Page 7 of Pack Rage (The Splintered Bond #4)

Chapter 6

Hunting for Magic

FLOR

M y mama’s words echoed in my mind. Florida Witch. My stupid name was my father’s fault, of course. A name I’d never understood. I’d hated it before, but to know it had been his attempt to sell me, to bind me to a witch or save his life or hers, or both, was the shit cherry on top of the sewage sundae of his failure as a parent.

“I could have been Violet,” I whispered. It was so unfair. I fucking loved flowers. Even ones made out of intestines. For an instant, I felt a surge of amusement in my bond with Brand, but it faded as fast as it appeared.

Sergeant’s eyes met mine, as he whispered back, “It could have been worse. Flor means flower, you know. And no one’s ever called you by your given name, have they?”

I blinked. He was right. Practically nobody knew I even had a middle name. “No.”

He shrugged. “The moon has her ways.”

Mom’s hand tightened in mine once more before she slid into sleep. Then Sergeant and I slipped out the door. Glen was waiting right outside, next to the guards who nodded respectfully. I grabbed Glen’s hand as we left the Pack House, Sergeant on my other side.

“Do you need some privacy?” Sergeant asked gruffly. “Time to… What do they say these days? Process?”

I almost smiled, but then thought about it. I needed to get outside, out to the trees. But for once, I didn’t need to be alone. “No. I’d rather walk with you. I have so many questions.”

“I have a few myself. Let’s walk and talk.”

We were silent for the first few minutes, though I was taking in everything. The work crews were cleaning up the battle, and pitching tents close to the training field for the Mountain troops that would start arriving the next day. But there was an almost palpable tension when Sergeant, Glen, and I got closer to the groups that were made up mostly of Southern shifters. As if they were afraid of one of us, though I wasn’t sure which one. The women and rogues, on the other hand, seemed to relax. Like they wanted us close for some reason.

They didn’t feel safe here. I didn’t blame them.

Even without an attack from outside its borders, Southern wouldn’t feel safe to anyone as it was. There were too many bad memories here for some, and no Alpha to guide the rest.

They needed Luke… or someone.

I stared at Sergeant’s profile in the light, then his scars. The patterns were almost hypnotic, and I knew some of them told a story. “Tell me about your tattoos?”

“My scars, you mean?” He held up an arm, and we slowed. “My camouflage. My sister—your grandmother—did most of them before she left our pack’s borders. She was always a great artist, and had a firm grasp on her magic and her wolf’s power, until her mate died. She helped me hide my… well, my magical signature, if that makes sense, from shifters and witches alike.”

“Why?”

“The pack had dwindled to a few dozen males, maybe sixty women, and only a handful of younger ones. There was no future Alpha besides me, and I wouldn’t lead them in the way they decided to go.” He let out a long, shuddering breath. “I couldn’t. Our Alpha had been killed at the Betrayal, along with many of the other males in his line. The surviving Alpha Mothers were the ones who decided to ally with the Russians, and go to war. When I wouldn’t join them, they declared me an enemy of the pack and gave an order to hunt me.”

I gasped. I knew what it was to be hunted by my own pack. But to be hunted by a pack who had magic was even more terrifying. “How did you escape? Do you… did you use magic?”

He ran his fingers absently over one forearm. “I couldn’t. The markings I bear stifle my magic almost completely. But they also make it nearly impossible to track me using spells. I only had to make certain no one got close enough to sniff me or see me, and recognize who I was. Brand’s grandmother found me sneaking across the border of Mountain.” He grinned. “I thought for sure I was dead. She was terrifying.”

I laughed. “Grandma Ida?”

He shivered. “That woman may be small, but it’s dangerous to underestimate the small ones. And her wolf is the size of a fucking pony.”

I snorted, but Glen was nodding. “It’s true. Huge wolf. I almost pissed myself the one time I saw her shift.”

When I got hold of myself, Sergeant went on. “The powerful women of that pack were the ones who allowed me to cross through their lands, keeping it secret from the males. They gave me a letter to take to Northern and, well, you know the rest.”

Glen whistled low. “You were in hiding from your old pack, all that time. I used to wonder why you never came to Conclaves, why no one seemed to know much about you. Hell, no one even knew your name.”

