Chapter 3 Ghost
I glance back at Silas in the rearview mirror as I drive us toward the safe house. Fury radiates off him in caustic waves—jaw clenched, pupils so blown his eyes are nearly black. If I were weak, the alpha pheromones would be stifling.
He notices me watching him, but doesn’t react or comment. He hasn’t said a word, not since we left the compound.
Deidre’s attention stays glued to her phone, fingers rapidly tapping away. The opportunities to kill her are growing by the hour, but she hasn’t told me where we’re going yet, doling out directions like breadcrumbs. As much as I’d like to put the witch down, something bigger is at play.
The witches operate like a hydra. We need to dig out the rot, cut them off at the root. Until I know what Deidre is planning, how many witches she’s recruited for her plan, killing her will have to wait.
I’m certain Silas intends to make her death as gratuitous as Pierre’s. Holding him back may be an issue.
In the backseat, he’s a lit fuse. His fingers drum relentlessly against his thigh, occasionally tensing, white-knuckling his knees, before the tapping continues.
Stormy eyes keep darting to the window, the door handle, calculating, assessing, never settling, never blinking.
The air around him crackles, his alpha pulsing in wild bursts, like he’s trying, and failing, to keep himself calm.
What he did to Pierre was excessive, but controlled. Silas hasn’t snapped yet, and the explosion is still coming.
I haven’t decided how I feel about him yet.
He’s messy, bleeding his emotions everywhere, but he intrigues my alpha.
His scent calls to us. Petrichor, electric and vibrant.
But the earthy rain scent is cut with citrus, something warm and bright, and it resonates within me, as if my body remembers something my mind has forgotten.
I’d have helped Silas regardless—Kendrick asked me to, and I’d do anything for my Máni—but something snagged at my alpha the moment I caught his scent. And then Deidre said those four magic words: we have the omega.
Beside me in the passenger’s seat, Deidre texts her sister.
I’ve been stealing glances at her screen, trying to pull together a plan as we drive.
Tracy’s coven in Chicago is meeting us at the safe house to collect Deidre and the omega and bring them back to the States with a full coven of protection. They’re already on their way.
Tracy seems as invested in Mona’s capture as Deidre.
I’ve watched them all week, searching for motives, but whatever urgent need they have, they keep it amongst themselves—when they speak of their plan, there are gaps—sentences trail off, glances exchanged.
So far, I’ve got no idea why Deidre, the High Priestess of Northwood, is so invested in Mona’s blood.
Or what spell could possibly be so important to her she’d go through all this trouble for it.
She’s already one of, if not the most powerful witch of our time.
My dual magic hums beneath my skin. It doesn’t like confinement, my alpha and I prefer to travel in shifted form. It couldn’t be helped, though.
I don’t know how Silas did it all those years, locked up like he was. I can barely handle a car ride without my alpha pacing to be released. He gets bloodthirsty when locked up too long, and we haven’t shifted in over a week, since we arrived at the compound.
With my witch magic, I can cloak my shifter-side and scent completely; most witches need herbs, incantations, or spells. I just flex my alpha’s power, and the magic flows through me.
Though she isn’t a half-shifter, Deidre has similar raw talents. There aren’t many witches like her.
Witches can bend humans easily, but they can’t control shifters—our magic is too strong. Trying to force a shifter’s magic is like trying to bend iron without heat—you need fire, you need time.
She had a lot of time with Silas.
Magic flows through us all—humans, shifters, witches—like an invisible current.
The difference lies in how we wield it. Being born to a witch mother and a shifter father doesn’t make me inherently powerful.
It’s within my dual nature, existing between the two worlds—witch and shifter—that allows me to see how the magic flows through either side.
I can see the threads of magic connecting us all.
That’s where my power lies.
When Kendrick called me to his table a few nights ago and asked me to infiltrate Deidre’s coven, I couldn’t refuse. I owe him everything.
And so, here I am, confined in a car with a witch who has no choice but to rely on me—her entire coven was slaughtered by Grayson and Kendrick, and I was the only one left standing when she needed an escape—and an alpha wolf shifter who thinks I’m his enemy.
“Get off here,” Deidre mutters without looking up from her phone, and I sigh with relief that we’re almost done driving. Dawn is breaking across the sky. I pull off the highway, and we drive another twenty minutes through back roads, eventually pulling into a cul-de-sac.
Six identical houses line the street, too early for the humans within to rise for the day. We sit idling outside a quiet cape, its for-sale sign creaking back and forth in the breeze until the garage door rumbles open.
After parking, Deidre turns in her seat to face Silas. She still has his blood on her hands, though it’s dried, brown and flaking.
The average witch works with the elements, performing simple spells like glamouring, shields, or knocking someone unconscious. Alchemy, earth magic, things like that.
Blood magic is different, and few possess the skill to wield it. It’s darker, for one, and the right witch can corrupt or bottle the blood and use it to change and control fate and free will.
With a shifter’s blood? A powerful alpha, at that? The possibilities are endless.
By all accounts, even if the blood has dried, until it washes off her skin, she should still be able to compel Silas. But something feels off. I should be able to sense Deidre’s magical hold over him, but the tether feels frayed. Barely perceptible.
Either her hold on Silas is slipping, or it was never as strong as she believed.
He’s pretending to obey. He’s only still sitting in this car, waiting, listening, because he chooses to.
