Dark Wolf (Claimed by Wolves 3)

Yelps.

Witches’ screams.

It’s all too much, pressing in on me from all sides. I want to end it. To stop it.

To fucking fix this.

My emotions have turned into a windstorm inside me. The magic churns beneath my skin, and my scars burn black. I feel like I’m lost in a panic attack, except I’m not. I’m just… wound up. Wound tight like a guitar string ready to be played.

Anger builds inside me, fury that despite all our planning, despite everything we’ve done, the witches are still tearing us apart. Power courses through my body, but I’m not in control of it. I’m not mastering it the way Gwen told me to.

But right now, I don’t care.

I just gather up every bit of magic and darkness and rage inside of myself… and I unleash it all.

The windstorm of emotions erupts from me as I throw my arms outward. Pure, unadulterated energy spirals out of me like I’m the heart of a hurricane. The blast is so powerful, it nearly knocks me off my feet.

It’s all the power and energy of the evil cloud inside me made manifest. I’m nothing but magic. I can no longer sense the ground beneath my feet or the fresh air on my skin. I can barely even sense my wolf.

All I know is magic.

All I know is black smoke, dark marks on my body, and the thrill of the power surging through me.

The wolves are still fighting around me, attacking the witches who’ve been caught off guard by the sudden torrent of magic swirling around them. I’m vaguely aware of the chaos around me, but I don’t let it distract me as I keep feeding more and more power out from my fingertips.

I hurl blast after blast at every witch I can see, my heart pounding so erratically that my chest aches. My hands shake, and it feels like the skin might be burning away from my fingertips as I open my mouth in a silent scream.

Then, off to the north, a sparkling plume of fireworks bursts into the sky. They’re magically created—I can tell by the black smoke interspersed among the dazzling sparks.

Figures race past me, some of them stumbling, some of them half carrying each other. Witches, with their faces looking hollow and terrified as they all run toward the fireworks. A cry rises throughout the village. “Retreat! Coven, retreat!”

As the witches flee, the wolves begin to howl their victory.

That keening sound finally penetrates the blank fury in my mind, and I curl my fingers, trying to cut off the flow of magic pouring out of me. It feels almost impossible at first, as if I’m nothing but a conduit for an electrical storm, a lightning rod someone placed in the middle of the village.

I lurch backward, curling in on myself as I draw my hands forcefully back toward my body.

The black smoke stops emanating from me, and I collapse onto my hands and knees, panting for breath.

“They’re running.” I croak the words out loud, even though I don’t know if anyone’s near enough to hear them.

The witches are falling back, cutting their losses and fleeing the village.

We held them off. We beat them back.

But what about the worst threat?

Cleo.

Where is she? It happened so fast, and I can barely remember parts of the fight, but I never saw anyone that struck me as the

coven leader.

Forcing myself to stand, I stumble down the street, searching the bodies on the ground and hoping one will stand out. Hoping maybe I’ll sense her as the presence on the other end of the bond.

But I don’t know what Cleo looks like, since I’ve only seen through her eyes when I’ve visited her mind.

I pray that she’s one of the slain, and the threat of our bond is over.