Chapter 33 Alaric
ALARIC
Alaric shoved Elara toward the café, his wolf already surging. He'd caught their scent the moment the wind shifted. Gun oil and silver and the bitter tang of adrenaline.
More than four this time. More than the group he'd scattered at the lake.
They'd brought reinforcements.
"The café," he said. "Now."
They'd made it halfway across the square when the first shot cracked through the storm. Wood splintered beside Elara's head. She ducked instinctively.
"Down!" Alaric shoved her behind an overturned table, his body covering hers as another shot punched into the wood.
"Alaric—"
"Stay here. Don't move."
An arrow thudded into the table leg, silver tip gleaming. Then another. The hunters were spreading out, cutting off their path to the café. To any shelter.
Around them, the feast dissolved into chaos. Parents grabbed children, herding them toward buildings. Twyla was already ushering people into the Griddle and Grind, her face pale but determined. Maeve stood at the tavern entrance, directing traffic with sharp commands.
But there were too many people still in the square. Too many exposed.
"I have to shift," Alaric said. "I can't protect you like this."
"Then do it."
He pulled back enough to look at her. Snow clung to her hair, her eyes wide but steady. No panic. No screaming. Just that journalist's mind working, assessing, calculating.
God, she was brave. Too brave for her own good.
"Don't move from this spot. No matter what happens."
"Alaric—"
"Promise me."
She grabbed his coat. "Promise me you'll come back."
His chest tightened. "I promise."
He kissed her once, hard and fast. Then he let the shift take him.
The change ripped through him faster than it ever had before. Bones lengthened, muscles reformed, his senses sharpening until he could taste the fear rolling off the nearest hunter. He hit the snow on four paws, steel-gray coat blending with the storm.
The world exploded into scent and sound. The acrid smell of adrenaline.
The first hunter turned. Saw him. Raised the rifle.
Alaric was faster. He lunged, jaws closing on the barrel, wrenching it sideways.
The shot went wide, punching into a wooden post. The hunter stumbled back, terror flooding his scent.
Alaric released the rifle and went for the man's leg, teeth finding fabric and flesh.
Not enough to kill. Just enough to drop him.
The hunter screamed. The sound cut through the storm, high and terrified.
"Fall back!" someone shouted. "They're shifting!"
A howl answered his from across the square. Callum's lion roar cut through the wind, deeper and more resonant. Then Rowan's wolf joined in, black fur streaking between buildings. Lucien's panther form materialized from the shadows near the bookstore, moving with liquid grace.
The hunters scattered, backing toward each other, weapons up. But they didn't run. They held formation, coordinated like soldiers rather than weekend warriors.
These weren't the same men from the lake. These were trained.
The one with the camera kept filming, hands shaking but lens trained on Alaric. He wore tactical gear, better equipped than the others. Professional grade equipment.
Proof. They wanted proof.
He couldn't let them have it.
Alaric circled, positioning himself between the hunters and the café where Elara sheltered. Another hunter raised a crossbow. The bolt hissed through the air. Alaric dodged left, felt the wind of it pass his shoulder.
He charged.
The hunter tried to reload. Didn't make it. Alaric hit him chest-high, driving him into the snow. The crossbow clattered away. The man screamed, arms coming up to protect his throat.
Alaric's wolf wanted blood. Wanted to tear and rend and make sure these men never threatened his mate again. The urge was almost overwhelming, a red tide behind his eyes.
But killing them on camera would only prove what they'd come to document.
He backed off, snarling warning. The hunter scrambled away, blood streaming from scratches on his arms.
"Jesus Christ," someone shouted. "It's real. They're all real."
"Keep filming!" The cameraman's voice, steady despite everything. "Get all of it!"
More figures appeared through the blizzard. Not townsfolk running for shelter. Hunters. At least a dozen, maybe more, pushing through the storm from multiple directions. Some carried rifles, others crossbows. One had what looked like a net gun.
They'd come prepared for a hunt.
