I unbuckle my seat belt, ignoring the pain that protests every movement. The road is silent, ominously so.
I clamber over the seat, cursing as my cast snags. Once in Brody’s seat, I jab the car into park and try the ignition. “Start, please start,” I mutter, desperation making my voice shake. The worst part? Even if it does start, I don’t know how to drive.
I can feel eyes on us, lurking in the darkness. Tears well up, frustration burning as the car stubbornly refuses to start. “Come on,” I whisper.
Brody’s breathing is ragged but steady, offering a tiny glimmer of hope in this mess. I jab at the key again, my heart doing this crazy dance of hope and fear in the pitch-black.
Out of nowhere, a voice cuts through the silence, all smug and creepy. “Ava,” he calls, like some bad movie villain who’s way too pleased with himself. “Really hope you made it through that crash. It’d be a real bummer to lose you now.”
Chills run down my spine. Who the heck is this guy? His voice is kind of familiar but totally not welcome. How on earth does he know my name? It’s like my brain’s stuck on repeat, asking the same question over and over.
“Come on, you piece of junk,” I mutter to the car, giving the key another desperate twist. The engine sputters but remains silent.
“Oh, look at that—you’re alive and kicking,” Mr. Creepy taunts from somewhere in the dark. I need the nickname, need to distance myself from who and what he is.
His words slither through the busted windshield, dripping with that I’m going to get you vibe. It’s like we’re wrapped in a bubble of creepiness, and outside, the night’s just soaking it all up, hiding Mr. Creepy but doing nothing to muffle his psycho vibes.
My hands shake as I fumble with the key again, the car filled with the stench of blood, burnt rubber, and a hint of panic. The seat belt’s tangled around Brody, who’s out cold, leaving me to fiddle with it in a panicked daze.
“Nice try, Ava,” the voice sneers, sounding closer now, as if he’s right on top of us. “But you’re not going anywhere. I’ve been looking forward to this for a while.”
Somewhere nearby, a twig snaps. It’s the most ordinary sound, but here, now, it’s like a gunshot. My heart skips a beat before trying to thump out of my chest, and I’m frozen, caught between wanting to bolt and not knowing where to start.
Our car, our once safe little bubble, suddenly feels like a tin can in a microwave. I dart a look at the rearview mirror, half expecting to see some horror movie monster, but nope, just darkness.
“Brody,” I whisper, hoping he’ll suddenly come to and save the day. “Please, wake up. I need you.” He’s out, leaving me solo in our fight against Mr. Creepy.
His laughter slices through the tension, making my skin do that creepy-crawly thing. “What’s wrong, Ava? Scared speechless? Or are you just now realizing you’re in way over your head?”
I grip the key so tightly, it might become a permanent part of my hand. My brain’s doing somersaults, trying to figure a way out of this, but all I have is Mr. Creepy’s voice drilling into my brain like some twisted lullaby.
I steal another look at Brody, finding a sliver of comfort in his steady breathing. A mix of desperation and stubborn hope has me turning the key again, muttering every good luck charm under my breath like they are going to save me.
The engine gives a hopeful sputter and cough—a tiny spark of light in all this darkness, but is it enough? Each crunch of gravel under Mr. Creepy’s boots snuffs that spark out bit by bit.
Then comes the silence, thick with my pounding heart and his footsteps, slow and deliberate—a countdown to something I don’t want to know.
“Come on, Ava,” he taunts from somewhere too close, his words dripping with a sickly sweetness that sends shivers down my spine. “You don’t really think you can just escape, do you? This isn’t some game of tag. No, this is a twisted tango we’re meant to dance together.”
The key in my hand feels like my last tie to sanity. Every part of me is screaming to bolt, to run and never look back, but here I am, stuck in this nightmare with a guy who thinks we’re starring in some psycho thriller.
“Your mom,” he muses, his voice inching closer with each haunting syllable, “was quite the character. She was tough and unyielding—a lot like you. Her end was…tragic. A real shame.” The way he talks about her, like he’s reminiscing over coffee, sends a wave of nausea through me. How does he know her? What’s this game he’s playing?
“Here’s the kicker, Ava,” he purrs, his breath almost palpable against the nape of my neck, “I know who snuffed out her light. Yep. Just come out, take my hand willingly, and all the secrets will spill. Don’t you crave that, Ava? The truth about your mom’s final curtain call?”
