Page 37 of Snag (Conduit #2)

I don’t recognize the motif etched across the door or along the frame. Mayan- or Aztec-inspired designs, maybe? Both appear practically brand new, likely due to a mage’s touch.

“Seems an odd choice. To settle so near the intersection point,” I murmur. “Grinder said that the Outcast absorbed a previously established motorcycle club …”

“About thirty-five years ago,” Rought says agreeably. “And we’ve been actively stretching our borders, more so even in the last five years. That’s been Rath’s focus since he got back.”

‘Got back from where’ is the first question that pops into my mind. Because despite snuggling in his lap less than an hour ago, I know very little of substance about the middle half-brother who is also supposed to be mine. I go with the more on-point second query. “To ring the estate?”

“Farther north. And south all the way to the California border now,” Rath rumbles from ahead of us. “No one is encroaching on your territory, Zaya.”

“You couldn’t even if you tried,” I say, keeping my tone level as I follow him through the entranceway.

Rath’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t snip back at me. Instead he shucks off his jacket, hanging it in a paneled closet near the main door.

“You’d never know that my brother’s club name is supposed to be ironic,” Rought says, only partly teasing.

Rath throws his younger brother a quelling look over his shoulder.

Distracted by the complex display that extends from the front doors throughout the entranceway, I ignore both of them, also letting the line of thought drop. All the moldings, base and crown, every pillar, the entire sweeping stairwell— all of it appears to be hand carved.

Judging only by the exterior, the house seemed almost minimalist in its construction.

As if it might have been erected in a hurry, even.

The intricate carvings are an odd contrast. Though as I follow Rath through a large living space divided into multiple cozy seating areas, with massive windows open to views of the woods beyond, I see how it all works together.

“The carvings?” I ask Rought.

“The Outcast,” he says. “My uncle. It’s all his work. He mostly works in totem pole form now. And those are spread throughout the woods and along the property boundary.” He eyes me for a moment, then adds, “His version of … warding.”

Warding, aka shielding. Or, at minimum, sensor triggers along the boundary of a protected space.

There aren’t many shifters who can wield essence in that manner, though there are always rumors and suppositions, such as those that follow kitsune.

Other than Rought and Rath and possibly Cayley, I’ve never met a shifter who can wield essence externally.

Of course, such secrets are kept for many different reasons. Not only are essence-wielders vastly outnumbered by those who wield no essence, aka the nulls, but the rarest among us are continually hunted. Either out of fear, or for the power they can be forced to wield for their captors.

I pause to examine the carved post nearest me.

Totem poles, Rought said. That’s also an odd medium of choice.

The square edges of the post between the entranceway and the main living room haven’t been rounded.

At a glance, the motif doesn’t resemble any of the work of the Salish that I’ve seen, or any of the other Pacific Northwest First Nations known for carving totem poles.

Moreover, the Salish are protective about their culture, including their art.

Other than the few pieces that have been gifted to Gage ancestors for various favors, I’ve never seen any of their art outside of a loaned museum collection or in Salish territory.

“Sharing all my secrets already, are you, nephew?” A deep voice draws my attention away from the carved post toward a massive dining area that occupies the entire back corner of the house.

A huge trestle table takes up most of the space, with a long, narrow, and currently food-laden sideboard along the far wall. The pass-through doors to the equally massive industrial-looking kitchen are open on the left. The far end of the table, near the north windows, is casually set for five.

A huge older shifter stands next to the chair at the head of the table.

The power he holds is robust but tightly coiled, as if focused inward.

Without even looking for his threads, I can already sense that it’s his ties to his pack that easily make him one of the most powerful shifters I’ve ever met .

The Outcast.

Feeling slightly displaced — once again caught between who I was as Zaya and who I now must be as the Conduit — I remove my sunglasses. Then I realize I don’t have a bag to tuck them away within. I hold them instead, along with my phone, in one hand.

The Outcast meets my gaze steadily, even after my eyes are revealed.

Ari Guerra — I only know his given name because of the photograph Rath has commandeered — doesn’t really look like any of the Guerra siblings, his nieces and nephews.

His face is longer, nose more prominent, his skin darker than even Reck, who I’m fairly certain has South American heritage from both sides of his bloodline.

