Page 44 of Witch’s Wolf (Bound by the Howl #2)

44

SAM

D aybreak reveals a town suffocating under the weight of unspoken fear.

Word of Helena’s decision has spread, thickening the air with tension. Most people have abandoned work for the day. The streets are nearly empty. The few who remain aren’t talking, aren’t driving, aren’t pretending life is normal. They’re packing. Loading belongings into the backs of their cars and trucks, preparing to leave Dawson behind.

At home, the silence is every bit as heavy. Shadows stretch across the floor, swallowing the faces of my pack. No one speaks. No one moves. Their gazes drift through the void, lost somewhere I can’t reach. Mine isn’t any different. I stare at the kitchen faucet, my mind slipping into the past.

Helena.

Memories of her flash through my head, one after another, relentless. The first time we met, standing on that hill, staff in her hand. She knocked out the strongest wolf in our pack and his two brothers with nothing but raw power and a will that refused to break. Then there was the battle against the vampire clan in winter. I saw her torch two bloodsuckers like it was nothing. Maybe more. I never counted. I should have seen this coming.

Helena van Zant, the witch who has fought beside us, protected us, bled for us, of course she would step forward now. Of course she would decide to stand alone. Her indomitable spirit was never in question. The only fool here is me, for thinking she’d let anyone else carry this burden. I don’t need to read my siblings’ minds to know what they’re feeling. It’s the same thing dragging at my bones, hollowing me out from the inside. Uselessness.

The fight is set for midnight. It looms, carrying the weight of our future. A battle that will decide everything. The battle for the fate of Dawson, of our home, of our people and we won’t be the ones fighting it. At least not at first.

For the first time in our history, two humans will determine whether we hold our ground or abandon it forever. There’s a slim chance we’ll have a role in finishing this, but the fight itself? That belongs to Helena. I wonder if Raul ever imagined something like this when he first met Monica. I know I sure as hell never saw this coming when I fell for Erica.

Fifteen minutes before the hour, my family and I move as one. Slipping from our home in wolf form. Even our beasts, usually loud and restless, move silently. We cross the forest border in disciplined formation, paws whispering against the earth. The rest of the pack joins us, emerging through the undergrowth, their bodies sleek and coiled with tension. Tails flick low, ears pin back, hackles bristle in anticipation.

Locksmith’s beast lingers at the rear, a lean, gray figure, his presence thinner than the rest. He has more reason than anyone to want Roberta dead, but Raul won’t risk him. We can’t afford his death, not with the embers of civil war still smoldering. If he falls, his sympathizers will demand blood.

Through the last tangle of trees, two figures come into view. Helena and Erica stand side by side, nearly the same height, their faces set in stone. Helena twists her staff, her grip firm, her resolve unshaken. She meets the pack’s eyes, then nods.

“Thank you,” she says, in a calm, even voice. “All of you. Now, let’s end this.”

She moves forward, and Raul quickens his pace. I follow, catching the looming shape of Brad’s old mansion out of the corner of my eye. Two stories of cold, empty space. Big enough to house ten people yet haunted by the presence of none. The road levels out as we approach the house.

“I’m going to say this one last time.” Helena says. The hem of her cloak brushes against my neck as she strides past. “Do not intervene.”

The toll of St. Matthew’s church bell shatters the silence. Dozens of ears tick forward, bodies tense, ready. Erica stands at my side. The smell of her fear and tension riles my wolf. She curls her hand in the fur at the base of my neck. I move closer, trying to be reassuring.

Helena moves up the cement path, eyes sweeping the darkened landscape. Then there is a light. A sickly purple glow that floods the concrete, casting jagged shadows. Roberta hovers inches above the ground, her violet cloak rippling unnaturally, arms outstretched.

“Tonight will be the last moonrise you’ll ever see,” she says, her voice dripping with venom.

The air thrums as she thrusts a hand forward. A pulse of raw energy rips toward Helena, distorting the space between them. Helena doesn’t flinch. She plants her staff into the earth and grips it with both hands.

A red force field blooms around her just before the energy wave slams into it. The purple energy crackles over the barrier sounding like a thousand snapping twigs.

“Big words,” she taunts, voice calm, unshaken. “You should learn when to shut up.”

Roberta snarls, disgust twisting her sharp features.

“A staff? Only weaklings like you need one.”

She thrusts her arms forward with her fingers splayed wide. The staff jerks in Helena’s hands, dragging across the soil as if an unseen force is yanking it away.

The tip wavers, tilting toward Roberta. Helena tightens her grip, muscles coiling. Then, with a sharp tug, she wrenches it back. Roberta crashes to the ground in a heap, like someone just ripped the floor out from under her.

“Could a weakling do that?” Helena asks with smug smile. She strides forward, closing the distance between them. She presses the end of her staff under Roberta’s chin and forces her head back. “You vastly underestimate me, my dear.”

No Helena! Too soon.

Roberta flicks her wrist in a quick, vicious motion. Helena’s feet fly out and she crashes onto her back. Even from here I hear the air rush from her lungs. Her staff tumbles from her grasp, rolling uselessly across the dirt.

Roberta is over her in a flash. She bends over her like a predator looming over its prey.

“You stupid goat,” she sneers, her voice dripping with disdain. “You play at being a witch because you like it. I was born a witch.”

