Page 27

We slip through the cellar window one after another, wolf bodies contorting through the narrow opening.

The basement air hits my nostrils like a wall—mildew, and dust overlaid with the recent intrusion of gun oil, sweat, and the acrid tang of wolfsbane.

My hackles rise instinctively at the latter; they've come prepared for us.

Fiona's dark form moves silently beside me, her ears swiveling to catch every sound. Even after all those years, we move in perfect synchrony, communicating with subtle shifts of posture and silent glances. I take point, following Maisie's scent through the darkness while Fiona guards our rear.

The lodge's basement is a warren of storage rooms and forgotten furniture. Decades of hunting seasons have left their mark—broken chairs, discarded coolers, abandoned gear creating a maze of obstacles. We navigate through them, pawing open a door that leads to a narrow staircase.

Footsteps overhead freeze us in place. Three men, maybe four, moving with the deliberate rhythm of a patrol. Their voices drift down to us, muffled but clear enough to my wolf hearing.

"—Wright wants the broadcast equipment set up by midnight—"

"—overkill if you ask me, all this for one bitch and her kid—"

"—ever seen what these things can do? Trust me, it's not overkill—"

A door slams, cutting off their conversation. I look back at Fiona, whose eyes gleam with a mixture of fear and rage in the darkness. We need to hurry.

The stairs creak beneath our weight as we ascend, emerging into a short hallway lined with storage closets.

At the end, a heavier door leads to the main lodge.

Maisie's scent grows stronger here—tinged with fear and something else, something that makes my wolf uneasy.

A heated, wild note that shouldn't be present in a child's scent.

A patrol passes on the other side of the door, forcing us to wait. Fiona's anxiety rolls off her in waves, her scent sharp with a desperate need to reach her daughter. I press against her side briefly, a wordless promise: We'll find her.

When the footsteps fade, we slip through the door into the main building.

The hunting lodge's great room has been transformed into an operations center.

Maps cover the walls, marked with positions and planned movements.

Communication equipment clutters every surface, and enough weapons to outfit a small militia hang on racks against the far wall.

This isn't a hastily assembled hate group. This is an army preparing for war.

We skirt the edges of the room, staying in the shadows. Through an open doorway, I glimpse what looks like broadcasting equipment—cameras, lights, a makeshift backdrop with some kind of symbol painted on it. A demonstration, then. A public statement.

Maisie's scent pulls us upward, toward the second floor.

We find a back staircase and climb carefully, freezing at every creak and groan of the old building.

The upper floor consists of a long hallway with rooms branching off on either side—once guest quarters for visiting hunters, now repurposed as barracks and storage.

Her scent leads to a door at the far end, modified with a new lock and a small observation window cut into the wood. The smell of fear intensifies here, mixed with that strange, heated quality that raises my hackles.

We approach cautiously, and I rise up on my hind legs to peer through the window. The room beyond has been stripped of furniture except for a metal cage in the center—the kind used for transporting large dogs, but reinforced with additional bars. Inside, huddled in the corner, is Maisie.

Even through the small window, I can see something's wrong. Her skin glistens with sweat, her small body trembling with more than just fear. Her eyes, when they briefly catch the light, flash with an unnatural glow. Recognition hits me like a physical blow—pre-shift symptoms.

It’s so early. She’s so young. But the stress, and the circumstances…

The thought is interrupted by Fiona's whine beside me, a sound of pure anguish as she sees her daughter caged like an animal. I drop back to all fours, nudging her away from the door. We need a plan, not blind rage.

A faint metallic sound from behind is my only warning. I whirl, teeth bared, as the hallway suddenly floods with armed men. They must have been waiting, must have known we'd come for her.

"Now!" someone shouts, and the world explodes into chaos.

I lunge at the nearest hunter, teeth finding flesh as we crash to the floor. A rifle butt slams into my side, but my momentum carries us into another attacker. Beside me, Fiona is a silver blur, dodging and snapping.

Something cold sprays across my face—an aerosol with the unmistakable burn of wolfsbane. Not enough to kill, but enough to disorient. My movements become sluggish, the world tilting strangely as I fight to maintain consciousness.

