Chapter 11 Cassidy
CASSIDY
Dawn in the Blackmoore Mountains feels like a dare.
The light comes in thin stripes through the pines, cold and pale, and the ground holds onto last night’s frost like it is proud of it.
My boots crunch over gravel as I cross the lower yard, pack snug against my shoulders and my handheld GPS clipped to the strap where I can reach it fast. Ciaran waits near the treeline with three others, all in human form, all dressed for movement.
He glances at my shoulder the moment I step close, then forces his eyes back to my face like he caught himself staring.
“You’re up early,” he says.
“I didn’t sleep much,” I reply, adjusting the strap again. “I’m fine.”
Ciaran introduces the three patrol members.
Tomas snorts quietly behind him, young and wiry with a sharp jaw and restless energy in his hands.
He looks like someone who wants to prove himself with every breath.
Kelsey stands a half step back from him, expression neutral, eyes scanning the woods like she is counting every branch and shadow.
The fourth wolf, a stockier man named Jace, rolls his shoulders like he is loosening muscle memory.
Ciaran tilts his head. “That’s the line you always use.”
“It keeps working,” I say.
He makes a quiet sound that could be amusement if he were a different kind of person. “We’re headed to the north ridge. Stay tight, keep your head up, and don’t wander off chasing tracks.”
“I’m not a tourist,” I tell him.
Tomas flashes a quick grin. “That’s debatable.”
Kelsey elbows him lightly. “Shut up and move.”
We start in a tight line, boots sinking into soft soil where the frost has already melted. The air smells like wet pine needles and cold stone. Somewhere deeper in the trees, water runs over rocks, steady and quiet.
The northern ridge climb is brutal in a slow way.
It is not steep enough to justify complaining, but it never stops rising. My lungs burn clean air, sharp with resin, and my thighs warm up fast under the strain. Ciaran keeps a steady pace that forces the rest of us to match him, not fast enough to exhaust, not slow enough to get comfortable.
Tomas keeps glancing back at me like he expects me to stumble.
I ignore him.
Kelsey moves with a quiet efficiency that reminds me of field techs who have been in the mountains longer than they have been in relationships.
She steps over roots without breaking stride, her gaze always moving, never lingering on one point too long.
Jace stays behind us, watching our backtrail like he expects company.
After forty minutes, Ciaran signals a stop with two fingers.
We pause near a cluster of granite outcroppings, the stones slick with morning dew. I pull my GPS unit and glance at the coordinates, then switch to the map overlay I built last night. The previous attack sites appear as dots and lines, the corridor pattern faint but unmistakable.
Ciaran watches me, arms folded, breath steady.
“You’re doing the thing again,” he says.
“The thing saves time,” I reply, tapping the screen. “Where was the livestock kill.”
He points uphill. “About another quarter mile. Past the ravine mouth.”
Tomas shifts his weight. “We should split here. Two go high, two sweep the ravine.”
Kelsey’s head turns toward him, expression sharp. “That ravine is a choke.”
“It’s coverage,” Tomas argues.
I glance at the terrain lines on my screen and feel my stomach tighten. The northern ridge ravine system is not one ravine, it is a web of narrow cuts that funnel into a single mouth. If you step into it wrong, you cannot see out until you are already trapped between rock walls and deadfall.
“It’s a blind choke point,” I say.
Tomas looks at me like he wants to laugh. “You don’t know that.”
I hold up the GPS unit. “I do. The elevation drops here, then narrows into a V-shaped cut. The walls steepen fast and the tree cover thickens.”
Ciaran lifts a brow. “She’s right.”
Tomas’s jaw tightens. “We’ve patrolled this ridge longer than she’s been here.”
“And you still miss patterns,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “That’s why you pulled me in.”
The words land harder than I intend, but they are true.
Kelsey lets out a slow breath, like she is relieved someone said it out loud. Jace studies Tomas with a flat expression that reads as warning.
Ciaran steps closer to the ledge of the outcropping and looks down into the ravine mouth. “We don’t split into the cut,” he says. “We approach from the high side and sweep down with visibility.”
Tomas opens his mouth again, then closes it when Ciaran’s gaze sharpens.
“Copy,” Tomas mutters.
We move again, angling along the ridge line instead of dropping. The terrain shifts under our boots from soft soil to rock and back to damp moss. My fingers go numb around the GPS unit, then warm again as the sun climbs and light starts cutting through the canopy.
When we reach the kill site, the smell hits first.
Copper. Wet fur. A sour, metallic tang that clings to the cold air like smoke. A sheep lies in a shallow depression near a fallen log, throat torn open, body twisted as if it tried to run and failed mid-step.
