“What does it matter?” the woman asked.
Ox shook his head. “That’s not what I asked. What are your names?”
A man shoved the woman to the side, a scowl on his face. “I’m fucking sick of this. I don’t give a shit what Alpha Hughes said. I’m going to end this—”
“How many are you?” I asked.
The man narrowed his eyes at me. “What?”
“Around Green Creek. I mean, you guys have us surrounded, right? How many witches? You four. Is there another dozen? Two dozen?”
“Thirty of us,” the man said, a nasty smile on his face. “Spread around the perimeter of your territory. All volunteers. They couldn’t wait to come here. Nothing gets in and nothing gets out.”
“Dale?”
He rolled his eyes. “His work was done. He fucked your mate, didn’t he? Wasn’t needed anymore. Ran back to Alpha Hughes like the good little lapdog.”
Oh, I was going to enjoy this. “And you won’t leave? Like, leave right now. Turn around and walk away. Any of you.”
He bristled at that. “Of course not. Why the fuck would we do that?”
I whistled lowly. “That’s going to be a blow. There aren’t many witches left that I know of. Ah well. We’ll make do somehow.”
“What the hell are you talking about—”
“I am going to give you one last chance,” Ox growled. “What. Are. Your. Names.”
The man in front spat on the ground at the Alpha’s feet.
That was the wrong move.
All I felt was packpackpack, but it was so much bigger than it’d been before.
So much angrier.
So much more violet.
“In a minute,” Ox said, and I’d never heard him speak so coldly, “there’s going to be yelling. Probably some screaming. Things are going to get confusing. Blood will be spilled. I want you to remember something for me when that happens. All I wanted to know was your names.”
The woman said, “Look. Oh my god, look.”
I followed her trembling finger.
She was pointing at the wolves behind us. They stood in a row, almost shoulder to shoulder. Joe was the farthest left, teeth bared. Elizabeth was on the right, and her ears were flat against her head.
And between them were Mark and Carter, eyes Omega-bright.
Behind them, the feral timber wolf prowled back and forth, dwarfing them all.
“They’re feral,” one of the men said. “They’ve already turned. How are they not—”
The woman stepped forward. The wards burst brightly as she neared. The echoing ping stretched far down either side of us. She was sending a warning. That was okay. It was already too late. They just didn’t know it yet. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Why aren’t they attacking you? That’s not possible. They’re Omegas. They’re monsters.” She looked at Ox, eyes wide and wet, like she knew it was almost the end. Her voice broke. “How are you doing this?”
“I am Oxnard Matheson,” he told her. “I am the Alpha to the Bennett pack, like my father before me.” His eyes began to glow. Red and violet. “And I am the Alpha of the Omegas.”
The witches took a step back.
They should have told Ox their names.