Dark Wolf (Claimed by Wolves 3)

Let’s go, Ridge says, drawing in close to Archer. Trystan, take point. Dare, behind him.

His tendency to take the lead used to drive me crazy, until I figured out it’s just how Ridge operates. If he sees a path, he tells us to take it—not because he thinks he’s our alpha, but just because his brain works quickly on a strategic level. Since I have a tendency to leap before I look, I appreciate his quick-thinking.

I trot forward quickly and lead the group forward. Cliffs rise on all sides, boxing us in, though the small clearing ahead of us gives us a little bit of visibility. The valley is small and flat, filled with swaying wildflowers and a few medium-sized boulders. There aren’t many places for a potential attacker to hide, but I don’t like the way the cliffs hover over us. We’re vulnerable here.

Tension hangs heavy over us all.

I glance back to see that Dare’s hackles are raised, and Archer is panting, a physical manifestation of his anxiety. Sable walks between Ridge and Archer in her human form, her gaze darting around as if she’s trying to look everywhere at once.

But it doesn’t matter.

When the attack comes, none of us see it coming.

Out of the open, empty space ahead of us—out of thin fucking air—magic comes hurtling for us.

14

Sable

The space around us seems to crackle with power. I feel the magic coming before I see it, but I’m not fast enough to stop it. I’m still getting used to the feeling of magic in the air, to the way it calls to my own power and sets it humming beneath my skin.

So my reaction time is shoddy, to say the least.

Black smoke shoots past my line of sight like a whip cracking, and several spiky tendrils hit Trystan in the hip. He yips in pain, a sound that sends terror surging through my heart, and his back legs give out beneath him. He trips sideways and sinks onto his back haunches, whining and growling.

My heart drops into my stomach, and I leap forward, desperately rifling through the sigils I learned from Archer.

They’re really all I know, which unfortunately means I don’t know much. The ones I do know have been practiced relentlessly, over and over, until I could recall those sigils in my sleep. But faced with a very real threat, I freeze. Suddenly, I’m useless. Every sigil I ever studied, every sigil I ever drew on the floor or in the air during Archer’s training sessions—they’re all gone like I opened a window in my mind and set them free.

That is, until another black tendril strikes out at us. It misses, but not by much. The static of it in the air raises all the tiny hairs on my neck.

Determination to protect my mates surges inside me. Something in my mind snaps into place, drawing me out of my momentary stupor. I desperately work to recall a defensive spell Archer showed me. The strong, black strokes of the sigil are right there on the edges my mind, hazy and nearly unrecognizable.

For a split second, I’m not sure I can remember its exact shape. I’m terrified I’ll draw the wrong sigil and blow us all up because of my ineptitude. But I can’t consider that right now, as Archer ducks another smoky missile and the energy slams into the dirt, sending a cascade of debris into the air.

I duck and cover my head with my hands as dirt and rock rain down. Then I throw myself between the magic and my mates—or at least where I think the magic is coming from, up the side of a nearby hill—and etch out what I hope is the right sigil. If not, I guess I’m about to find out just how badly I can screw this all up.

Oh, thank fuck.

A dim, gauzy black barrier forms between me and the unseen attacker just in time for another spell to race across the plain. The witch’s magic slams into my shield and dissipates on contact as my barrier renders it useless. But my spell is so weak that my shield shatters beneath the force of the magic, leaving us open to attack once again.

Meanwhile, Trystan has had the time he needs to get to his feet, and he stands next to Ridge. I’m relieved to see him upright, even if he’s favoring his back legs. The two of them scent the air like they might be able to smell the witch, even though I’m sure whoever’s attacking us has thought of that and taken the necessary precautions.

&nb

sp; Then Dare howls. The keening, wordless noise is full of anger and frustration, and as the sound dies in the air, he takes off running. His dark form streaks toward the point where the magic seems to be coming from, as if he’s going to track down the witch and make them pay.

“No!” I bolt forward, tearing past Archer, who’s checking over Trystan’s hind end where he got hit by the magic. I can’t see any wounds or blood, which makes me think the witch’s magic attacked him on the inside—and that’s utterly terrifying. “Dare, no! You can’t leave the range of my magic!”

Another blast of power echoes through the valley, and I whip around to see it coming from an entirely different place. I etch my sigil once more and take the full brunt of the blow. At least this time, my shield doesn’t immediately fall. It wavers tenuously for a second before collapsing.

It’s barely an improvement, but I’ll take it.

All four of my mates take up positions around me, snarling and snapping at the air as they survey the hills around us. Their hackles are up, and it isn’t hard to guess what they’re thinking and feeling—the magic is coming from all around us. From everywhere and nowhere all at once. How can we fight an enemy we can’t see? Especially my shifter mates, who depend on physical strength and prowess.

You can’t tear a ghost limb from limb.

So it’s up to me to do something. I’m the only one who can fight magic with magic.