Dark Wolf (Claimed by Wolves 3)

I don’t let go for a good, long while. Maybe it makes me seem a little desperate or clingy, but I’m just not ready to let go of this feeling yet. Not that Trystan seems to mind. He buries his face in my hair, breathing me in as his hands stroke idle patterns over my back.

Finally, he kisses me and then draws back, his turquoise eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. “I’ll take that over a goodnight kiss anytime.”

My throat tightens, emotions clogging my chest. I already miss him, and he’s still inside me.

“Trystan,” I murmur. “I know that I said I want to sleep alone… but will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

Something in his expression shifts, and he gives me a soft smile. “Of course. I’ll stay for as long as you let me.” His arms tighten around me a little. “We’re yours now, Sable. Forever. You’ll never have to face the world alone again.”

23

Sable

Trystan does just what he promises.

I fall asleep in his arms, and although I wake up the next morning alone, I feel more rested than I have in a long time.

The North and West packs arrive early, before the sun has fully crested the horizon. I manage to chug a single cup of coffee before we have to hurry out to join the gathering crowd and help get them settled in various places around the village.

Of course we chose to combine all three packs in the smallest of the three villages. In hindsight, that was probably a terrible idea.

But the East Pack steps up, every home graciously accepting entire families from the neighboring packs. We have to deal with the logistics of keeping children and the elderly safe by making sure they end up in houses that have basements where they can be sheltered during the battle.

I spend several hours carting cots, pillows, and blankets into the meetinghouse for overflow, while Ridge and Trystan do a roll call with their packs, making sure nobody is missing. If anybody chose to stay behind, they’d be in danger and without the pack to protect them, but luckily, it seems everyone is taking this threat seriously.

By mid-afternoon, everyone is settled, and the village is overflowing with a strange mixture of focused determination and nervous energy. We leave Ridge and Trystan doing their check-ins, and Archer and I lead a group of elders to the boundaries of East Pack lands to refresh the protection sigils that keep the witches out.

While I was doing manual labor, unfolding cots and making up beds, directing shifters around the meeting house and ensuring they all had what they needed, I managed to hold my mental barriers in place without too much trouble. But the moment I begin tracing sigils and using my magic to attempt to add another layer of protection to pack lands, it becomes harder to hold Cleo out.

Of course, I don’t know that she’s actively looking for me. I don’t know for sure that she even knows I exist. She could’ve thought she made up the sensation of me in her head, watching her. I can’t take the risk though.

So I grit my teeth and split my attention between keeping the barrier up in my head and strengthening the barriers on the trees.

While another contingent of shifters sets traps all around the village, a third group works on other forms of defense. Holes are dug into the land and then concealed to trap any unsuspecting witches who walk over them. Old school bear traps are set, their dangerous claws glinting in the sunlight.

No matter what, before the day is done, we’ll be ready to attack and defend.

After the last of the sigils has been set, Archer and I return to the meeting house. When the other packs came, they brought all the weapons available to them, and now an entire corner of the meeting house is stacked full of guns and knives, making it look like we’re some kind of crossover modern and medieval armory.

Amora stands next to a plastic folding table, laying out guns side by side. As she sees me come in, she waves, a tight smile crossing her pretty face. I wave back and cross the room to join her, weaving in and out between the cots and loitering shifters. Many of Ridge’s people greet me by name with smiles on their faces, and for the first time, I think maybe they don’t all hate me, the half-witch who’s ended up among them.

“Hey. Archer told me on the way over that you could use some help with sigils?” I ask as I greet Amora.

She leans across to hug me with one arm, still clutching an automatic rifle in her other hand. “Yeah, that would be great. We’re going to draw sigils on the weapons to make them stronger.”

“What kinds of sigils?”

“We only have two.” She picks up a sheet of paper from the center of the table and holds it out toward me. She taps one of the two large, black-inked sketches. “This makes the weapon more powerful. Think of it as adding a bit of oomph to the blow. We’ll use it for knives and swords or any ‘striking’ weapons. This one”—she taps the second sigil—“helps the weapon aim true and hit its target. We’ll use it on the guns.”

“How do you guys have this knowledge?” I ask, reaching for a pile of knives already waiting on the table.

“Time and luck, mainly,” she says with a shrug. “Any time we’ve faced off with witches, we’ve learned more. That’s how we learned how to set up our protective boundaries to keep them out too. I’m sure you already know that all sigils hold some power, even if they’re not infused with magic by a witch.”

I nod because I did know that. I’m tempted to try to infuse the sigils with a bit of my magic to make them true spells, but I decide against it. I don’t recognize the shapes from the book Gwen gave me, and I know the wolves probably pieced them together from several sources, so I can’t be sure they’re entirely accurate. The shapes themselves on the weapons won’t do any harm and will hopefully help, even if they’re not exact. But if I infuse an inaccurate sigil with magic, I’m not sure what would happen.

We work in silence for a few moments as I get used to the feel of the sigils. I find a rhythm and stick to it, moving each weapon from the ready pile to the done pile as I work.

“So, how’s domestic bliss?” Amora cocks an eyebrow at me, a lightly teasing tone to her voice.