Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
AVINE
The witches arrived in a storm of power and fury.
Cassia came first, wind magic howling around her, scattering salt constructs like leaves in a hurricane. Her eyes blazed with lightning as she strode through the shattered doorway, hair whipping around her face. “Miss me?”
Junie was right behind her, throwing potions that exploded on impact—acid that dissolved constructs, smoke that disoriented them, sticky black tar that held them in place for the wolves to tear apart. “I’m charging you extra for this call-out!”
Dahlia slipped in through the kitchen entrance, shields already raised, soft pink light that looked deceptively gentle but held against construct after construct. Narla flanked her, candles somehow producing flame even in the chaos, fire that burned hot enough to melt salt into glass.
Her coven. Her friends.
Not alone. I’m not alone anymore.
“Formation!” Cassia called, and the witches moved with practiced ease—shields layering, attacks coordinating, magic weaving in patterns Avine couldn’t follow but felt resonating with her own power.
Theo’s wolves worked around them. In them. Two groups that should have clashed operating in seamless unity. Pack magic and witch magic braiding into a defense that held against wave after wave of constructs.
But more kept coming. The source hadn’t stopped.
The sigils burned brighter on the floor. Whatever was powering this attack, it wasn’t tiring.
Avine lost track of time. Lost track of everything except the rhythm of defense and attack, shield and strike. Her muscles screamed. Her magic guttered like a candle in a storm, reserves draining faster than she could rebuild them.
A construct got through their line. Then another. Theo snarled and intercepted one, but the other—
The other was heading for Dahlia.
Dahlia, whose shields were flickering. Dahlia, who was pale and trembling and had been pouring everything into defense. Dahlia, who wasn’t watching her back because she trusted someone else to cover her.
The construct raised crystalline arms, green light blazing in its hollow sockets.
Dahlia didn’t see it.
Avine didn’t think. Didn’t calculate. Didn’t consider the cost.
She threw herself between Dahlia and the construct and reached for power she’d kept locked away her entire adult life.
The magic that answered wasn’t the controlled, careful magic she’d practiced for twenty years.
This was raw. Primal. Sea-deep and storm-vast and utterly, terrifyingly unlimited.
It erupted from her in a wave of blue-white light. The construct didn’t shatter—it VAPORIZED. Salt particles scattered into mist that hung in the air like glitter.
But she couldn’t stop.
The power kept pouring through her, too much, too fast, tearing through channels that weren’t built for this kind of flow. She heard screaming—hers, maybe—as her vision whited out.
Too much. I can’t—I can’t control—
Distantly, she felt the other constructs falling. Felt her magic ripping through them, destroying every hostile presence in the inn. Felt the wards ROARING back to life, stronger than ever, reinforced by the full, devastating force of what she’d unleashed.
Then the world tilted.
Blood—hot and copper-tasting—poured from her nose. Her ears. The corners of her eyes.
Oh. That’s bad.
Her knees buckled.
The last thing she heard before darkness claimed her was a howl—anguished and terrified and soul-deep. Theo’s howl. Calling her name.
She wanted to answer.
She couldn’t remember how.
Darkness.
Not the peaceful darkness of sleep. This was heavy. Pressing. A weight that pinned her to the bottom of herself while her body fought for survival.
Wake up.
She couldn’t.
You have to wake up. He’s calling you.
The howl echoed through the void—distant, desperate, impossible to ignore. Theo. Still calling. Still waiting.
I’m trying. I’m TRYING.
Light flickered somewhere far away. Faint. Fragile. A lifeline thrown into the black.
She reached for it.
Hands. Voices. Light that stabbed her eyelids.
“—magical exhaustion—”
“—never seen that kind of power—”
“—will she—”
“She’ll wake up.” Theo’s voice, rough as gravel, breaking on the words. “She has to wake up.”
I’m here. I’m still here.
She tried to open her eyes. Her body refused to cooperate. Exhaustion pressed her down, held her under, wouldn’t let her surface no matter how hard she fought.
“Avine.” His hand found hers—calloused, trembling, gripping too tight. “You come back to me. Do you hear me? You come back.”
I’m trying.
“We’re not done. You don’t get to—” His voice cracked. Broke. Reformed into desperation. “Please. Please wake up.”
She wanted to. Gods, she wanted to.
But the darkness was so heavy, and she was so tired, and her body had given everything it had in that final burst of power.
Just a little longer. Let me rest a little longer.
The last thing she felt before unconsciousness dragged her under completely was his lips against her forehead. His tears on her skin.
His voice, barely a whisper: “I need you to stay.”
Avine dreamed of the sea again.
But this time, the calm waters held a thread of gold—pack magic, warm and steady, anchoring her to shore.
And somewhere above the waves, a wolf kept vigil.
Waiting for her to wake.