Like she’s talking to a rabid animal—to be fair, she is—Deidre says softly, “I just want her blood, Silas. That’s all.”
When he doesn’t respond, she huffs. “After everything you’ve endured, after everything we’ve been through together, you get your mate. She’s yours. All yours. I mean, what are the chances that the omega I kept drugged and hidden away for years turns out to be your Moon Goddess-blessed mate?”
Silas snarls. But still says nothing. He isn’t even looking at her. So, she changes tactics, voice turning bitter. “You do what you do best, Silas—you fuck that girl and impregnate her. I’ll even let you keep the kid. I only want her blood.”
Silas’s alpha pulses again, heavier now. Like a battering ram, his pheromones leak out of his pores, his alpha actively fighting against him as he tries to remain calm.
Deidre either doesn’t notice how close the fuse is to the powder keg, or she still thinks she’s in control of him. Her nostrils flare as she sucks in a sharp breath, like she’s already tasting the power of the omega’s blood carrying the alpha’s seed. It would be potent, that’s for sure.
Irritated he isn’t responding, she grows nastier by the second. Magic hums from her fingertips as she jabs toward him accusingly. I taste the edges of the spell—confinement. She means to bind him again. Maybe she's aware she’s losing control of him, after all.
She leans in, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper.
“But if you try anything like that stunt you pulled back at the house, I will flay you. Your precious mate will still serve her purpose, and trust me, there’s no shortage of alphas who would jump at the chance for one hour alone with her. She’s young. Pretty. Fertile.”
That last word catches in her throat, bitter and almost resentful.
She goes on, “They would split her in half if I let them, until there’s nothing left but a broken husk, tossing her body between them like a party favor.
A vessel to impregnate. Wolves are savages, as you know.
Are you hearing me, Silas? Do I have your word you’ll behave like a good little wolf? ”
Silas nods stiffly. The threat hangs in the air, and she smiles wide, despite the murderous rage in his eyes. She can’t smell the way his scent shifts, turning sharp, bitter, and acrid, but I can. It’s so strong I nearly cough. It actually stings my eyes, so I open the door.
Satisfied, Deidre exits the car, and Silas climbs out after her, but his movements are jerky. The proximity to his mate and Deidre’s threats are making him twitchy.
He throws a poisonous look my way as I patiently follow behind them. The anxiety coming off him is intense. I bet if I looked closely, I’d see his heart pounding against his sternum.
“Ben, darling, do be a dear and reinforce the ward. The witch we hired was… well, you get what you pay for, I guess.” It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me.
I gave her a fake name when I showed up a week ago, claiming I wanted to pledge her coven.
I made sure to come across as competent but non-threatening.
She’s right, the wards on the house are shitty.
Instead of a barrier that should repel humans and require a magical pass-key to walk through, there’s barely any resistance.
That’s good, though. I can rebuild them from scratch the way I want them.
So I begin chanting, waving my hand toward the large bay window as we enter from the garage into a generic living room that looks like it’s been staged for sale.
The space is bright, but ordinary—except for the unusual warmth in the air.
Deidre is on her phone again, she doesn’t seem to notice the heat.
Silas does, though. His steps break, shoulders going rigid, and he takes a deep inhale. I take advantage of the distraction and brush my fingertips along his forearm. He jerks away, giving me a cold glare. I get what I need, and weave his essence into my magic.
“Tracy and her coven will be here soon. Thank you for taking us this far. I do not trust easily, Ben, but your assistance will not be forgotten,” Deidre says gravely, while I work about the room.
A man’s husky voice bellows from downstairs. “You gotta drink the water!” he whines.
Deidre turns and follows the sound. Silas exhales a slow, shuddering breath. Plants one foot, then the other. His hands curl into fists at his sides, then release, fingers splaying wide. Each footstep is deliberate, like he’s stomping toward his destiny.
He seems almost reluctant to see her. Like it’s somehow both the last thing in the world he wants to face, and the only thing he’s ever wanted.
Deidre opens the basement door and disappears down the steps on light feet.
I can smell the omega now.
I’ve had hours on the road to contemplate what would happen when we got here. It was the only conclusion I came to once I scented Silas, but even now, after working through every option, I’m still unprepared for it.
To scent her.
Honey. Jasmine, dogwood flowers. Sweet, succulent petals, dripping in nectar.
Oddly enough, I recognize her scent. When would we have met? My mind whirs, and it takes me a second before I place how I know her. Who her father is.
My skin prickles. I roll my shoulders back, trying to shed the sensations crawling up my legs and arms, the electric need following each inhale.
I prefer solitude. For years now, I’ve worked alone as Kendrick’s hunter. He is the bow, I am the arrow. It gave me purpose, direction. A reason to wake every morning. After the witches butchered my father, the idea of sitting still felt dangerous. So, I’ve been content on my own.
I’ve never found love—one person, or a pack, that called to us. I’ve never wanted to, not after watching my mother become a shell of a person after losing her mate.
For a week now, I’ve kept this brotherly pull I feel toward Silas stifled. My alpha and I have survived years without a mate, without real friends, so I thought we agreed we didn’t need them.
He tenses inside me. Cautious, calculating, just as he does when we’re hunting our prey.
Unfortunately, there’s something else laced beneath that delicate scent, and the intoxicating honeyed perfume of my new mate—it’s the wild, primal edge of an omega in heat.