I’m caught like a fish on a hook, torn between the bait of knowing and the gut feeling that it’s all a trap. The part of me starving for closure on Mom’s story nearly drowns out the alarms blaring in my head.
“This is bigger than a mere hunt, Ava. It’s destiny,” he declares, his presence now a shadow pressing against the fragile shield of the car. “Our paths are entwined, stitched together by fate herself. Your mom’s departure was merely the prologue to our grand play, and you, darling, are the lead.”
His footsteps pause, and I can almost feel him hovering outside, like a storm of malice waiting to burst. His insinuations about Mom, the implications that he’s woven into her story, ignite a wildfire within me. I want to tear out of this car and confront him, ending his vile game.
A sliver of sanity, a whisper of caution, keeps me grounded. Brody’s out cold, relying on me. I can’t dive headfirst into the hunter’s twisted fantasy and let him drag me out with his sick tales and darker promises.
“I’m not your puppet,” I spit out, more to convince myself than him. “You think you can rattle me, draw me out with your perverse bedtime stories, but I’m not playing. I’m staying put. You can’t touch me, and you’re not laying a finger on Brody.”
The silence that follows is electric, charged with unvoiced threats, until his laughter slices through the darkness, freezing me to my core.
“Such a sassy mouth on you.” His voice is haunting. “But we’re just getting started. You can’t dodge your fate any more than you can dodge me.”
His chilling declaration hangs in the air, like a dark omen. My resolve crystallizes. I refuse to be swallowed by his darkness. No matter his mind games, I’ll shield Brody, and I’ll unearth the truth about Mom my way.
The hunter’s silhouette looms outside, like a menacing specter in the silence. The car creaks, groaning under the weight of our standoff, echoing the tension gripping me. Brody’s labored breaths are the only sound in the eerie quiet—a stark reminder of what’s at stake. I can’t abandon him, can’t step into the hunter’s web of lies, no matter how sweetly he spins them.
“Really, Ava,” he taunts, trying a new angle and oozing faux concern. “You might want to rethink your choice. This could be your shot at the truth, at justice for your mom. Doesn’t she deserve that? For you to uncover who ripped her away from you?”
His words slink through the darkness, dripping with a venom that tries to seep into my very soul, but the more he evokes my mother’s memory, the more a steely resolve wraps around my spine. She was a warrior in her own right, teaching me that bravery isn’t about the absence of fear, but staring it down with fierce defiance. There’s no way I’ll let her legacy be tarnished by his twisted games.
“I don’t need your distorted version of the truth,” I retort, my voice brimming with venom to match his. “My mom was brave—something a coward like you could never comprehend. She’d spit on your pitiful attempts to manipulate me.”
A dark chuckle seeps from the shadows, menacing and cold. “Bravery? Oh, Ava, to me, that’s just a fancier word for foolishness. But, darling, you’ll learn. Sometimes, facing the harsh light of reality is the bravest act of all.”
He’s weaving a web of words, a maze meant to ensnare me in a fog of doubt and fear, but I’m not biting. The stakes are too high. Brody’s safety, my sanity, and the honor of my mother’s memory are all teetering on the edge, depending on the choices I make right here, right now.
His footsteps circle the car, slow and predatory, like a shark scenting blood in the water. My heart pounds against my ribs, not in fear, but as a drumbeat of war, urging me to hold my ground.
“Your mother’s story was just a chapter, Ava. There’s a whole saga here with you as the climax, the pièce de résistance. Aren’t you the least bit curious to see how it all ends?”
His insinuations slice through the air, sharp and dangerous, hinting at a bigger picture I can’t quite see yet, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let him know he’s gotten under my skin.
Shaking my head to clear the cobwebs his words have created, I remain unyielding. “You’re just trying to mess with me, to get inside my head, but I’m not falling for it. I’m made of sterner stuff.”
The night holds its breath, a heavy silence descending like a curtain after a performance. Just when I think he might have retreated into the shadows, his laughter shatters the stillness.
“Ava, you’re truly your mother’s daughter—so defiant, so unyielding—but make no mistake, this is far from the end. Fate has a way of catching up, and it has your scent now.”
His final words linger in the air, leaving a sense of foreboding that wraps around me like a cold embrace. But fear? That’s not on the menu tonight. I’m Ava, forged in the fires of my mother’s strength, ready to take on whatever twisted fate he thinks he has planned for me.
