Page 68

Sebastián

T he Halloween revelers had thinned as we drove towards Richmond Park, their garish costumes and fake blood a mockery of the real horrors awaiting us. A full moon hung bloated in the sky, its silver light filtering through wisps of cloud.

“Take the next left,” I instructed, though my attention kept dragging to the rear of the van.

Flynn sat wedged between Kit and Rory, his head lolling against Kit’s broad shoulder.

Dark veins spread like a web beneath his translucent skin.

The shifters’ supernatural heat radiated from their bodies, amplified by the approaching moon, yet Flynn’s lips remained blue, his breath forming tiny ice clouds with each shallow exhale.

The wolves’ heat—possibly the only thing keeping him conscious—was a bitter reminder of my own useless cold, sending further spikes of rage through me.

Behind them, Adrian Knox sat bound and hooded, occasional grunts marking each bump in the road.

“Ten minutes,” Priya murmured.

The crucifix burned cold in my pocket. I was torn in two—by the desperate urge to know why Vale had asked me to bring it, and the suffocating dread of what it might mean.

The mere thought of seeing Padre Rodrigo again made bile rise in my throat. Five centuries had passed, yet I could still feel his cold hands blessing my forehead, still hear his whispered promises of salvation even as he damned me.

And the notion of Flynn anywhere remotely near that monster…

I was sure I’d feel less panicked if White had answered her phone this morning. Often just the sound of her voice, her clear directives and her simple logic, calmed me. But she hadn’t answered.

We weren’t completely on our own. Maxwell was going to do his part from a safe distance. Plus, following behind us was another vehicle containing some of Dale and Mags’s pack, backup courtesy of Kit’s connections with the South London shifters.

The team radio crackled. “North entrance clear,” came the update.

A soft whimper from Flynn had me turning again.

His fingers clutched Rory’s jacket, knuckles white with effort.

Rory, uncharacteristically silent, tightened his protective hold around Flynn’s shoulders.

Another visible breath escaped Flynn’s blue-tinged lips, and I found myself counting the seconds between each one.

As expected, he had deteriorated throughout the day, drawing ever closer to the moment the dark magic would consume him.

And now you’re essentially delivering him hand-wrapped.

But we could only take this chance, or watch him die.

Rain began to patter against the windscreen, the wipers marking a steady rhythm as London dissolved into parkland. Mist crept across the road, thick tendrils steadily inching towards us.

The van’s headlights swept across Sheen Gate Road as Priya pulled into one of the lay-bys near the pedestrian entrance.

Beyond the locked vehicle gates, the park stretched into darkness, our section of carefully orchestrated emptiness waiting.

The weather had worked in our favour—no sane person would choose to be in Richmond Park on a night like this.

Still, Dale’s pack had spent the last hour patrolling the Pen Ponds area in high-vis jackets, turning away stubborn dog-walkers with warnings about “emergency tree removals. ”

“Our cameras are all live, boss,” Felix’s voice crackled in my earpiece. “I’ve got eyes on all approaches to the ponds. Dale’s pack are in position—nothing else out there currently.”

Kit was already moving, helping Flynn out of the van. The bitter wind whipped at us as soon as the door slid open. Flynn stumbled, caught between Kit and Rory’s steady hands.

Dale’s car pulled in behind us, wolves spilling out silently into formation, shedding their clothes.

Kit and Rory were already showing signs of the inevitable change—muscles twitching, shoulders hunching. The full moon pulled at them mercilessly. Kit caught my eye, and I gave a sharp nod.

He and Rory ducked behind the vehicle. After pained grunts and cracking bones, a massive grey wolf joined us. Rory followed moments later, his golden fur catching the moonlight as he shook out his smaller frame.

Flynn took a sharp intake of breath. Despite his weakened state, wonder blazed in his eyes as he watched the wolves. His hand lifted from where it had been wrapped around his middle, reaching tentatively towards Rory, who padded straight up to him.

“They’re beautiful,” Flynn whispered. His fingers trembled as they sank into Rory’s golden fur. Rory pushed his head further into Flynn’s palm, tail wagging slightly as Flynn scratched behind his ears.

Kit maintained a more dignified distance, his grey bulk a sentinel presence beside the van. But even he couldn’t resist moving closer when Flynn cast an uncertain glance his way, as if seeking permission to admire them both.

