Chapter One #2
Our last club girl, Luna, appears at Calder’s other side, moving with that fluid grace only selkies possess.
Her sealskin coat, the pelt she guards more fiercely than her own life, whispers against the floor as she kneels.
She takes Calder’s hand in both of hers, her large, dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she begins to sing.
The melody is wordless, haunting, pulling at something deep in my chest even through the numbness.
Calder’s ragged breathing evens out slightly, some of the tension bleeding from his frame.
“Good girl,” Ivy breathes out, shooting Luna a grateful glance before returning her attention to the wounds. “Keep him calm. I’m almost through to the first bullet.”
I force myself to look away from the way Calder’s fox-fire keeps trying and failing to manifest, from the stark reminder that we are not as untouchable as we pretend to be. My gaze finds the crystal dome in the center of the club room instead.
The flame inside pulses, a weak, pathetic flutter of red and gold that barely illuminates the crystal prison containing it.
My flame.
Or what’s left of it.
Once, centuries ago, it burned bright enough to turn night into day, hot enough to melt stone. Now it barely manages to stay lit, slowly dying just like the dragon who created it.
‘Contentment,’ the witch said when she cursed me. When the flame dies completely, so do I unless I find true contentment first.
I tear my eyes away before the emptiness swallows me whole.
“Report.” The word leaves my mouth in a harsh bellow, and the air answers it.
Frost spills from my lips in a pale ribbon, not mist but crystallized breath that snaps as it hits the space between us.
The temperature drops in an instant, sharp enough to sting exposed skin, sharp enough to be felt.
Moisture hanging in the air turns traitor, dust motes flashing white as they freeze and drift downward like sudden snow.
A thin sheen of ice creeps across the concrete at my feet, creeping outward, climbing chair legs, licking the edges of boots before stopping short of flesh.
Every sound dulls.
Every movement stills.
Everyone who isn’t actively working on Calder turns to face me.
Brothers. Prospects. Family.
They know better than to speak until the cold settles, and when it does, Scar hesitantly steps forward, blood still staining his hands.
“Calder was running the western perimeter check as you ordered. Found a hunting camp about two miles past our border. Three humans. Military-grade weapons. IR scopes. They had maps, Prez.” His red eyes narrow to slits.
“Maps with our territory marked. Our routes. The logging company, the hunting supply store. They know about the club.”
The words land like hammer blows.
Our routes.
The paths we use to move cursed artifacts through the mountains, enchanted weapons that could level cities, black market potions that sell for six figures a vial, and relics stolen from temples and tombs across the world.
The underground fight ring we operate every new moon, where supernatural beings bet fortunes on death matches.
The three legitimate businesses we use to launder millions through this forgotten corner of New Hampshire.
If hunters know.
If they have evidence.
“Did you clean it up?” My voice drops to that sub-zero register that makes even Scar pause.
“Calder tried. Got two of them before the third opened fire with iron rounds. Kid took three bullets and still managed to burn their camp to hell before collapsing.” Something like respect flickers across Scar’s ancient features. “But the third hunter ran. Calder couldn’t track him after that.”
“So, there’s a human out there who’s seen us. Who has evidence, who knows what we are and what we do.” Ice spreads from my hands, frost crawling across my knuckles like living crystal. “And you let him escape?”
“I. Let. Nothing…” Scar’s fangs descend farther, his own anger rising to meet mine. “I found Calder halfway dead and brought him home. I made the call that saving our prospect took priority over chasing down one human in the dark. Brothers first, problems later. Isn’t that right, Prez?”
The temperature in the room plummets. Brothers shift uneasily. Even Ivy glances up from her work, her green light flickering.
But Scar doesn’t back down. He never does. Five hundred years of existence have made him fearless in ways that would kill lesser beings. He holds my gaze, red eyes burning with their own cold fire, and I realize he’s right.
Of course, he’s right.
Calder is our brother.
He is family.
Saving him was the only choice.
I exhale slowly, forcing the ice back down. “How bad is he?”
“Bad.” Ivy’s voice is strained, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cold. “One bullet nicked his lung. The iron poisoning is spreading. I can save him, but he’ll need days to recover. Maybe weeks.”
Days we don’t have if there’s a hunter out there ready to bring reinforcements.
