The Witching Hour #2
Milo stifles a yawn on the back of his hand, and my gaze drifts to the remnants of his iced coffee that contained enough sugar and caffeine combined to put a class full of werewolf pups on a high for an hour. “Mhm, kinda.”
“Kinda?” I echo.
“The problem comes back to what I told you about before dinner; I don’t really have a family anymore.
Just an Ethel.” His focus drifts to the middle distance again, this time with a wistfulness about it.
“And when I lost my Aunt Anabelle, I lost my Family Line. So… theoretically, yes. But I’m not in a position to attempt that kind of casting without bringing the Witches Council to my door. ”
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel while I think, and a low hum rumbles up my throat. Given that our Intelligence Corps infiltrated the Witches Council, and that the rest of my unit is now half a world away, I’d like to avoid alerting them to anything to do with our whereabouts.
He shuffles in his seat, slinking down and stretching his legs out long to cross them at the ankles.
“Luckily for us,” he says through another yawn. “The Witches Council don’t govern non-witch partners. If there’s an enchantment like the Luna del Lupo in my Family Line, then Aunt Anabelle would have known. And she would have told Ethel, because she told Ethel everything, which means…”
“Ethel knows.” My smile is wide and genuine—the pup is smart.
“Mhm.” Milo yawns again and closes his eyes. “If anyone knows, it’ll be her.”
I check the time on the navigation screen… 00:33. Two-and-a-half more hours till our estimated time of arrival back at the Nest.
With the slurred speech of someone half asleep, Milo adds, “The community she lives in doesn’t allow visitors before half eight, but Ethel’s an early riser. She does her best work before dawn—we should meet her then.”
Milo’s head drops sideways onto his shoulder, and my wolf detects the steady rhythm of his breaths as he falls into an immediate and deep sleep.
I switch on Delilah’s preferred piano playlist—Bach, I think—and reach behind me to retrieve my jacket from the back seat.
Draping it over Milo like a blanket, I set the heater on his seat to low, check my mirrors once more, and focus on driving Magpie safely to his Nest.
I press the push-to-talk button. “Send a text message to Guardian: Magpie has found a trail of breadcrumbs to follow at dawn.”
Time ticks by and the dark highway stretches out ahead of me.
With only the quiet piano music for company, I run through the logistics of both missions, because with every mile of distance that grows between me and my unit, the more antsy my wolf becomes.
He’s a pack alpha, his instinct is to protect and guide, and that’s what makes me so good at my job.
Usually, the difficulty of being away from my family so often is tempered by the fact that I have my unit close.
My pa’s the same; he met Mum on a mission, and he’s always maintained that’s how he managed to stay listed in active duty.
His mate came with him, so his wolf wasn’t torn—like mine is.
That Mum is a spy was an asset cherry on the cake, as he likes to say.
In between thoughts, I glance at Milo. His gentle breaths mix with the soft background music and something about knowing that he trusts me enough to fall asleep is helping my wolf regulate his instincts.
Guardian will keep the Dogs safe, I remind myself.
He understands both the stakes and the precarious balance of these operations, and has commanded dark recon missions before.
I exhale long and slow, and grant myself permission not to worry about my family or unit, but instead focus on Milo and the enchantment.
The light from the screen in the dash bathes him in its pale-blue glow, and I do a double-take. There, hovering an inch or two above him, is another ghostly Milo. Exactly the way it was when he fell asleep on the sofa yesterday.
“There’s an eighty-one percent chance, if you wake someone from a night terror, it will end in violence.” Delilah’s warning haunts my mind while my eyes flick between Milo, the road, and the rearview mirror.
We’re still an hour from Roanoke City, and my grip on the wheel tightens when I push my foot down a little heavier on the pedal. I was supposed to ask him about this—find out what it is, what are the risks, what am I supposed to do when it happens? Anything? Nothing?
My wolf stays forward to monitor his vitals, and I try to split my focus between driving and watching him sleep.
Human Milo is perfectly still in his seat, not so much as a twitch, but ghost Milo is restless.
He constantly moves and jerks, eyelids rapidly flickering, lips shaping soundless words, and fingers grasping like he’s holding on to something… or fighting someone.
Although my wolf insists Milo’s fine—that his physiology indicates no sign of stress—my heart rate elevates as adrenaline surges.
It’s the same feeling I get whenever I begin an active mission, the heightened state of alertness that keeps my unit and me safe.
But instead of being in a combat zone, I’m travelling at seventy miles per hour along a dark road.