Chapter 13 Cassidy
CASSIDY
The Healing Lodge smells like crushed herbs and old smoke, sharp enough to sting the back of my throat.
Ansel’s workroom is warmer than the forest outside, heat trapped in the wood and stone like it has been saved for emergencies.
I step inside slowly, pack held close, and I keep my hands visible the way Ciaran taught me.
Wolves watch boundaries even when they pretend they do not.
Ansel looks up from a workbench, sleeves rolled, hands stained faintly with dried blood. His dark hair is threaded with silver, and his eyes are calm, patience and dignity he’s earned. Ciaran waits for me near the door, keeping a close eye on everything I do.
“You can work,” Ansel says. “Do not touch without asking.”
“I won’t,” I reply.
Ciaran’s gaze shifts briefly to my face. The look is quick, controlled, and tells me not to waste time.
The injured wolf lies on his back with linen wraps across his throat and chest. His skin is pale under the lamplight, but bruising blooms along his ribs in angry purples. Ansel has already cleaned the worst of the blood, which makes the carved marks stand out more clearly.
They are not random wounds.
They are deliberate gouges, cut deep enough to leave raised edges. The lines curve and intersect with controlled precision, like someone carved into flesh the way a person carves into bark.
I pull on gloves and unzip my camera case.
“Can he hear me,” I ask quietly.
Ansel adjusts a clamp on the table and glances at the injured wolf’s face. “He drifts in and out. Speak softly.”
I lean in slightly, careful not to invade space I have not been granted. The wolf’s lashes flutter once, then settle again. His breathing is shallow but steadier than it was in the clearing.
“I’m going to take photos,” I tell him, voice low. “Just data.”
His fingers twitch faintly against the sheet.
Ciaran watches the motion like he expects it to become a threat.
I angle the camera and take the first shot.
The flash is muted, but even that small burst of light makes Alden’s eyes narrow.
I keep moving anyway, because hesitation wastes time and time is a luxury none of us have.
I take a series of photographs from multiple angles, then shift to close-up lens settings.
The carved symbol sits centered above the sternum.
Four deep claw lines curve around it, their spacing precise enough to measure. The wounds vary slightly in depth, but the pressure pattern is consistent, suggesting one dominant hand and a controlled strike. My stomach tightens, not from gore, but from the intent behind it.
I pull out a small ruler and calipers.
“May I,” I ask Ansel, holding up the calipers.
Ansel nods once. “Carefully. He’s in a lot of pain.”
I measure the gouge length, then the spacing between the deepest points. I record each number in my notebook, careful to keep my handwriting tight and legible. The cuts are deeper on the left side, which suggests the attacker favors one direction of movement.
My brain tries to treat it like a field study.
Ansel watches my hands. “You have done this before.”
“I have,” I reply. “Just not on a person.”
Alden’s jaw tightens at the word person.
I do not correct myself.
I finish the measurements and step back from the table. The injured wolf’s chest rises and falls beneath the wraps, the carved marks disappearing under linen again. The image stays in my mind anyway, sharp enough to replay.
Ciaran speaks quietly behind me. “What does it tell you?” His voice is controlled, but there is something rough under it.
I glance at him, then back at my notebook. “It tells me the attacker wanted him alive long enough to deliver a message.”
Ciaran’s eyes narrow. “I know that.”
“It tells me more,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “The spacing and depth match other marks I’ve found.”
Ansel’s brow lifts slightly. “Other marks?”
I unzip a side pocket and pull out printed photos from my earlier field notes. One shows bark carvings near a livestock kill, deep claw grooves raked into pine as if the tree was a canvas. Another shows the porch gouges at my rental cabin, long scratches carved into weathered wood.
Ciaran’s gaze drops to the photos.
The air shifts.
“These claw marks are similar.” I set the photos beside my fresh measurements and flip to the page where I recorded the porch gouge spacing.
The numbers align within a small margin of error, consistent enough to make coincidence unlikely.
The depth and curvature also match, the same dominant pressure on one side.
“I am confident it’s the same wolf,” I say.
Ciaran’s expression tightens, and the muscle in his jaw jumps once. He looks toward the table again, then away, like the idea of one consistent predator is worse than multiple unknowns.
Ansel folds his arms. “That narrows identity.”
