Page 7

Chapter

Seven

C haos erupted in a cacophony of snarls, screams, and the acrid stench of burned magic.

The explosion had knocked Mia back several feet, her ears ringing with a high-pitched whine that made her wince.

Every inhale carried the sharp tang of ozone and something darker—a coppery, rotten sweetness that didn't belong among werewolf magic.

Her palms stung where she'd caught herself on the rough ground, tiny pebbles embedding in her skin like tiny brands.

"Ow," her wolf commented helpfully. "That's going to leave a mark."

"Not the time," Mia hissed, pushing herself up.

Through the swirling dust and magical residue, she saw pack members rushing to help those closest to the blast. The barriers had shattered outward like supernatural shrapnel, leaving glittering fragments of magic that faded even as they fell, dissolving like deadly snowflakes.

The scent of fear pulsed through the clearing in waves, thick enough to taste.

"Mia!" Gerald's voice cut through the din, his familiar cedar-and-sage scent approaching fast. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," she managed, pushing herself to her feet and ignoring how the world tilted slightly. Her wolf surged forward, demanding she check on her pack, assess the damage, protect what was hers. "The contestants?—"

"Some are injured," Gerald confirmed, steadying her with a hand on her elbow. "Matthews is already demanding an investigation. Claims it was sabotage."

"Of course he is." Mia's eyes scanned the arena, catching sight of the white wolf—except he wasn't a wolf anymore. Matthews had shifted back to human form and was somehow fully dressed in a pristine white shirt and slacks. How the hell did he manage that? Did he have a magical wardrobe assistant?

"Is he seriously giving a press conference right now?" her wolf asked incredulously.

Matthews was indeed gesturing dramatically toward Jim, his perfect features arranged in an expression of noble outrage. "—clearly a calculated attack, designed to prevent me from claiming my rightful victory!"

The twins flanked him like matching bookends of brooding intensity, while Thompson and Otto were actually being useful, tending to injured spectators.

And Jim... Mia's breath caught.

Jim hadn't shifted back. His dark wolf form moved through the chaos with liquid grace, herding confused pack members away from unstable sections where residual magic still sparked like angry fireflies.

He nudged a crying child back toward her mother with gentle precision, then positioned himself between a collapsing wooden beam and Elder Greta who was moving too slowly.

"Show off," her wolf muttered, but even she couldn't hide the admiration—and want—in her tone.

"He's good in a crisis," Beatrice observed, materializing beside them like a dusty fairy godmother.

Her blonde curls were gray with debris, making her look like she'd aged fifty years in five minutes.

"Better than Mr. Perfect Pants over there who's more concerned with his image than helping people. "

"Where's Jasmine?" Mia asked, still tracking Jim as he used his massive wolf body to shield a group of teenagers from a shower of magical sparks.

"Doing her supernatural CSI thing." Beatrice nodded toward the center of the arena.

Jasmine knelt in the destruction, her fingers dancing over the remnants of the pedestals like she was reading braille. Even from here, Mia could see the moment she found something—the sudden stillness, the slight widening of her eyes, the way her hand hovered over something they couldn't see.

"Elder Marcus!" Matthews' voice rose above the chaos, pitched to maximum drama. "I demand justice! This was clearly sabotage, designed to prevent me from demonstrating my superiority!"

"Does he come with a mute button?" Mia muttered.

"If only," Beatrice sighed.

Elder Marcus descended from the platform with surprising agility for someone older than dirt. "You speak of sabotage? These are serious accusations, Alpha Matthews."

"The evidence is obvious." Matthews gestured toward Jim, who was finally shifting back, and?—

Mia's mouth went desert dry.

The transformation rippled through Jim's form like liquid shadow becoming flesh, and sweet mother of all that was holy, when had he gotten so.

.. more? Dust and sweat streaked his skin, highlighting muscles she didn't remember being quite so defined.

New scars mapped his shoulders and ribs—thin white lines and darker patches that spoke of battles fought alone, wounds tended without her.

Her wolf whined, desperate to trace each mark, to soothe hurts they hadn't been allowed to heal.

"Stop staring," her wolf said, even as she stared too. "Oh god, is that a bite mark on his ribs?"

It was. Something with very large teeth had taken a chunk out of Jim Miracles, and Mia had to physically lock her knees to keep from marching over and demanding answers.