Flynn’s blue-tinged lips curved into a smile as he ran both hands over Rory’s head, examining the way moonlight caught his fur. “So they can understand me like this? Just like normal?”

“More or less,” I said, watching Rory press against Flynn’s legs like an oversized house pet. “Their base instincts are stronger in this form—the urge to hunt, the urge to protect. But they’re still themselves. Still perfectly capable of rolling their eyes at me when I give orders. ”

As if to prove my point, Kit huffed what could only be described as a derisive snort.

The moment shattered as another violent shiver racked Flynn’s frame. Rory whined, pressing closer.

“Let’s go,” I said. The sooner we got there, the sooner we could face what was to come.

Through the pedestrian gate, Pen Ponds was a distant glimmer through the mist. The twenty-minute walk there was deathly silent.

Kit took point, with Rory bringing up the rear, nipping at our prisoner if he slowed.

The shifted wolves from Dale’s pack melted into the darkness on either side, their presence betrayed only by occasional glints of eyes in the murk.

I couldn’t help but attune to Flynn’s stuttering heartbeat, growing more erratic by the moment.

The causeway between the ponds emerged from the fog ahead of us. Something caught my eye—a hulking shape in the mist, but not one of our wolves. Those distinctive sloping shoulders, those gleaming yellow eyes…

“Do you see that?” I asked, pointing. But as soon as the words left my mouth, the hyena shape dissolved into the mist.

Kit and Rory moved to flank me, ears flattened against their skulls.

A figure emerged, as if from thin air.

Marcus Vale himself.

Months of cleaning up Vale’s messes, of hunting down his feral offspring when they crossed lines, and this was our first meeting.

He stood exactly as I’d imagined him—tall and aristocratic, his silver-streaked dark hair swept back from sharp features. His navy-blue suit seemed untouched by the fog curling around us.

“Sebastián Salazar.” His voice carried the weight of centuries, tinged with an accent I couldn’t quite place. “How many of my children have you killed now?”

“Only the ones who threatened innocent lives, Vale. Perhaps if you maintained discipline among your progeny, I wouldn’t need to. ”

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. His gaze slid to Flynn, behind me. “I must say, your pet human makes quite the lovely ice sculpture. Tell me, does it hurt watching him freeze from the inside out?”

The surge of protective rage nearly overwhelmed my control. “Shall we move forward with the exchange of Adrian for Damien? Or did you come here simply to trade barbs?”

Vale’s laughter echoed across the water, a sound that belonged in an opera house. He spread his arms wide, as if addressing an invisible audience.

“Oh, my dear Salazar. Do you truly believe that’s what we’re here to do tonight?”

My gaze swept the parkland—the empty causeway, the still waters, the complete absence of Vale’s entourage. No Damien in sight. Just Vale, standing alone like an actor on a stage.

“No.”

Of course I hadn’t. But Vale had left me no choice but to go along with this ridiculous game.

Vale clapped his hands together in mock delight. “I must say, watching you scramble to arrange this meeting has been thoroughly entertaining. The great Sebastián Salazar, dancing to my tune.”

“Where’s Damien?” I demanded, stepping forward. The fog swirled around my feet, carrying the scent of damp earth and decay. Flynn’s labored breathing behind me drove steel into my spine—every second wasted was another moment closer to losing him.

For a fleeting moment, I was back in my office that morning, Flynn perched on my desk as he fixed my laptop.

The sunlight had caught in his hair, turning it to molten gold.

He’d looked up, caught me staring, and smiled that smile that made me forget what century I was in.

“You’re doing it again,” he’d murmured. “That thing where you look at me like you’re afraid to blink, in case I disappear. ”

I’d told him that I was afraid. I was very afraid.

Now, hearing him struggle for breath in the fog, I’d never meant those words more .

Vale’s lips curled into a patronizing smile. “So impatient. Wanting to rush ahead without appreciating the… artistry of a moment.”

He lifted one elegant hand, fingers poised, almost lazy. With a sharp snap, the sound cracked across the water like a gunshot.

My hearing picked up the shuffle of multiple feet approaching through the darkness—too many to count. They moved with inhuman grace, their footsteps barely disturbing the wet grass. The sound came from all directions, closing in on us.

A wolf’s howl split the night—one of Dale’s pack, the sound carrying clear warning. Another joined it, then another, until the air vibrated with their calls. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as the howls shifted from alert to threat, Kit’s low growl joining them.