They find Finn standing alone at the base of a staircase that runs upward on Grayson’s right. It’s narrow, just wide enough for a man to climb single file.
“He caught a whiff of something and was gone. Still in person form, though. For now,” Finn mutters the last under his breath.
Gusts of wind whip down the stairs, carrying Rowan’s spiced rum scent—and a nauseating stench of rotting flesh.
“What the fuck,” Jay says, his enigma nose more sensitive than Finn’s. Grayson has smelled that before: Withers.
Grayson doesn’t waste any time, taking the stairs two at a time, with his mates on his heels.
Standing at the top of the stairs, Rowan has the door cracked open. “Took you long enough. Look.” Given he’s taller and broader than everyone else gathered on the small landing, Jay has to pull him out of the way to see, too.
The foul scent is even stronger without Rowan blocking the way. Grayson can glimpse Withers standing under the full moon.
“Withers,” Jay growls.
The Plain floods Grayson with its power, as if their nemesis could be conjured by name alone, like a demon summoned from hell.
Sparks snap at Grayson’s fingertips, a matching growl falling from his lips.
Even Rowan’s magic flashes in Grayson’s periphery—a man one instant, The Wolf the next. His clothes in tatters, his nose in the air, he gives a low, menacing rumble that vibrates along Grayson’s nerve endings.
The beautiful Wolf Moon acts as a spotlight, illuminating the corner of the rampart where the wall had been built lower so viewers could watch the sunset over the edge.
Standing over a makeshift altar in the center of a circle of candles, Withers channels The Plain in great, swirling, oily black waves. The ominous aura is made worse as the wind blows the stench of death toward them.
It’s more than just Withers’s decay—Grayson can smell three dead Weres on the patio stone, their bodies illuminated by the flickering light.
The breeze also carries Withers’s smug words easily.
“I know you’re there, Handsome. Don’t be shy,” he drawls. “And bring your friends.”
Jay puts his hand out to stop Rowan from pushing past the door, just in case it’s an ambush.
“Gray?” He’s asking if Grayson detects a trap.
“I can see there’s magic, but it’s not aimed at us yet. Just stay out of the circle of candles,” Grayson says, drawing up as much power as he can without overloading his connection or bringing down the entire castle wall. “Stay behind me.”
Smiling, Jay cups his jaw. “I’m proud of the man you are, Pretty. Kick his ass.”
Grayson grins and nods. “Will do.”
Welcoming a surge of power, he feels it swirl at Jay’s proximity, flowing through Rowan-wolf, where he’s vibrating, pressed up against Grayson’s side.
“Be safe,” Finn whispers, his voice steady despite the turmoil around them.
There’s a light scrape of a claw against his earlobe—sharp, but grounding—and when Grayson turns, the sight before him steals his breath.
Finn, ever composed and gentle, now stands with long fangs descended and flashing blue eyes. In that moment, Grayson sees not just his mate, but a warrior born of quiet strength.
The presence of his brave, unyielding mates surrounds him, their magic feeding his power like a tide.
Witnessing Finn’s courage ignites something within him, and Grayson knows they are stronger because they stand together.
Flinging open the door, he lets twin fireballs coalesce in his palms as he breaks into a run that surprises both Jay and Withers.
Gathering his power, he flings the first fireball a bit wide, shooting past the shocked Withers’s head only to explode over the wall with a loud bang. The second follows immediately after, hitting the altar and setting it ablaze so that the wood groans and cracks from the heat.
The third fireball is met with a deluge of water in mid-air. The hissing steam flung back toward them feels like opening a sauna door.