"A turned wolf with no chance of winning," Matthews continued, his voice dripping disdain, "chose destruction over defeat. I suggest immediate disqualification."

The crowd murmured, their collective scent shifting like a tide—uncertainty, suspicion, but also doubt. Several pack members who'd just been helped by Jim exchanged glances.

"That's quite a leap," Jim said calmly, pulling on his jeans with movements that were definitely not distracting.

The way the denim settled low on his hips was completely irrelevant to the situation.

Totally. His voice carried that particular tone Mia recognized—controlled amusement hiding something sharper. "Especially since I was about to win."

Matthews' perfect face twisted. "You? Win? Against pure-blooded alphas?"

"I was at the center while you were still playing bumper cars with the barriers." Jim's shrug was casual, but his posture screamed dominance. "If anyone had motivation to blow things up, it would be the wolf who was about to lose."

Jim's eyes found hers across the chaos, and for one breathless moment, his mask slipped completely.

She saw it all—pride at winning mixed with something deeper, older.

Fear. Longing. A desperate need that matched the ache in her chest. He took a half-step toward her, his lips parting as if to speak?—

"This petty bickering solves nothing," Elder Willow interrupted, gliding between the two men like a silver-haired referee, and the moment shattered. Jim turned away, but not before Mia caught the flash of frustration in his eyes. Whatever he'd wanted to say would remain unspoken. Again.

"Our first priority is the injured. Then we investigate."

"I may have some insight," Jasmine called out, rising from the wreckage. She held something small between her fingers, and even from across the arena, Mia's wolf recoiled from its wrongness.

"That smells like death," her wolf whined. "Death that went bad in the fridge."

Elder Marcus beckoned Jasmine forward. She approached with the measured steps of someone presenting evidence in court, which, Mia realized, she essentially was.

"What have you found, Ms. Keene?" Elder Marcus used Jasmine's formal title, acknowledging her expertise.

Jasmine extended her hand, revealing a medallion no bigger than a quarter. It gleamed with an oily darkness that seemed to eat light, and the smell?—

"That's vampire magic," Jasmine announced, her voice carrying just far enough. "Old magic, specifically designed to corrupt protective wards."

The collective gasp from the crowd came with a tsunami of fear-scent. Vampires at a werewolf ceremony? It was like finding a shark in your swimming pool—wrong on every level.

"Ridiculous," Matthews scoffed, but Mia caught the slight hesitation before he spoke. "Vampires have no interest in our traditions. This is clearly misdirection."

"Besides," Matthews continued, and here his voice took on an odd note, "my contacts in the vampire territories assure me their magic is far more... refined than this crude device."

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"Your contacts," Jim said slowly, "in the vampire territories."

"Did he just..." Beatrice whispered.

"Admit to having vampire buddies?" Mia finished. "Yeah."

Jasmine's expression remained professionally neutral, but Mia knew that look—it was her 'I'm memorizing everything you say for later prosecution' face.

"The magical signature is unmistakable. The device was placed beneath the central pedestal, designed to detonate when specific pressure was applied. "

"Such as someone trying to grab another's token?" Jim suggested innocently.

Jasmine nodded. "Exactly."

"This proves nothing," Matthews insisted, though his perfect complexion had taken on a slightly gray tinge. "Anyone could have planted it. Perhaps our time-traveling friend brought it back from one of his mysterious journeys."

"Always nice to have fans," Jim drawled.

"Enough." Elder Marcus raised his hand. "Ms. Keene, secure the evidence. We'll investigate properly."

"And the challenge?" Matthews demanded. "Surely we can't let sabotage disrupt our sacred traditions?"

Elder Marcus consulted silently with the other Council members—a lot of meaningful eyebrow movements and subtle head tilts.

"The challenge continues," he announced. "However, today's winner is?—"

"Jim Miracles," Elder Willow interjected sweetly. "He reached the center first, as we all witnessed. Tradition states the winner is determined by achievement, not completion."

The words hit Mia like a physical blow. Jim had won. Despite everything—the dismissals, the prejudice, the literal explosion—he'd won. Her wolf practically purred with pride, and Mia had to bite her tongue to keep from doing something stupid. Like smiling. Or worse, looking proud.

Matthews' face went through several interesting color changes—white to red to purple, like an angry sunset. "This is unprecedented."

"So is vampire magic at a werewolf ceremony," Elder Willow countered. "Unless you'd like to compound one disruption with another?"