The Outcast’s straight black hair is long enough to tuck behind his ears and threaded through with thick strands of gray.

His eyes are a light blue. He’s dressed in a thin sweater that’s slightly ragged at the cuffs and hem. Torn blue jeans. Barefoot.

As I approach under the Outcast’s gaze— fixed but not unwelcoming— I see that light-gray starbursts radiate from around his pupils.

Each eye a different pattern. I don’t believe that those markings are connected to or evidence of his beast, though.

Because I can’t sense any shift in his essence, not as I do when the gryphon peers out of Rought’s eyes.

The jagged edges surrounding his pupils almost look like healed-over, decades-old scar tissue.

From what?

Not a physical injury. A shifter of the Outcast’s stature, given enough years to heal, would be able to grow back even lost limbs and damaged eyes.

He’s almost as big as Rath, easily six foot seven inches. Though the cane he’s leaning on and the careful way he occupies the space diminishes his presence. The cane appears to have been roughly carved out of bone, though I don’t know what sort of beast has a femur that long.

A furtive look exchanged between Rath and Rought, who have placed themselves on either side of me, indicates that something is different about the Outcast’s presence. Or something about his presence concerns them, at least. Perhaps he’s recovering from an illness or sickness? Hence the cane.

I don’t take a closer look.

A shifter of the Outcast’s power would sense any shift in my essence, his connection to the rest of his pack weaving palpable threads through the room.

Plus we’re allies, our territories sharing the same country.

Or more specifically, the Outcast territory surrounding the small sovereign domain I’ve inherited.

Having stood steadily silent under my regard, the Outcast raises his left hand, tapping the first three fingers over his heart. Thankfully he doesn’t bow his head as if in prayer. “Weaver, you bless this house, this land, with your presence.”

“I am but the spool, not the weaver,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can when confronted by an annoying bit of religious doctrine.

I’m suddenly hyperaware that this shifter knew my aunt— likely intimately given their proximity in the photo Rath has tucked away somewhere. Which means the Outcast actually knows something about the power I now hold as the Conduit. His reverent gesture tells me he believes .

The elder shifter huffs, clearly amused by my denial.

Thankfully, he directs his attention to his two nephews, first Rath, then lingering on Rought. “I see,” he murmurs. “You’re no longer one of mine. I thought I felt a shift.”

Rought steps forward and offers his uncle a folded bundle of black fabric. I didn’t notice him carrying it.

It’s his cut. The leather vest that displays his club patch and declares his allegiance to the Outcast — the motorcycle club and the shifter at its core.

The Outcast takes Rought’s offered cut with a nod, transferring it to the hand still holding the cane. He then wraps his free hand around the back of his nephew’s neck, pulling him closer to rest his forehead on Rought’s.

A gentle energy shifts between them, and they stand like that for long enough that I realize I’m holding my breath.

“I understand more than you know,” the Outcast says quietly.

“That’s why we’re here. Now.” Rought steps back to my side the moment his uncle releases him.

“Is it?” The Outcast raises a questioning eyebrow at both his nephews.

“You should eat,” Rath says gruffly.

The Outcast chuckles, but he obligingly steps back to prop the cane against the chair and settle at the head of the table. He tucks Rought’s discarded cut at his side.

Trailing Rath, Rought steers me around the table toward the sideboard, which appears to hold enough food for a small army, most of it in warming dishes. Granted, the three shifters actually are a substantially sized army, not even including what I bring to the mix.

I pick up a plate. Rought takes it from me, quickly filling one edge with the exact pieces of sliced fruit I would have gotten for myself.

“Our bond negates your bond to the Outcast?” I ask in a low murmur, even though there’s no chance that any of the sharp ears in the room don’t hear me.

“Yes,” Rought says easily. Then he scoops perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs onto a quarter of my plate.

“As it should,” the Outcast says from the table.

Rath pivots with a plate literally piled with protein — more of the scrambled eggs, two types of sausage, bacon, and ham — and places it in front of his uncle. The serving of food to his pack leader is casual but filled with meaning.

“Where’s your brother?” the Outcast asks, meaning Reck.