My control—fracturing.
The two men who had been watching our house have vanished into shadow. But not before the viking-looking-dude transformed into the most massive wolf I've ever seen, its impossible shape burning into my retinas like a photographic negative.
"Mathieson! You hurt?" Agent Weyland from Team Echo shouts over the gunfire, crouching behind Mom's rhododendron bush. The shrub Mom has nurtured for fifteen years now shields a man who might execute me if he knew what I really am.
My heart hammers against my ribcage. "Secure the perimeter!" My voice cracks like a whip through rain-soaked air. "My mother's inside. Get them the fuck away from my mother's house!"
My teeth chatter, not from cold but from primal fear—fear that crawls up my spine and nests at the base of my skull. These people, whoever they are, they came for me. They knew my name.
The memory of the man's voice loops in my mind, my name in his mouth like a prayer or a curse. The way his eyes had locked onto mine with a hunger that transcended language. Then the transformation—bones cracking and reshaping before my eyes. Not the mindless, agonizing shift I've always imagined, but something primordial and elegant. Something natural. Like watching water transform to ice, inevitable and perfect.
A bullet whizzes past, close enough that I feel its heat kiss my ear. I drop lower behind the porch steps, concrete scraping my knees. Echo team members fan out along the property line, weapons trained on the tree line where shadowy Enclave figures retreat like tide waves from shore.
"They're retreating!" Weyland shouts, rain streaming down his face like tears.
I dig my fingernails into the worn porch wood. "Pursue those men! Priority capture! I want to know what the fuck they were doing in my mother's backyard."
"And the wolf?" Weyland questions, ejecting his spent magazine with practiced efficiency. The hollow sound of metal on metal punctuates the momentary silence.
"I'm going after it." My voice leaves no room for argument, though my handgun feels laughably inadequate against what I just witnessed. "It's headed northwest. I heard them say something about the river."
Weyland's face creases with concern, rainwater pooling in the lines. "Mathieson, you're not equipped for?—"
"Catch those assholes. That's what I need you to do." I cut him off, checking my handgun. Nine bullets against a creature that could swallow my head in one bite. "I'm dealing with the shifter. Give me your vest." I gesture and he strips off the body armor and hands it over. I throw it over my head and quickly fasten it down.
"I don't think the wolf is going to shoot at me, but someone else might," I mutter, holstering my weapon. "I'm heading northwest, toward the river. Radio updates if you catch any of them."
Weyland nods reluctantly, gesturing for two of his team to follow the Enclave suspects while the others secure the perimeter around my mother's house. I catch Mom's worried face through the kitchen window and give her a reassuring nod before slipping into the shadows at the edge of our property.
The muddy ground gives way beneath my tennis shoes as I pick up the trail of massive paw prints leading into the forest. Once I'm beyond the glow of tactical lights and safely hidden from watching eyes, I pause, listening. The rain masks most sounds, but I catch the distant snap of branches. Something large is moving through undergrowth about a quarter mile ahead.
I release just enough of my power to move faster than human limitations allow, the forbidden rush of magick thrumming through my muscles. The grass dies around me and some bushes crumble, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay. My vision sharpens, darkness peeling back as my enhanced senses pick up the trail. Rain plasters my hair to my skull, clothes clinging like a second skin as I push deeper into the forest.
Branches claw at my bare arms, leaving stinging welts that heal almost as quickly as they form. I follow the wolf's trail with predatory focus—broken twigs, displaced undergrowth, and the metallic tang of blood that must belong to the wounded companion.
My chest pulses with that same electric tugging sensation I've felt since arriving home. Not pain, not quite pleasure, but an awareness that grows stronger with each step toward my target. Like a compass needle finding north. Like a heart finding its rhythm.
Like coming home.
My tennis shoes slip on mud slick as oil, sending me sliding down a short embankment. My stomach drops. My arms pinwheel uselessly. I catch myself against a gnarled oak trunk, bark shredding my palms. Blood wells, then disappears as accelerated healing knits my flesh back together.
Cursing fills the space between ragged breaths. No tactical boots. No reinforced clothing. No comms. Just my gun, a bulletproof vest, my instincts, and the magick that makes me both hunter and hunted.
The rain intensifies, thousands of icy needles driving against exposed skin. I push forward, following a trail that leads deeper into the woods, away from any paths or roads. The wolf's movements aren't frantic or random but deliberate. Tactical. This is no mindless beast fleeing predators—this is a strategist retreating to more favorable ground.
I find where the wolf deposited his injured companion—a hollow beneath a fallen oak, carefully concealed with branches and leaves. The man is gone now, but fresh blood stains the earth, crimson mixing with mud. They've separated.
The wolf is attempting to lead me away from his wounded friend.
And it's working. I have no interest in his friend.
My fingers brush the blood—warm despite the rain, tacky between my fingertips. Not much time has passed. I straighten, scanning the darkness ahead where massive paw prints continue their deliberate march. The wolf is close. I can feel it humming beneath my skin, pulling me forward like a hook caught in my ribcage.
I push deeper into the forest, moving as quickly as I dare on treacherous ground. The rain has reduced visibility to blurred shadows and silver streaks, but I don't need to see clearly. Something deeper than sight guides me, a connection I can't explain but can't ignore.
The ground disappears.
One moment solid, the next—nothing.