I tuck my notes closer, then gesture to the photos. “Each kill has a purpose. Deer are staged by roads, livestock are killed near ridgelines, and a ranch dog is mutilated on a fence line.”
Ansel’s mouth tightens. “Provocation.”
“Yes,” I say. “Each act is designed to trigger a response.”
Ciaran’s eyes darken. “From humans.”
“And from your pack,” I add.
Silence settles for a moment, heavy with agreement.
I keep my voice low and controlled. “The goal is conflict. They want humans armed and sweeping the woods. They want wolves cornered, panicked, and violent.”
Ansel studies my face. “To what end.”
“That is what I cannot solve,” I admit. “Why would anyone want hunters shooting wolves and shifters shredding humans.”
Ciaran’s expression goes still. “Power.”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe leverage inside your hierarchy. Maybe forcing exposure to eliminate leadership.”
Ansel’s eyes sharpen slightly at the implication, though he does not speak. Ciaran’s gaze remains fixed on mine, watching for a misstep.
I inhale slowly, then let the next thought out carefully. “There is also the patrol schedule issue.”
Ciaran’s posture tightens. “We know.”
“We know it broadly,” I say. “I think it is more specific than that.”
The injured wolf groaned and twisted on the table. Ansel rushed to him with an herbal paste mashed in a mortar and pestle that he spooned into the injured wolf’s mouth.
“That’s enough. You have to leave.”
I nod and begin packing my equipment. Before I leave, I glance once more at the table.
The injured wolf’s chest rises under linen, the carved marks hidden now. The image of them remains sharp anyway, and it sits beside the porch gouges in my mind like matching fingerprints.
The patrol rotation charts are pinned in neat columns on the cabin wall.
Route names and time stamps are written in thick black marker, updated by hand with small adjustments in red. I step closer and pull out my highlighter, then lay my earlier corridor map beside the charts for reference.
The pattern is there. It always has been.
The repeated shifts in weak border zones cluster around the same quadrants, and the same teams rotate through them at statistically odd frequencies. If it were random, it would spread wider. If it were administrative convenience, it would repeat evenly.
This repeats with intent.
I trace the rotations with my finger.
Team three. Team five. East boundary handoff. Another repeat two days later. Then again, but with a slightly altered time that creates a brief gap.
My pulse picks up.
I pull my notebook out and compare the dates to the attack timeline I’ve built. The overlap is not perfect, but it is close enough to tighten my throat. The rogue does not need perfect overlap; he needs predictable opportunities.
I highlight the repeated shifts. Then I highlight the red adjustments.
Then I circle the initials beside the changes, because someone is always responsible for pen strokes.
An anomaly emerges.
One set of initials appears more often than the others in the weak zones, always present near the handoff timing changes. That does not prove guilt, but it proves access and a pattern. Either someone exploited the pattern, or the initials could lead us to whoever is involved.
My hand pauses, highlighter hovering.
This is the kind of detail that gets people killed if handled wrong.
I stare at the wall, then at my notes, then at the hallway beyond the open door. Wolves pass outside, their steps quiet, their voices too low to catch. The estate feels like it has ears in every wall.
I close my notebook slowly and slide it back into my bag. I need to talk to Ciaran.
I grab the chart photos I took earlier and tuck them beside my new highlights. My fingers press the paper edges hard enough to crease them, because the urgency in my chest has nowhere else to go.
I decide, right there, that I bring this to Ciaran privately.
I find Ciaran in a narrow study off the main hall, the door half shut and the windows cracked just enough to let cold air bleed in.
He stands over a wide oak desk covered in open folders, his posture straight and controlled, one hand braced against the wood as he reads.
When he looks up, his eyes immediately flick to my bag and the tension in my grip.
“You found something?” He asks.
“I did,” I reply, closing the door behind me.
The latch clicks softly, but it sounds louder than it should. Ciaran gestures toward the desk, and I spread my notebook and chart photos across the surface. The patrol rotation sheet lies open in the center, edges slightly worn from repeated handling.
“I highlighted repeated weak border zones,” I say. “And I traced the red adjustments that created timing gaps.”
Ciaran leans in without speaking, his shadow falling across the page. He does not interrupt while I point out the clustered shifts, the manipulated handoffs, and the initials written beside the changes.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
“Those initials belong to Gideon,” he says.
I glance at him. “You’re sure.”