Page 82 of A Wolf for Winter

The wolf snorted, rolled his golden eyes, then spun around to nose the air. His bushy tail stood straight out from his body, his ears pricked, his fur rippled in the winter breeze. Lilac snatched Boar’s hand back before he could pet him. With a yap, the wolf bounded northward.

Lilac and Boar could keep up this time. The wolf moved purposefully but stopped often, confirming he’d found the gap between scents before leading them deeper into the forest. Then, he stopped pausing altogether, moving with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was headed. Lilac took notice of her surroundings then, wondering how Allen clearly recognized this part of the forest. She knew he’d gone on daily patrols—had he marked this place somehow?

She realized they were walking more or less in a curved line; no longer were they weaving in and out of the trees like they had before. The trees no longer grew randomly, but seemed to radiate from a central point. These were all of one species of tree, too, though she wished Aunt Hyacinth—the forager and forest expert of the family—was here to confirm.

“Allen, stop,” she whispered.

The wolf obeyed, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“We’re headed into a witch’s grove—a place of power. I-l read about them in Edith’s book. We need to be careful.”

“When we’re done here, it’s my turn to read that damn book,” Boar grumbled, summoning magic to his hands.

The siblings separated, giving each other room to maneuver and flanking the wolf. They darted from tree to tree, pausing for a breath to listen before continuing, but they heard nothing except the creaking of branches and the rattling whisper of the air through the leaves which still clung to them.

Slowly, the wolf’s golden hackles rose and his lips peeled back into a white-fanged snarl. Boar inhaled sharply, his features settling from cautious anticipation into rage. Lilac snuck another look from a different angle, and her blood turned to icy sludge in her veins.

In the center of the witch grove, Rose slumped on her knees. She was still in her Regency-era gown, appearing all too similar to a fancy version of Snow White at the mercy of the Huntsman. A hooded figure in a stag mask stood before her with a hand clutching each side of her confused face. His forearms were bare, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, and strange bluish-green markings writhed on his skin like snakes. They slithered down his arms to plunge into Rose’s temple and neck, seemingly extracting orbs of green light and gulping them away.

“He’s draining her,” Lilac gasped, starting forward. “He’s stealing away her magic!”

To her surprise, Boar caught her around the middle and hauled her back, but not for the reason she thought.

“Look at those runes.” He pointed to what looked like scratch marks in the bark, except they were all the same and held none of the precision Aunt Forsythia had instilled in them. These looked like they’d been hacked into the trees with a dull knife.

Boar began to shake, not from fear, but from rage. “We can’t go in there. Those runes are nullifiers—we won’t be able to use our magic. It’s how he’s keeping her subdued, powerless against him.”

“That and she doesn’t even want to,” Lilac said bitterly. “Because of me.”

“I can risk it,” he said, wetting his lips. “Even without my magic—”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course you could take him in a physical fight, but he has magic and you won’t. He won’t play fair. I’ve only got enough magic for one more spell, so we’ll need someone who can wield. If anyone goes in to distract him or whatever, it’s me.”

In a blur of golden-white, the wolf launched himself into the witch grove.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The wolf and the man would never let their mate sacrifice herself, not even for her own sister. The very thought—

Allen tamped it down. Entered the calm, cold place he went to when nothing else mattered but the mission and the people he loved.

An invisible film passed over his fur as he entered the grove, but the runes Boar was so cautious of had no effect. A different assault awaited him.

He could hear everything again: Rose’s muted, confused whimpers, the magic thief’s excited breathing, the hissing of those nefarious vines sucking away Rose’s magic. He smelled sweat and tree sap and virgin snow and that fresh green grass that had no business in this wintery wonderland. It was disorienting, everything seeming so sharp and intense in this grove, but he tamped down all the extraneous distractions and charged at his ward’s kidnapper.

The magic thief’s head jerked up, the stag antlers slashing through the air. Rose didn’t move, compelled to remain on her knees. She cried out in pain as he tore one hand free of her face and thrust his ivy-like vines at the wolf.

The wolf rolled out of the way, the vines snapping overhead, and came flying out of the snow like a fanged nightmare. The magic thief released Rose entirely, the Hawthorne witch collapsing on her hands and knees. Vines and bursts of magic like hand grenades tangled and detonated, but the wolf was too quick. He dodged and feinted, nothing more than a golden blur, and the magic thief ripped off his mask to better see his opponent.

Darren Morton!

The wolf clamped onto the man’s upraised forearm, sinking his teeth in deep.

A fist wreathed in blue-green light slammed into his ribs.

And did absolutely nothing.

With a snarl, the wolf shook his head like he was trying to snap the neck of a rat he’d caught, dislocating Darren’s shoulder. The magic thief screamed, ramming blow after blow at the wolf. But the Nemean hide was impervious, unbreakable, tougher than Kevlar. The wolf bit down even harder.