Moving like a single unit, they all step closer. Archer nods, and Ridge nudges my side, urging me forward.
Trap or not, Gwen is my only hope.
At the very least, I have my four shifters by my side in case anything goes wrong.
With that knowledge helping me cling to my last shred of hope, I lead the way into the witch’s cabin.
16
Sable
I don’t have any expectations of what a witch’s home should look like, but the moment I set foot inside the small cabin, I know I’ve stepped into a place of magic.
Bundles of dried herbs hang from the rafters, creating a forest of fragrant leaves that spreads out over the room. Some of them hang low enough that I have to brush away long branches of sage and rosemary with my fingers as I head toward Gwen.
A small fire burns in the hearth, making the cabin feel stiflingly warm and intensifying the herbal scent. The mantel above the stone fireplace is laden with a number of glass jars full of strange liquids and other things I don’t even want to guess at.
The cabin is simple enough that it’s just one big room with two doors, and Gwen’s small bed sits in one corner, the blankets neatly made up and a number of quilted pillows perched against the headboard. Other than the bed, there’s a storage chest and an armoire, plus a small kitchenette area equipped with a wood stove, a hand-pump sink, and a kitchen table with three chairs.
But much more interesting than the rustic mountain atmosphere of the place are the sigils.
There’s evidence of magic all around Gwen’s home. I notice sigils painted on the walls and floors, black marks on the furniture, and little bits of black smoke twisting lazily in the hazy air. My skin runs cold as I watch my mates pad softly through the room, too close to the black smoke for my comfort, but the wafting magic doesn’t seem to care about their presence. My men eye the smoke warily, hackles raised as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing happens.
Even as terrifying as it is to see so much witch magic everywhere, as ingrained in this cabin as the trees that built it, something about it feels familiar too. As if an entire half of my soul recognizes the witch magic as an ally, making it feel almost comfortable to be around it.
Reaching down, I slide my fingers into Ridge’s thick fur, and he follows me across the floor of the cabin without a sound. None of my men shift to human form, which makes sense. Even though those forms would be less of a threat to Gwen, they want to stay in their strongest forms, ready to attack if the witch puts even one toe out of line. I know that being in this cabin surrounded by witch magic goes against every instinct my mates have, and I’m infinitely grateful they came with me.
As Ridge said the night I ran off on my own, they’ll follow me even if I walk through hell.
I halt just beyond the kitchen table. It too is covered in black sigils that seem to waver with smoke when I look at them sideways. My heart thunders in my chest, and as if he can sense my rapid pulse, Ridge leans closer to me.
Gwen slides a thick copper kettle into the flames in the fireplace. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
She looks up from behind her curtain of red hair, an amused smile crossing her face. “I wouldn’t poison you, wolf witch. It’s not my style.” She straightens and pulled two mugs from the dish drainer on the counter behind her. “I promise you sanctuary while you are here in my home.”
Ridge nudges me with his nose, then glances pointedly at the kitchen table with his eerily human eyes. It’s clear he wants me to sit down and start a dialogue with Gwen.
His silent encouragement helps, but I’m still scared. As much as I want this, as much as I fought for it, I’m afraid of what will happen next. Whether she helps me or not, I have a feeling that nothing will be the same from this moment on.
But I nod and walk forward, choosing the seat farthest from the fire.
Gwen watches the flames lick at the bottom of the kettle as she says, “Sable, you said your name was?”
I nod, but she
isn’t looking at me. The flames reflect off her green eyes as if they live inside her. “Yes,” I say. “My name is Sable.”
“It’s an animal, you know. The sable. Cute little fluffy thing, looks kind of like a cross between a fox and a ferret. The fur is a precious commodity in Russia, used to make sable fur coats that can net a hundred thousand dollars, easily. A symbol of status.” Gwen scoffs and tosses me a look. “They’re commercially farmed, you know. Sables. The Russians breed and raise them only to slaughter them and make a profit off their beautiful coats.”
I don’t know why she’s bringing this up. Is bringing up this atrocity against animals her version of small talk? Maybe she’s been alone too long and lacks normal people skills. But something about the way she said “breed and raise them only to slaughter them” sends a chill down my spine. I think of Clint, spilling his life’s blood onto the ground even as he congratulated himself on a job well done. On breeding me from a wolf and a witch. Boasting how I was to be his great weapon.
“That’s horrific,” I murmur, though what I really want to say is, I empathize with the sables.
“It is.” Gwen snatches a pot holder off the mantel and reaches into the fireplace to remove the copper kettle. Then she turns to the counter and fills both mugs with steaming water. “Humans are the cruelest race on this planet.”
I nod emphatically. “You and I agree on that point.”