Game time’s here, and I’m all-in. I’m geared up to rumble, peel back the lies, and square off with whatever warped curveballs this hunter tosses my way. Sure, the path forward might be wrapped in shadows, but I’m marching on, chin up, because I have my mom’s fire in me, and I’m not about to be knocked down.
My heart goes from zero to sixty, vaulting right up into my throat as every inch of me tenses, ready for the main event. The hunter’s cackling, full of himself and his creepy vibes, but suddenly, he hits a wall of silence so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Then, the underbrush starts whispering sweet nothings of doom, and a growl—low and oh so menacing—soars through the air, setting off my internal alarm bells.
The hunter’s presence, once looming and oppressive, now seems to hesitate, the air charged with a new, potent energy. Without warning, a massive form bursts from the shadows of the forest—a wolf, but not just any wolf. This is a creature of immense power and primal grace, its fur a deep, lustrous black that absorbs the moonlight, making it seem as if the night itself has come alive.
Ethan.
Laying eyes on him hits me with a wave of mixed emotions—relief, admiration, and a bit of a thrill. He’s the embodiment of power, a force of nature on four paws, with eyes that blaze a trail straight into my soul. They are golden, fierce, and they flicker with promises of safety, revenge, and a hint of something more—something that makes my stomach do backflips.
The hunter tries to stand his ground. “You think your big, bad wolf scares me, Ava?” he taunts, his voice quivering like a leaf in a hurricane. “I’ve danced with werewolves before. I’m not scared.” The tremble in his voice, however, tells a story of doubt and fear.
With a growl that seems to rattle the bones of the earth itself, Ethan advances. He’s grace and danger rolled into one. The hunter makes a clumsy grab for something, probably hoping for a miracle, but Ethan’s already on him, a blur of primal instinct and fury.
I’m stuck, my body frozen as I protect Brody, as the scene unfolds like the climax of the wildest action movie. Ethan is poetry in motion—if poetry involved a lot of snarling and tearing. The hunter, with all his bluster, is about as effective as a paper bag in a hurricane against Ethan’s whirlwind of protective rage.
It’s an epic showdown, one where nature’s law trumps human arrogance every time. Ethan isn’t just fighting, he’s declaring his claim loud and clear for anyone daring enough to question it. It’s a spectacle that’s equal parts terrifying and mesmerizing, with a dash of undeniable allure.
In what feels like an eternity but lasts only moments, the struggle ends. Ethan stands over the hunter, his form imposing and dominant, the hunter’s lifeless body a testament to the ferocity and strength of a spiritkin’s wrath when his mate is in danger.
The world around us feels like it’s holding its breath, the air thick with the drama we just lived through. Ethan turns my way, and it’s as if he’s the only thing glowing in a sea of shadows. His eyes, those golden orbs, shift from warrior mode to something softer—something that makes my heart do little flips. He pads over as if he knows just how fragile this bubble of time feels.
I open the car door, its squeaky hinges echoing around us.
My heart, which was racing like a getaway car, now beats to a different rhythm—gratitude mixed with a deep, sweet kind of ache. When Ethan, in all his glorious wolfishness, nudges my hand, it’s like getting a hug in the form of a whisker tickle. That little gesture is a whole conversation about sticking together, no words needed.
Then, the weight of everything—the scares, the close calls, the what-ifs—settles on me like a heavy coat. Relief is there, yeah, but it’s tangled with a sadness that’s sharp around the edges and memories that promise they are sticking around. I feel the storm inside me start to stir, but it’s like Ethan’s quiet strength gives me permission to just let go. Boy, do I let go. Tears burst forth like they’ve been waiting for an invitation in a messy, salty flood that’s been dammed up too long.
Ethan quickly shifts, not missing a beat. He scoops me up, gently pulling me away from Brody, whom I’ve been guarding like he’s the last piece of chocolate on Earth. Wrapped up in Ethan’s arms, I feel like I’m in the eye of my personal hurricane. I let everything spill out, all the pent-up fear, relief, and a truckload of feelings I can’t even name, pouring out of me like a tribute to the night’s madness.
In this moment with Ethan, time doesn’t just stop—it does a full-on swan dive. The rest of the world fades to a blur, leaving just the two of us in our little oasis of calm. His hold on me is like a promise—solid and sure, offering me the space to fall apart and the strength to start putting myself back together. We’re a testament to getting through the rough stuff—not just surviving, but finding a spark of hope in the mess together.