Page 83 of A Wolf for Winter

“Don’t kill him,” Boar shouted. “We need to interrogate him!”

“Get him out of the grove,” a melodious voice called out in a panic. His woman.

A wolf always listened to his mate.

Darren howled as the wolf—not gently—hauled him towards the ring of runed trees.

Then he was hit from behind.

“Get away from my juicy hot hunk of mountain man!” Rose screamed at him.

The wolf grunted, surprised, and attempted to shake her off without hurting her. The witch railed against him, each blow like the kiss of a butterfly—until she punched him in the eye.

Damn scrappy witch!

He released the magic thief with a howl and shoved Rose away from him with a jab of his large muzzle. Rose sailed through the air and landed on her butt with an audible “Oof!” before cursing him, his mother, and his entire family tree. Boar lurched forward and snatched the edge of her dress, dragging her back literally kicking and screaming. Darren scuttled away, scrambling upright, and then the brute of a man had Allen in a headlock.

The wolf yelped and thrashed, trying to dislodge him, but Darren’s lock was iron, reinforced with magic. He was using his own dislocated arm to band around the wolf’s throat, squeezing it tight with his good hand. The man seemed to have forgotten his previous pain, or maybe he was just determined to leave the grove alive. Bluish-green vines anchored Darren’s legs to the ground, preventing him from being tossed or wrenched around no matter how violently the wolf fought to free himself.

The wolf realized he was running out of air.

Exhausted and fighting for breath, the wolf turned his gaze towards his mate, wishing for one last look of the woman he loved.

She wasn’t looking at him. She was with her siblings, both of them, all three Hawthornes safe outside the witch grove. Good. That was good.

His vision blurred even as he dug his nails into the magic thief’s thigh and tried to shove free of the choke hold. He lunged for Darren’s face, his ribs, his legs, but his teeth snapped only air.

Dimly, he was aware of the grove growing colder. A wind sprang up, but from the outside of the grove, snow whipping up and turning a strange pale green. Chanting laced the wind, and the wolf caught sight of the three Hawthornes with linked hands and glowing green eyes.

“By the Power of Three, let us decree:

Wind of the wilds, run fast and free.

Strip the evil of this land and tree.”

The trees cracked, bending in the unnatural wind, the forest beyond a churning blur of white-green. Bark tore from the trunks, flecking the blur with brown and black and reminding the wolf of mint chocolate chip ice cream. There was so much howling, from the wind and the man choking him to death, that it all sounded like the rush of a waterfall in his ears.

In seconds, the symmetrical ring of trees creating the witch grove was completely stripped of bark. The trees all leaned drunkenly to their sides, their roots resisting the pull of the Hawthornes’ spell. The witches continued to chant, locked in their circle, impervious to the wind they conjured. Balls of green light—pure magic—bashed into each tree as they orbited the grove, adding kindling to the bark in the maelstrom.

Suddenly, a tree snapped. Its trunk and canopy were whisked away and pulverized to wood pulp in the wind. The strange intensity of the grove immediately lessened. Another tree followed the first, and then the entire grove was exploding with violent pops. In a matter of seconds, only stumps remained, and the power of the witch grove was gone.

Then a branch like a javelin speared through the air into Darren’s wounded shoulder.

The magic thief screamed, his grip slackening.

The wolf twisted away, staggering on shaky legs and sucking in deep, ragged breaths. He blinked once, twice, registering three hazy figures rushing forward. The night was dark again, pinpricked with stars instead of a swirl of white-green light. The fresh scent of spray off a spring-fueled waterfall filled his nostrils, even in the midst of winter, and warm hands cupped his face.

Behind them, the wolf heard a foot connecting with a chest and the magic thief shrieking as he toppled backwards on the branch sticking out of his shoulder. The wolf was momentarily concerned, but then his mate was tenderly stroking his fur and murmuring his name. She wouldn’t be doing that if they were still in danger. He leaned into her touch, rumbling happily.

The smell of nutmeg and mushroom joined them presently. From the cadence of her step, and the fact that she wasn’t attacking him anymore, it seemed the youngest Hawthorne had recovered from her dose of love potion.

“Eww, sorry about your eye, Allen,” Rose apologized. “But sorta the least of your problems, right? I mean, you’re a wolf in Hawthorne territory. Ballsy move, but still kinda stupid, don’t you think?” Rose slugged him in the shoulder, making him stumble. He still wasn’t fully recovered. The magic Darren Morton wielded had been intense. “Don’t worry; they won’t hear it from me.”

“Ladies,” came Boar’s curt command. From the tone of his voice, his love potion had worn off too.

The two women left him to swivel around on his own and blink clear the last of the haze from his golden eyes. Darren Morton was on his knees, the branch still sticking out of his shoulder. He still had command over those strange markings on his skin, and the Hawthornes bickered amongst themselves about what they should do with him even as they restrained them.

Lilac sliced her hand through the air. “Enough! Hold him still.”