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All of the remaining witches on the battlefield freeze for a fraction of a second, shock passing over their faces.
And then they’re running.
A mass exodus of the last surviving witches flees the plain, jumping over their own dead in their haste to get away. Stumbling, shouting, grabbing at each other as they sprint down the mountain and away from the battle. Some shifters make a half-hearted attempt to stop them, but most of us just watch the coven go because we recognize what it means.
That cry was a signal. They know now that Cleo’s dead.
It’s been pretty obvious that the coven leader’s own hatred and the force of her will were what made these people hunt us and fight us. With her gone, the drive to kill shifters can’t outweigh the will to live. From what Gwen said, plenty of the coven members just went along with Cleo’s machinations out of fear of what would happen if they didn’t.
That makes them spineless cowards in my book, but it means they’re no longer a threat without her to spur them on.
Howls and yips erupt from all around the plain, and several wolves chase the last of the witches, nipping at their heels until they reach the tree line and vanish into the woods.
Amora appears in the midst of the celebrations and plops down on her haunches next to me. I can smell blood on her fur—her blood. But she’s clearly not dying, so I don’t mention it. I learned early in our friendship not to mention any weaknesses she might have, unless I wanted to get kicked in the nuts.
Sable safe? she asks, even her mind speak tone worried.
Sable is safe, I assure her. We left her on the ridge, but she’s coming down right now.
I can sense my mate traversing the steep slope, taking her time with every step so she won’t go tumbling down the mountainside. Archer’s already halfway there to help her, or else I wouldn’t still be sitting on my ass, watching the pack celebrate their victory.
Fewer of us dead this time, Amora observes.
Thankfully.
She shakes out her fur, sending little droplets of blood flying, before shooting a glance back at the stronghold. I’ll handle organizing the cleanup if the alphas want to storm the fortress.
Great plan.
She sets off, letting out a sharp, piercing howl to get the pack’s attention. I remain sitting where I am until Sable arrives, flanked by Archer, Trystan, and Dare.
I lost track of the other three alphas in the thick of the battle. I hoped like hell they were okay, trusting their skills and their intelligence to get them through this alive. But seeing them all intact and moving on their own with nothing but minor injuries sends a wave of relief surging through me.
Sable drops to her knees when she reaches me, wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her face in my fur. I can smell the witch magic she’s been using to assist us in the fight, along with the sweet scent that’s just her. I nuzzle her back, whuffing softly into her hair.
“I want to find Cleo,” she murmurs quietly. “I have to see her. I have to be sure.”
Nodding, I stand and say, Then let’s go inside.
We gather a team to go with us, then the other alphas and I walk inside first, with Sable a few steps behind us. The front doors are open, but the entryway is empty. Not even a body on the ground to indicate fighting occurred here.
The interior of the building is as silent as a tomb, but I can smell witches. Can smell their fear.
We root them out one by one as we work our way through the building. Older women and children, mostly, the same as those we left protected back home. All of them flee without a fight, and we let them go. Justice isn’t given by hurting people who don’t deserve it.
None of us expected anything different, but we find Cleo’s body in what appears to be her living quarters. Like we thought when we were making plans, she was hiding out, not even willing to fight alongside her people in the war she was responsible for.
She’s sprawled on a woven rug beside a bed, her eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling and a thin trickle of blood drying down the side of her face from her lips.
“I’ll admit,” Sable says softly, staring down at the dead witch, “I was worried that she might not actually die if we killed her in the astral realm.”
Archer’s blond wolf speaks up. The mind and body can’t exist separately. Cleo died in her mind, which translates to true death of her body as well.
Sable nods, but she doesn’t look away from Cleo’s still, slack face. A touch of sadness pinches around her eyes.
What’s wrong? I ask. We won. She won’t hurt anymore wolves.
Or anymore witches, Archer adds.