She latches onto Helena’s ankles and with a brutal yank drags her across the ground. Dirt and gravel grind against Helena’s spine. Helena grits her teeth, reaching, straining, for her staff, but Roberta is faster, grabbing it before Helena can.

“Let’s see how much pain you can take before bending the knee,” Roberta taunts.

She rises to her full height, her silhouette stretching under the dim moonlight. The stolen staff swings high then crashes down. The wood slams into Helena’s cheek, snapping her head sideways.

“Look how weak you are!” Roberta snarls, striking again. And again. Every blow lands with sickening force, each one sending a fresh spray of blood into the dirt. “You’re pathetic, van Zant! Beaten to death by your own staff! That’s what your tombstone will read!”

A growl builds in my throat, deep and guttural. The pack shifts uneasily, fur bristling, fangs bared. Yips and barks crackle in the still night air. Saliva drips from my wolf’s jaw, but we don’t move. Not yet.

Helena writhes, blood trickling down her cheekbone, but her lips curl not in pain. In defiance.

“Beating…?” her voice, weak at first, slithers through the noise and cuts through the tension like a blade. “Is this the best a born witch can do?”

Her arm shoots up, fingers closing around the staff mid-air. Stopping it inches from her face.

A glow erupts from her skin. Deep red, pulsing, and furious. It spreads over her, engulfing her from head to toe. Her eyes darken, crimson swallowing the whites.

“I don’t need this,” Helena snarls.

And with a single motion, she shatters the staff in two with a ferocious cry.

Flames race down the length of the staff. Two streams of molten fire, twisting and writhing like living serpents. Heat flares through the night.

Roberta hisses, her skin searing where the fire licks her hands. She throws the remnant of the staff away, staggering back, golden hair falling over her face as she gasps through clenched teeth.

Helena rises, bloodied but unbowed. Roberta’s breath shudders.

“Perhaps not,” Roberta says, reaching behind her head. Metal sings against leather as she unsheathes a silver sword, its tip glinting under the moonlight. She hefts it, letting out a low, guttural grunt. “I’m going to bleed you. Just like I bled him.”

“Bled who?” Helena asks, eyes narrowing.

The blade swings, whispering through the air. The razor-sharp edge slices through Helena’s shoulder, slicing fabric with a sickening rip.

“Dear old Dennis, of course,” Roberta sneers.

I growl, taking an involuntary step ahead.

“He got all sentimental after the plane crashed,” she continues, voice dripping with disdain. “Wanted us to go back to Erica. I wasn’t ready but he was insistent. When he wouldn’t stop, I took his miserable life.”

“My father?” Erica’s voice shatters, raw, breaking open the silence like glass against stone.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Roberta coos, but her gaze never strays from Helena. “He had to go.”

The words slam into the night like a death knell. A feral growl rips from Erica’s throat and she lunges, blind with fury.

“Erica, don’t!” Helena’s command is sharp, desperate. “Don’t let your anger take control!”

“Stop worrying about my little girl,” Roberta screams, slamming her boot into Helena’s hip. Helena spins, reeling, her blood spraying through the air. “Worry about yourself.”

Helena stumbles but doesn’t fall. She straightens, breath ragged, pain clear on her face but she smiles.

“Thanks for the advice,” she says, wiping blood from her mouth on her sleeve.

Roberta doesn’t answer, she screams, spinning in a blur of silver and rage. The sword sings through the night, carving a wicked arc. Steel meets cloth, slashing through Helena’s cloak, carving across her chest. The blade stops just shy of her arm. The scent of fresh blood fills the air.

Helena grits her teeth, swallowing the pain. Her knees bend, her fingers twitch, but her eyes burn with something stronger than agony. This fight isn’t over.

Roberta sneers, stepping closer, her sword gleaming with our witch’s blood.

“What shall your epitaph be, weakling?” she taunts, voice dripping with mockery. “Did you give that any thought before you challenged me to this charade of a fight?”

Helena breathes hard, blood running down her tattered cloak, but she lifts her chin, defiance burning in her gaze.

“I did,” she says, flexing her left hand, the palm hovering just above the ground behind Roberta. Her lips curl into something between a smirk and a snarl. “I became a legend of the Catskills by snuffing the life out of murdering whores like Roberta Connors.”

A sharp crack slices through the air. One half of her broken staff jerks up from the ground, spinning straight into her waiting palm. Helena’s fingers curl around the charred wood.

Roberta barely has time to register what’s happening when Helena thrusts the burning end of the staff into her gut.

Roberta gasps, her mouth gaping open in shock. The sword slips from her fingers, tumbling uselessly to the ground between them. Helena doesn’t hesitate. She twists the staff, ripping through flesh, tearing through fabric and skin alike. The sound is louder than Roberta’s strangled cry.

“This is my realm,” Helena says, leaning in, her breath ragged. Her eyes glow, the red energy of her magic seeping into her gaze like molten fire. “You don’t threaten my realm and my family without paying the price.”

Helena snaps her head up, looking over her shoulder at the pack.

“Locksmith!” The command cracks through the air like a whip. “Finish her!”

Locksmith doesn’t move alone. A dozen of us lunge.

Roberta’s body hasn’t even hit the ground before we’re on her, fangs flashing, claws raking through fabric and flesh. Snarls and growls ripple through the night as we rip into the monster who brought so much death to our town. Jaws clamp onto her ankles, her thighs, her stomach, her throat.

She wanted to drown Dawson in blood. Instead, she drowns in her own.

And at last, it’s over.