Sergeant chuckled. “For the longest time, other than your grandfather, no one thought to ask.” He lifted his left sleeve, revealing a swirling pattern that looked like a labyrinth, with a scar running through it. “That particular spell of my sister’s was handy, though it stopped working when it got cut with a silver Russian blade near the end of the war.”

I wasn’t sure how to ask the question that was bugging me. “You never saw anyone you knew… across the battlefield?”

“I did, Flor.” He swallowed and stared out into the forest, his expression haunted. “I just made sure that if they saw me, I killed them. Even the males I’d grown up with.”

“Your friends?”

“They were trying to kill me as well. I’d given my allegiance to Northern, and I was a traitor to my own pack.” He put a hand over his heart, like it ached. “I gave up my magic and my family. All I had left was my honor… until you walked into the training yard, and I saw my little Lily’s eyes in your face.”

We stopped, all of us lost in our own thoughts, staring into the forest, in the direction of the cave. I wasn’t sure what they were thinking about, but my mind was whirling. Planning what came next.

I had a bad feeling about Brand going into Eastern. But something told me the only way out of this mess was by striking at the heart of the evil. That meant going to the Council, to Finnick’s parents, along with all of my mates. I wasn’t sure what we could do once we were there, but the first problem was getting in.

Going with an army meant almost certain death for Brand. But sneaking into a well-defended pack, one that used technology as well as magic?

It would be so much easier if we had magic of our own. I didn’t have any, from what I could tell. My wolfcraft and witchcraft powers were both on the blink.

I turned my head to the side and stared at Sergeant’s arms, thinking about the books I’d read, about his journal. “I’m not sure I could give up magic, if I had it.”

“You never showed any signs?” Sergeant asked. I shook my head, and he grunted. “Well, you’re still an incredible fighter. You don’t need it.”

I wasn’t sure about that. “Del taught me all about weapons. How to protect myself. I used to stash a knife made out of pipe and duct tape under my mattress. I had that kind of stuff hidden all over Southern. Del made it a part of my training—to find or make weapons, to know how to get my hands on them, and to never forget they were there.”

“How many do you have stashed in the compound?” Glen asked.

I thought for a moment. “Nine blades tied to tree branches, unless some of them came down in a storm or somethin’ after I left. Four… no, five spools of wire and three jars of my ghost pepper-cinnamon blend.”

Sergeant cleared his throat. “Would you be willing to share where those things are? So the unranked women could have a few more weapons they can handle,” he explained when I hesitated. There weren’t many I would tell about my secret caches of weapons, but Iris and her crew had helped me more than once. They could have any weapon they wanted. Except maybe my steak knife.

“Sure.” I listed out all the places, and when I was done, Glen was wide-eyed and Sergeant was almost smiling.

“I’m impressed.”

“That was all Del. He taught me everything I know.” Something had been bothering me, and I gestured to the markings on his skin. Sergeant had said he’d given up his magic, but I’d smelled an almost unnoticeable hint of a lie. “He made sure I knew that the best weapons we have are the ones we’re born with. Our minds, our feet, and in your case, magic. You still have that weapon, don’t you? It’s just hidden.”

His bushy eyebrows furrowed. “What are you getting at?”

“It’s where we need to get into that’s the issue.” I took a deep breath. “We can’t storm Eastern with an army, though it might be a good distraction if they think that’s our plan. We need to sneak in, me and Glen. But to do that, we need magic. We need you , Uncle.”

For a moment, seeing the pain flicker across Sergeant’s face, I felt bad calling him out. “I wasn’t lying, Flor. I don’t have access to my magic. Not the witchcraft side, anyway.”

I softened my tone. “But you still have it?”

He hesitated, running a hand over his marked arm before answering, “Yes. Magic is in the blood. You would have it, too.”

“My scar.” I pressed a hand to my chest, and he looked at the star curiously. “Do you think it’s blocking whatever magic I might have? Maybe that’s the reason I can’t shift, or not like I should.”

He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes on the end of the scar that poked up over my neckline. “You could be right; getting that scar before you were even born could be the reason for a lot of things. Whatever spell the witch from Florida cast might have affected both branches of your magical heritage.”

“Both?” Glen asked.

He nodded. “Witchcraft and wolfcraft are sides of the same coin, phases of the moon’s power. Their separation is what’s killing our kind. Or so I believe.”

