Wicked Wings (Lizzie Grace 5)

I glanced down at the bracelet of wild magic. It was obviously the connection, but the fact it had obeyed Katie suggested the spell that had been cast to make her part of the younger wellspring’s magic was now affecting the main one—something else that shouldn’t have been possible given spells normally died when the caster did.

Except this spell was cast in the presence of wild magic, came Belle’s thought. It’s also possible Gabe always intended her to be able to command both wellsprings. He did foresee she was meant to be this reservation’s guardian, remember.

It would have taken one hell of a spell to do something like that.

The spell did blow him apart, she said. And very few are capable of that.

The wisp of Katie’s energy released me and spun back toward the trees. I flexed my fingers and then followed as bid. Leaves crunched under every step, and nearby shrubs rustled as small animals skittered away. I hoped like hell none of them were snakes; they weren’t generally active at night, but the weather had been warm enough lately to stir them. I kept half an eye on the ground, just in case.

After several more minutes, we came into a small clearing. A semicircular mound of rocks and dirt taller than me dominated the area to my left; on the top of this a number of large tree branches had fallen, and in such a way that they formed a roof over the rocks to create a cave.

I had no sense of anything untoward, so why on earth had I been led here?

A little confused, I walked across to the cave—and almost immediately gagged. The emanating stench was one of dead meat combined with the sickly sweetness that sometimes came with cheap perfume. I shoved a hand over my nose and stuck to breathing through my mouth. Then, fearing what I was about to find, I squatted down and shone the flashlight’s beam in.

The cave was deeper than it looked and would have fit at least several kneeling people inside. The dry grass had been flattened, suggesting something—or someone—had been using it as a den, but the ground was too dry to hold any prints. There were a few bones scattered about, but the puffs of gray fur and dried bits of leathery-looking tail ends suggested they belonged to either rabbits or bush rats. A fox must have set up home here; it certainly wouldn’t have been a werewolf, as they didn’t hunt within the reservation—not in wolf form anyway. According to Aiden, it simply wasn’t worth the risk, given the reservation depended on tourism to survive. Rumors of wolves on hunting sprees would be the quickest way known to kill that. They might have become an accepted part of the world’s fabric a very long time ago, but old fears still ran deep in many sections of society.

And yet, despite all that, I did have to wonder if his statement was the absolute truth, given how fiercely the three packs here guarded their compound boundaries. No humans were allowed within them—not without permission from the pack’s alphas, anyway—and even then, there had to be a major crisis for ingress to be allowed.

Despite the fact I was going out with Aiden, I’d only gone inside the O’Connor compound twice—once to help Ashworth protect the wellspring, and once to save him from the dark witch who’d been determined to claim the wellspring for his own. We had crossed the boundary edges over the course of other investigations, but that was it. I’d never met Aiden’s parents or—Ciara aside—any of his siblings. I wasn’t ever likely to, either; I was a fun time, not a long time, as far as Aiden and his kin were concerned.

I ignored the ache that rose and studied the cave for a few seconds longer, looking for but not finding the source of the putrid scent.

In the end, I gave up and instead walked around the rocks to see what else was here. There had to be something—I doubted Katie would have led me so far off the track just to show me rabbit and rat remains.

And I was right; the rock on the opposite side of the mound was not only stained with blood, but had feathers lying at its base. Those feathers looked exactly like the ones we’d found earlier this evening.

A fox wasn’t the only one who’d been using these rocks for a lair.

My gaze jerked toward the trees—a ridiculous reaction, given that even if the shifter was watching me, I wasn’t likely to spot her. But the evil I’d felt earlier no longer stained the air, and while that was no guarantee I was alone, it nevertheless released some of the tension.

I returned my gaze to the rock. The blood had to belong to the shifter, because surely there would have been at least some scraps of skin and bone if it had come from her prey. But if she’d been seriously injured when the magical blow had thrown her so badly off course, why hadn’t she shifted to human form and healed herself? Why had she moved from there to here in order to bleed and shed more feathers? That made no sense.

Unless the magic that blew her off course also somehow restricted her ability to shift out of bird form, came Belle’s thought.

My gaze rose to the trees I’d come out of. You feel close.

That’s because we are. I told Monty the wild magic had come to fetch you, and he immediately wanted to see what you’d found.

He’s on crutches.

He is indeed, and tripping over every tree root and rock there is to find. A mix of amusement and annoyance ran through her mental tone.

If he’s not careful, he’ll break his other leg.

I did mention that. He scoffed at my lack of faith in his balance.

I snorted. I’m surprised he hasn’t used some sort of transport spell to make things easier.

He said they’re physically draining and aren’t good over long distances. He didn’t want to risk exerting himself too much when he might need all his strength later.

He’s not exactly conserving strength crutching his way through scrub.

I also mentioned that. He gave me a disapproving look and told me to get a move on.

I chuckled softly and held a hand above the pile of feathers. The magic emanating from them didn’t quite have the same feel as the other feathers we’d found, suggesting my initial guess was wrong and that these feathers actually belonged to one of the other shifters. The caress of magic was also much stronger, but only, I suspected, because it was fresher. That meant we might have better luck using them to track the shifter down.

The sound of twigs snapping had me looking up again. A violent curse and then a laugh that was only half swallowed followed.