Fiona yelps in pain. I turn toward the sound in time to see her crumple, a tranquilizer dart protruding from her shoulder. Rage gives me a final surge of strength as I throw myself at her attacker.

The last thing I register is Maisie's face pressed against the bars of her cage, her eyes wide and glowing amber—my eyes—as she screams for her mother.

Then darkness.

***

I wake to fire circling my wrists and ankles.

Silver. The unmistakable burn of silver against shifter skin.

The world comes into focus slowly—a dim cellar, concrete walls, the smell of mildew and blood. I'm sitting against a support beam, hands and feet bound with silver-lined restraints that bite into my flesh. My head throbs with the aftereffects of wolfsbane, my mouth dry as dust.

"Thomas?" Fiona's voice comes from beside me, rough with pain.

I turn to find her bound to an adjacent post, her face pale but alert. Relief floods through me at the sight of her alive, quickly replaced by the crushing reality of our situation.

"Maisie?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Still upstairs." Her voice cracks on the words. "I heard them talking while you were unconscious. They're planning some kind of broadcast, a demonstration of the 'shifter threat' with us as the main attraction."

I test my restraints, the silver burning deeper as I strain against them. "How long was I out?"

"Maybe an hour. They hit you with a higher dose."

Interrupting our conversation, the door at the top of the cellar stairs opens, spilling harsh light into our prison. A silhouette appears, descending the steps with deliberate slowness. As he moves into the dim light, I get my first clear look at Edward Wright.

He's tall and lean, with Fiona's dark hair and high cheekbones—the only parts of herself she got from him.

But where her features are warm and expressive, his are carved from ice, cold and unyielding.

He's dressed like a man of authority—a pressed shirt, polished shoes, a wedding ring he still wears despite being a widower.

"Thomas Ennes," he says, his voice cultured and controlled. "We finally meet again."

I say nothing, watching him through narrowed eyes. Beside me, Fiona has gone completely rigid, her scent spiking with a complex mixture of fear and hatred.

"My daughter never did have good taste in men," Wright continues, circling us like we're specimens in a lab. "Always drawn to the most animalistic examples of your kind."

"Better an animal than a monster," Fiona spits, earning a sharp look from her father.

"Still disrespectful, I see. Six years hasn't taught you manners." He turns his attention back to me. "Did you know, Mr. Ennes, that shifters are technically classified as endangered wildlife in three states? Not even human enough for human rights."

"Is that your justification for this?" I ask, keeping my voice level despite the rage building in my chest. "Legal technicalities?"

Wright smiles thinly. "I don't need justification. I need solutions. The shifter problem has gone unchecked for too long. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not endangered enough .

Silvercreek is just the beginning—after tonight's demonstration, other communities will follow our example. Containment, then eradication."

"You're talking about murder," Fiona snaps.

"I'm talking about pest control." Wright crouches in front of his daughter, his expression almost gentle. "You could have been so much more, Fiona. We can still fix you. Once the wolf is gone, you can live a normal life."

"And Maisie?" Fiona's voice trembles.

His face hardens. "The mutt is too far gone. You saw what's happening to her—the animal already taking over. Some bloodlines are too corrupt to salvage."

My restraints burn as I lunge forward involuntarily, stopped short by the silver chains. "Touch her, and I'll tear your throat out."

Wright regards me with clinical interest.

"Your instincts. Fascinating." He stands, straightening his cuffs. "Unfortunately, Mr. Ennes, you won't be alive to witness either her culling or Fiona's rehabilitation. The broadcast requires a demonstration of the shifter threat—and your subsequent neutralization."

"You're going to murder us on camera?" Fiona asks, horror dawning on her face.

"Not you, sweetheart. I think you can still be fixed. Don’t take for granted that kindness." Wright checks his watch. "You have about thirty minutes to say your goodbyes. I'd make them count."

He ascends the stairs without looking back, the door locking with an ominous click behind him.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The cellar feels suddenly airless, the weight of Wright's plans crashing down on us.

"The pack will come for us," I say finally, though I'm not sure I believe it. "Nic knows we went after Maisie."

"Not in time." Fiona stares at the floor, her voice hollow. "You heard him. Thirty minutes."

I strain against my restraints again, ignoring the burn of silver against my skin. "There has to be a way out of here."