Glen was the one to hum this time, thinking about what that might mean, I supposed.

Sergeant sighed heavily. “If I could use magic to save your mates, and our people, I would. These scars are spells, though, ones I chose. I’d have to carve them out of my skin to use my witch magic again. It would most likely kill me. Though if it would save my pack, my family, I would make the attempt.”

Now I did feel bad. I wanted a way into Eastern that wouldn’t get anyone killed. Okay, not anyone on our side. “Well, shit. I’m sorry,” I muttered. “We can’t lose you. I can’t. You’re my favorite great-uncle.” I forced a smile that became real as he grumbled about smart aleck nieces.

Glen and Sergeant discussed options for ways past technological defenses as we made our way back to the center of the compound. Glen knew a lot about the cameras and other tech equipment they’d used, though as far as he knew, the only way to disable them was from inside the Mansion.

My steps slowed as we approached the back of the Pack House, the darkness around us growing lighter and filling with the sounds of dozens of shifters. Someone had strung lights in some of the trees that ringed the flat space behind the dining hall. It was almost cheerful.

Of course, the music probably helped. Someone had turned on a radio, and a country song was playing, with guitars and fiddles and a deep-voiced singer going on about his aching heart.

Dean and a bunch of the rogue males had gathered in the center of the dirt ring that had been one of Callaway’s favorite places to deliver public punishments or announcements. For some reason, Dean had chosen this spot to… teach them steps to something?

“Are they dancing? ”

“Yeah, it’s a line dance! I know this one,” Glen said aloud, pulling me toward the ring. I shook my head and let him go, pushing him on when he tried to stay with me. I could tell he wanted to dance. When he started, the rest of the rogues did, too, as well as a few of the unranked women.

The dust flew up around their feet as they repeated the steps, turning in each direction. I wanted to join in, but I couldn’t. This place might still feel weirdly like home, but it had never been a happy one.

The ground where they danced was the same spot Callaway had announced me as the prey for the Hunt. I almost smiled, thinking about the arrangements that dotted the packlands now, the remains of those who hunted me serving as a grisly reminder that power could change hands. And abusing the weak could cause you to lose yours—your hands, or heads, or any other part—when the wheel turned.

I glanced around in the shadows of the trees, noting the sour looks on the faces of the previously ranked Southern members. I wasn’t sure if they disapproved of the dancing, or if they wanted to join in and felt like they couldn’t.

When that song ended, a new one began, and Glen came back to my side, smiling.“Why aren’t you dancing, princess?”

“This place holds a lot of bad memories,” I said after a moment. “This exact spot. I don’t know if this place will ever feel like the kind of pack I should dance in.”

He wrapped an arm around me, his body warm on mine in the cool night air. “What about dancing on?”

I peered up at him. “What does that mean?”

Glen shrugged. “Think of this place as a graveyard. Heck, most of the pack that was here is dead now. Not all the ones who hurt you have graves you can dance on. But you can dance on the memories of pain, and show the remnants of this broken pack how to move on.” He held out his hand. “And show the rest of them that they don’t matter enough to keep you from living. Dance with me.”

The song changed to a slow song at that very moment, and I slid into his arms. The moon had risen high enough to fly over the pines, and the area practically glowed. When that song ended, Sergeant grabbed me for some sort of polka, whirling me around. Then Bo and Leroy begged me to join them for a line dance so easy, even I could do it without practicing. Most of the Southern shifters were still hanging back, dozens of eyes gleaming in the shadows, but all the girls and rogues joined in, and Iris made her way to my side.

“Thank you,” she said, as we moved side by side.

“For what?” I flapped my hands, then my arms, then wiggled along with everyone else. Laughter rang across the improvised dance floor, all of us looking ridiculous. Even Sergeant had joined in, and the Tenebris pack shifters were mobbing him.

She nodded to the Southerners watching, though some of them might have wanted to dance, from the way their hands and feet were twitching. “For showing those assholes whose side you’re on.”

I had no idea what she meant. I wrinkled my nose and clapped four times, then turned to the right. “Whose side?”

“The side of the dancing chickens.” She squatted, flapping her arms like a chicken and wiggling her butt, then waved a wing at the Southerners. “Or the constipated chickenshits.”