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Sable
Elder Patrice and her team of scouts return by mid-morning the next day with more information on the witches’ bunker. Turns out, Lawson knew exactly what he was talking about.
While the recon team chose not to climb the mountain for a better vantage point, since that would’ve gotten them too close and taken too much time, they were able to pinpoint a strange anomaly on the side of the mountain facing away from the interior range. Using their accounts, we spend the better part of the day compiling a full report on the area surrounding Wolfsbane Mountain. Terrain, obstacles, prime cover, vulnerable zones—all of it is mapped out and analyzed.
We’re able to bring in a few other people from all three packs for deeper descriptions too. Even though many have never climbed Wolfsbane Mountain and didn’t even know what it was called, we find a couple other shifters who have visited the little town of Anatoly and seen part of the mountain range. The interviews are tedious, and the act of drawing out their descriptions is painstaking, but every shifter we bring in is able to help us paint a better picture of Wolfsbane Mountain and the hidden bunker.
The whole day is consumed by our work, but I know it’s important to have a good idea of what we’re going to be walking into.
We need to know places where we can use the terrain to our advantage, or places where we might hide our forces and have backup on standby. There’s no way we can over-plan for this situation. They say when preparing for a disaster, you’ll feel like you’re doing too much; but looking back after the dust settles, you’ll think you didn’t do enough. So over-preparation seems the best option.
We return to Archer’s house in the late evening, and I’m so exhausted that my head is spinning. I feel like I’m drowning in Wolfsbane Mountain, like I’m going to still be thinking about it in my sleep. We eat a dinner of cold leftovers, all of us too tired to make something fresh or hot, then we file into the bedroom. I
crawl into bed, and my men pile around me, skin touching, limbs curled over each other in a big pile like always. And within seconds, I’m sound asleep.
I dream I’m in Clint’s basement.
I recognize the dim room immediately, since it’s the scene of every childhood horror I knew. The halogen lamp over his workbench is on, buzzing faintly from the flow of electricity, and the tabletop beneath it shines rusty with dried blood. The room where he used to lock me up is closed off, and the television in the corner is on, though the screen shows nothing but silent white noise.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps on the stairs, and I start to shake. It’s such an ingrained feeling. I know, since I’m in Clint’s basement, that it must be him coming down the stairs, and usually, that didn’t bode well for me. But I’m rooted to the floor, my feet like concrete and my fear a vicious, palpable thing.
I can’t run.
But the man who steps off the staircase and into the main room isn’t Clint. The halogen lamp glints off flaxen hair, and moss-green eyes flash around the room in confusion before they land on me.
It’s Archer.
He looks as surprised as I feel, his mouth dropping open slightly as his eyes widen. Relief floods me in a cool rush, and I dart across the room and throw myself into his arms, so fucking glad to see him I could cry.
He squeezes me, his hands rubbing lightly over my back. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he murmurs softly. “I’m here. No one can hurt you.”
I pull away and catch his gaze, my brows drawing together. “You know what this place is?”
“Of course. We rescued you from here, although…” He trails off, his gaze more assessing now as it sweeps the basement. “It looks a little different.”
“It’s… a memory,” I tell him, trying to see the room through his eyes. “This is how it was when I was growing up. Not the most current reality.”
Pain tightens the corners of his eyes, and he reaches out to draw me back into his embrace. I feel calmer in his arms, like the first eighteen years of my life were just a bad dream, something that never really happened. His warm touch reminds me that when I wake up, I’ll find him and my three other mates waiting for me, ready to protect me and care for me.
Then another set of footsteps starts down the stairs. This time, I know it’s Clint. I recognize his gait—it was ingrained in my memory over the years I lived in his house.
I glance at the stairs, then look up at Archer, my heart hammering. I don’t want him to see Clint or to see what happens next. That part of my life is over. It’s history, and Archer is the future.
We have to get out of here.
I latch onto his arm and draw on my magic, pulling it up from deep within myself as easily as breathing. My scars turn black, and smoke seeps from my fingertips to billow around us until the basement is completely obscured. Everything spins and whirls, and then we plummet down a long, dark hallway in my mind. I’m not sure exactly what I’m doing, but I’m desperate to get us away from that place. I treat the dream like astral travel, building a tunnel in my consciousness and carrying us away.
We land on slippery ground in a dark, cold space. I stumble but don’t lose my footing, although the same can’t be said for Archer, who definitely wasn’t expecting to be spirited from one place to the next.
Straightening, I look around to see what new dream I’ve conjured up, and I realize it’s not a dream at all.
It’s the cave.
The cave on the astral plane where I meet with Cleo—only she’s not here. It’s just me and Archer.
Shock floods over me like a deluge of cold water.
My breath hitches, and suddenly, I’m being pulled through space again, drawn through the ether so fast it makes me dizzy.
