Holden lunges.
No warning. No posturing. One second, he’s standing by the altar, and the next, he’s a blur of white robes and killing intent, closing the distance between us.
My training kicks in.Dodge. Run. Evade.But Holden moves faster than any human ever could. His hand reaches for my throat, for the crystal, and I can see exactly how this ends.
Then, Rhiannon burst.
She doesn’t shift in any usual sense of the word. There’s no time. But her wolftakes over. Her eyes flash gold, pupils contracting to vertical slits. A snarl rips from her chest that sounds nothing like a human voice. She slams into Holden mid-stride, driving him sideways with enough force to crack the stone where they land.
The impact should have ended it. Should have pinned him flat.
But Rhiannon doesn’t stop.
She’s on him before he can recover, claws and elbows and knees finding flesh with brutal precision. Each strike lands with primal fury. A force of nature that’s stopped thinking about tactics and started thinking about pure annihilation.
“Rhiannon!” Xander’s shout pierces through the chaos. “Formation!”
She doesn’t hear him. Or, she can’t.
MINE. TOUCHED WHAT’S MINE. KILL HIM. KILL—
Her thoughts crash through our bond like a wildfire, raw and incoherent.
Holden deflects a blow, rolls, and tries to create distance. Rhiannon follows like his shadow, relentless and savage. Beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.
The pack scrambles to adjust. Conan moves left, trying to flank, but Rhiannon’s wild assault keeps putting her between him and the target. Akila circles right, blade at the ready, waiting for an opening that doesn’t close as soon as it appears. Branson hovers at the edge, muscles locked, unable to assist without risking friendly fire.
They’re reacting now, not coordinating. Rhiannon’s uncanny ferocity has turned our plan into chaos.
But it’sworking.
Holden can’t find his footing. Each time he tries to gather magic, she’s on him, disrupting his concentration with another vicious strike. Blood streams from his nose. His perfect white robes are torn and stained.
Xander finally finds his angle. He surges in low while Rhiannon drives Holden high, and together they slam him to the ground. Branson’s there instantly, his massive hands pinning Holden’s wrists. Conan drops a knee onto his chest.
Holden’s head cracks against stone.
His eyes roll back.
He goes limp.
For one breathless moment, hope floods through me.
No one moves. Akila’s blade lowers an inch.
“Is it over?” Conan asks, chest heaving.
Then, Holden’s eyes snap open.
Not dazed. Not defeated.Amused.
The air changes again.
It erupts from within me before I’ve fully registered its presence. A pressure wave that starts in my chest radiates outward, denser than the previous ritual pulses, and colder — fundamentallyrotten. The candle flames bend toward Holden like flowers seeking sun. The crystals in the salt hexagon pound in rapid sequence, their light no longer building butfeedinginto him.
Sounds break through at the edge of my awareness. A voice that isn’t Rhiannon’s, bleeding through our connection like radio interference.
. . .never felt anything like. . .more powerful than any Shaman the pack has ever. . .