They'd found a way through the Veil. Or broken through it. Either way, they were inside.
Emmett burst from the tavern in wolf form, massive and dark. Maeve followed, her lioness form smaller but faster. They hit the nearest cluster of hunters like a wave, scattering them.
Gunfire cracked. Once, twice. Someone screamed.
Alaric's head whipped around. A hunter had Freya cornered near the apothecary, rifle trained on her chest. She stood with her hands raised, lips moving in what might have been a spell.
Snow kicked up beneath his paws. The world narrowed to predator focus. Target. Distance. Angle of approach.
The hunter's finger tightened on the trigger.
Alaric hit him from the side, momentum carrying them both into a snowdrift. The rifle fired into the air, the shot echoing off buildings. Freya stumbled back, hands dropping.
"Inside," Alaric tried to say, but it came out as a growl.
Freya didn't need translation. She turned and ran for the apothecary, disappearing through the door.
An arrow punched into the snow inches from Alaric's front paw. He spun. The crossbow hunter had reloaded, and was already aiming again.
Alaric feinted right, went left. The bolt whistled past. He closed the distance before the hunter could reload, jaws snapping at the weapon. Wood splintered. The hunter dropped it and pulled a knife.
Silver blade. The smell made Alaric's wolf recoil instinctively.
"Come on, monster," the hunter said, voice shaking but determined. "Let's see what you've got."
The hunter slashed. Alaric jerked back, the blade missing by inches. He circled, looking for an opening. The silver smell burned his nose, made his wolf want to retreat.
But retreating meant leaving Elara exposed.
He went left, then lunged right. The hunter anticipated it, blade coming up. Alaric twisted mid-leap, avoiding the silver, and caught the man's wrist in his jaws. Not hard enough to break. Just hard enough to make him drop the knife.
More shifters poured into the square. He recognized Lucien's panther form, sleek and black. Diana's mate Rowan fought beside Emmett, coordinating like they'd trained for this. Kieran's tiger appeared from between buildings, orange and black stripes vivid against the snow.
The hunters were outnumbered now, but they weren't fleeing. They held formation, backs together, weapons out. The one with the camera kept filming, capturing everything. Wolves. Panthers. Lions. All of it documented in high definition.
Alaric's wolf wanted to destroy that camera. Wanted to eliminate the evidence. Wanted to tear it from the man's hands and crush it between his teeth.
But approaching the cameraman meant exposing himself fully. Meant giving them exactly the footage they wanted.
A child's scream cut through the chaos.
Alaric's head whipped around. A little girl, maybe six, had gotten separated from her parents. She stood frozen in the middle of the square, snow swirling around her, tears streaming down her face.
Two hunters saw her at the same time. One raised his rifle.
"No!" A woman's voice. The child's mother, trying to reach her but blocked by the fighting.
Alaric moved without thinking. He put himself between the hunter and the child, teeth bared, every hair standing on end. The growl that came from his chest was pure threat, the kind that said touch her and die.
The hunter hesitated.
Twyla appeared, grabbed the child, and ran. The mother followed, both of them disappearing into the café.
The hunter's rifle swung back toward Alaric.
The shot never came.
Callum hit the hunter from behind, lion form massive and golden. The rifle clattered away. The hunter went down hard.
Around them, the battle was turning. The shifters had the advantage now. Superior strength, superior speed, and they knew every inch of this town. The hunters were being driven back, corralled toward the edge of the square.
But the cameraman still filmed. Still documented. Still captured everything.
Alaric turned back to check on Elara, needing to see her, needing to know she was safe.
The overturned table sat empty.
No.
His wolf howled panic. He scanned the square, searching through the blizzard and chaos. Where was she? Where had she gone?
There.
His heart stopped.
She'd left the cover he'd given her and was walking straight toward the hunter with the camera, her phone held up, recording.
Not running away from danger.
Walking into it.
His mate. His brave, reckless, impossible mate.
And she was about to do something that would either save them all or get herself killed.