Kelsey crouches first, gloved hand hovering over the wound without touching. “Fresh,” she says.
Tomas circles the perimeter, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring as if he is scenting even in human form. Jace steps farther out, scanning the treeline and the slope beyond like he expects the rogue to appear and applaud.
I kneel beside the carcass and keep my movements precise.
The wool is damp with dew and blood. The wound edges are clean in a way that suggests intent, not panic feeding. This is not hunger. This is message-making.
Ciaran watches me work, then speaks quietly. “Talk me through it.”
“Single strike,” I say, tracing the pattern without touching. “Deep bite, fast kill. No feeding marks, no drag pattern.”
Tomas scoffs. “So, it’s the same as the others.”
“It’s staged,” I correct, and lift my gaze to the surrounding terrain. “Positioned near a natural trail line. Visible if someone comes over the ridge.”
Kelsey shifts her weight. “To be found.”
“Yes,” I reply.
I pull my GPS unit closer and mark the coordinate, then overlay it with the prior sites. The dots form a faint arc, curving toward the ravine system Ciaran mentioned. The rogue is using the ridgeline like a highway, then dropping into cover when he needs to vanish.
“Exit route is the ravine web,” I say.
Ciaran’s eyes flick to my GPS. “You’re sure.”
“As sure as you can be without watching him move,” I reply. “The ravine gives cover, and it funnels toward the corridor you already have gaps in.”
Tomas crosses his arms. “Or he goes high and doubles back.”
I look up at him. “That’s possible. But if he goes high, he risks silhouette exposure against the ridge.”
Tomas hesitates, then shrugs like he cannot argue that without sounding petty.
Kelsey stands and takes two steps outward, eyes fixed on a patch of disturbed ground. “Tracks,” she says.
We move toward her.
The soil is damp and dark, and the prints are fresh enough that water still glistens against the sides. Large paw imprints, deeper than a normal wolf, with claw marks that dig into the earth like the animal wanted to leave proof.
I crouch, measure the stride with my tape, and compare it to the direction.
The tracks angle downhill, then—abruptly—veer left and loop back in a sharp arc.
Tomas frowns. “He turned around.”
“No,” I say. I point to the arc where the paw prints lighten. “The pressure changes. The stride shortens here. That’s deliberate.”
Tomas crouches too, closer now, the earlier bravado replaced with curiosity. “So, he’s limping.”
“He’s not limping,” I reply. “He’s altering his gait.”
Kelsey’s eyes narrow. “To confuse trackers.”
“Yes,” I say. “If he doubles back on his own trail, then breaks hard to the side, he creates a false lead. You follow scent, you end up circling yourself.”
Ciaran’s mouth tightens in something like grim approval. “That’s smarter than a normal predator.”
“That’s what I keep saying,” I reply, keeping my tone controlled. “He knows you track by scent. He’s using it against you.”
Tomas’s gaze flicks to Ciaran, then back to the tracks. “So, what do we do.”
“We stop assuming straight lines,” I say. “We assume misdirection. We look for where he breaks off after the loop.”
Jace points toward a dense patch of young firs. “There’s a disturbance there.”
Kelsey moves first, stepping carefully, eyes locked on the ground. I follow close enough to see what she sees, but not so close that we tangle. The fir branches scrape my jacket and leave damp needles against my sleeves.
The trail disappears for three steps, then reappears faintly on a rock face where mud has smeared.
Ciaran exhales slowly. “He’s heading toward the ravine after all.”
“Or he wants you to think that,” Tomas says, quieter now.
I glance at Tomas, then nod once. “That’s very possible.”
Tomas huffs a laugh under his breath, but it lacks the earlier edge.
Ciaran pulls his phone from his pocket and steps a few paces away, turning so the rest of us cannot read his face. He makes the call quickly, voice low but firm.
“Alden,” he says. “We found fresh tracks on the north ridge. The kill is staged, and the trail doubles back.”
He listens, gaze fixed on the treeline like he expects the Alpha to step out from between the trunks.
“Yes,” Ciaran continues. “Cassidy mapped an exit route through the ravine system. We have confirmation it aligns.” He pauses again, shoulders tightening slightly. “Copy,” he says. “We’ll hold.” Ciaran ends the call and turns back toward us. “He’s coming,” he says.
Tomas straightens and flexes his fingers like he is preparing for impact. Kelsey’s posture shifts subtly, more alert, her gaze sweeping the woods again with renewed intensity. Jace takes two steps toward the backtrail, positioning himself without being told.