I turn away from the table, from Calder’s labored breathing and Luna’s haunting song, and find Wreck standing in the shadows near the door.
The wendigo is motionless, with a gaunt frame, draped in leather and denim that hang from his skeletal build like a death shroud.
His eyes, hollow, hungry, ancient, track every movement in the room with predatory focus.
He’s feeding right now, I realize. Drinking in the fear and pain saturating the air like a good wine.
“Wreck,” I call out. “Round up the brothers. Church in five.”
The wendigo nods once, then vanishes into the darkness beyond the door. His footsteps make no sound. They never do.
Flux materializes beside me, his shapeshifter nature making him nearly as silent as Wreck when he wants to be. His current form, human, tall, built like an athlete, studies me with calculating amber eyes. “You’re going after him. The hunter.”
It’s not a question.
“Tonight,” I confirm. “They found us. They know about our operations. That ends now.”
“The shipment…” Flux’s voice remains neutral, but I catch the concern underneath. “We’ve got thirty million in cursed artifacts moving through tomorrow night. If authorities get involved—”
“They won’t.” My words carry absolute certainty. “Because the hunter who ran won’t live long enough to tell anyone what he saw.”
Maul approaches from the direction of the office, his werewolf hearing having obviously caught the entire exchange.
The club’s secretary carries himself with the casual confidence of an apex predator wearing human skin.
His dark eyes glitter with barely suppressed violence.
“You want the books moved? Just in case?”
“No. We’re not running.” I let ice crystallize along my forearms, watching the brothers’ reactions. “We’re hunting.”
Ash stops pacing. Her flames brighten, excitement sharpening her features. “About fucking time.”
Coil emerges from the shadows near the bar—when did he even get there? His serpent nature makes him naturally stealthy. His eyes have already shifted to that hypnotic gold with vertical slits, ready for violence. “Parameters?”
“Find the hunter. Kill the hunter. Eliminate any evidence. Make it look like an animal attack or accidental death. No trace back to us.” I meet each brother’s gaze in turn. “This is a cleanup operation… fast, brutal, and fucking permanent.”
“And if there are more?” Thorn’s voice rustles like wind through dying leaves. The nightbark materializes near the fireplace, his form more plant than flesh, thorns and branches sprouting from his bark-like skin. “If this human has already reported back?”
“Then we kill them all.”
The words settle into the frozen air and stay there, carrying no malice, no hesitation, just intent.
“This territory is ours. It’s been ours for three hundred years. Long before cuts and road names. Long before we took the name Kings of Anarchy in the late seventies, and some human hunter with a death wish and delusions of grandeur isn’t taking it from us.”
The doorway draws my attention without a sound.
Ruckus stands there, leaning against the frame like he’s got nowhere better to be, boots scuffed, grin lazy.
Gold glints at his throat and along his fingers, rings, chains, charms woven into leather and denim, catching the light in a way that makes the eye linger a second too long.
It isn’t the metal that matters. It’s what clings to it.
Luck bends around him.
Coins in a nearby pocket slip and clink softly to the floor. A bottle on the bar tips, rolls, and stops just short of breaking. Somewhere overhead, a light flickers, then steadies, choosing not to fail. Probability tightens, reshapes itself, all paths quietly nudged in his favor.
Ruckus’ gaze sweeps the room, sharp beneath the easy smile, and when he speaks, it carries weight that has nothing to do with volume.
“The other prospects?”
No one laughs.
Because when a leprechaun starts tilting the odds, someone always pays for it in blood.
I take a beat, eyes tracking back to Calder, lying out on the table. Down but breathing. Not out of the fight. My jaw tightens as I weigh it. Rhett and Bennett flash through my mind next, raw, aggressive, and still one bad decision away from tearing each other apart.
“Bring them,” I say at last. “They need the experience.”
My gaze cuts toward the back rooms, toward the armory, where I already know the two prospects are gearing up, tension probably snapping between them like a live wire.
Nothing like having a Hellhound and an Angel prospecting at the same damn time.
“And it’ll be good to see if they can work together without trying to kill each other. ”
As if summoned by the thought, raised voices echo down the club room, sharp and heated, metal clanging in protest.
“… souls to Hell where they belong, and I’m gonna enjoy every fucking second of sending this hunter to meet his ancestors!”