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“Who are you? What are you doing here?” the man in front of the small circle barks.
“I’m Sera, this is my sister, Sloane. We heard a woman calling for help.”
“What woman?” a second man asks.
“Ahhh,” I stutter, searching. “She was here a few minutes ago. Said her name was Delaney.”
“No one by that name belongs to our pack.”
“Pack?” Sloane asks as the man’s eyes widen. His leader’s jaw tenses as he glares at him. “Wolf?”
The leader’s eyes bounce between us, probably trying to determine if we’re to be trusted. He nods. “You as well? Your scent is muddled.”
“Ah, no.” Sloane chuckles and shakes her head. “We’re witches.”
The three men exchange questionable looks, the third man stepping closer, sniffling Sloane.
“Excuse you, ever heard of personal space?” She sneers.
“This one’s claimed.” The stranger turns his nose up as he steps back from Sloane.
My sister looks at me, dark eyebrows like harsh slashes above her wide eyes. Oh shit, he can sense that?
“The fuck I am,” she spits out.
“You reek of your mate. His stink is all over you.”
Sloane’s jaw hangs open as her fists clench at her sides, and I can see her leg tense as she fights not to stamp against the ground in protest. “I do not stink. What are you even talking about?”
“She fights the bond.”
“You’re familiar with bonds between other supernaturals? Not just wolves and vamps?” I ask.
He gives a non-committal wave of his head. “Bonds between vampires and humans are common, less so for wolves and humans. We’ve only had one wolf and witch bond in our pack, decades ago. There’s definitely a wolf sniffing around you, making sure others know you’re spoken for. No mark, though,” he says, studying the exposed skin at Sloane’s chest and neck.
“Rowan.” Sloane seethes. “That mangy mutt.”
“Rowan? Rowan Aster?” the leader questions.
“She’s the alpha’s mate,” another guy hisses.
“Apologies, Luna.” All three men take a step back while dipping their heads. “Is there anything we can help you with?”
Sloane’s wide eyes ping-pong between me and the men. “I have a fuck ton of questions you can answer.”
“Later.” I squeeze Sloane’s wrist. “The woman from before. Delaney. You’re saying you don’t know her at all?”
“What did she look like?” The woman steps forward.
“Mid to late twenties. Tall. Fit. She had dark red curls, tawny skin. Wore a gold pendant with a symbol on it. It was like a seeing eye on an anchor. I saw her first in a premonition, that’s what brought us here.”
One of the men steps away, snatching a piece of paper and pen from the desk to sketch something out.
“That symbol. Did it look like this?” He holds up the paper with a drawing of what looks like an anchor but with a thick base, more like the head of a hammer. An eye is drawn at the top of the handle.
“Yes.” I take the drawing from him, studying it closer. “What is this?”
“The mark of hunters,” he says. “They slay supernatural beings. Kleo, is anything missing?” He turns to the woman.
