The first spell from one of them hits my shield like a sledgehammer. The impact drives me to my knees, bone meeting stone with bruising force. But I hold. Pour everything I have intothe barrier. Think of Bast’s smile. His love. The future we almost had. The taste of freedom I barely got to know.
Another spell crashes into my shield. Cracks spiderweb across its surface like breaking ice. Sweat runs down my face as I fight to maintain it. Through the fracturing barrier, I see Brianna and Emma still running. Just a little longer. They’re almost to the stones.
My arms shake with effort. Blood runs from my nose, dripping onto marble that has absorbed so much pain over the centuries. But through the corner of my eye, I see them reach the gateway circle. See their feet touch the white stones that promise escape. See the air begin to shimmer around them as ancient magick responds to their desperation.
The third spell tears through my shields like lightning through paper. Pain explodes across my body, stealing breath, stealing thought. But as consciousness fades, I smile.
Because I know they made it. I gave them the chance I should have given Brianna years ago. And that’s worth everything.
Through the darkness claiming me, I send one last thought toward the hollow space where Bast should be—I’m sorry. I love you.
Then there is only silence and cold darkness and so much overwhelming pain.
Chapter Thirty-One
Bast O’Connor
Real Monsters
The hollow space in my chest burns with each step through Salem’s ancient streets. Where our bond should pulse with life and love, there’s only emptiness—an absence so complete it makes breathing feel like molten lead is pouring through my veins. The physical pain is almost welcome. Gives me something to focus on besides the screaming void where Bridget should be.
My wolf’s senses flood with information as we move through the shadows. The charred scent of smoke mingles with freshly cut grass and something older, darker. Magick. It hangs thick in the air here, woven into every blade of grass, every weathered cobblestone, every pristine colonial facade. Different from the magick the witches use back home. This feels controlled. Contained. Wrong.
Rachel signals us to pause in the shadow of a towering oak. Around us, our forces move like ghosts—wolves padding silent through manicured gardens, along with witches from Lawrence’s coven.
“The wards start here,” Lawrence whispers, his massive frame unnaturally still. “They’ll sense any spells we use.”
I nod, every muscle coiled tight. Through our tether—that last fragile connection to Bridget—I feel flickers of pain that make my wolf howl for blood. They’re hurting her. The knowledge burns hotter than the broken bond.
We split into smaller groups, using the neat rows of hedges and trees for cover as we close in on our target. The white colonial house rises before us, red door gleaming like fresh blood in the afternoon sun. It looks exactly like its neighbors—perfect paint, perfect shutters, perfect lies hiding years of cruelty.
Behind that perfect red door, every pulse of pain through our remaining connection feels like a knife twisting in my gut. The thought makes my wolf surge forward, claws pressing against the inside of my skin. The urge to shift—to tear through those walls with fang and claw—is almost overwhelming.
Stay focused. Stay human. For now.
Movement catches my eye. The front door flies open with enough force to rattle windows. Two women burst out, bare feet slapping against wooden steps. The first has curly red hair like the Scottish Disney princess, her nightgown torn and bloodied. Emma. The second is dark-haired, her face a mess of bruises, but the resemblance steals my breath. If her hair were longer, I might have mistaken her for Bridget. The same grace in her movements, even as she limps.
I wait a half a second, hoping, praying Bridget comes out next. But she doesn’t and I break cover, sprinting across perfectly manicured grass. “Emma!”
A third figure appears in the doorway a few seconds later, hands already weaving a spell that makes the air crackle with lethal intent. But Lawrence’s power zaps across the lawn like a lightning strike. The pursuing witch crumples mid-step, body hitting the grass with a dullthud.
My wolf snarls in satisfaction at the sound.
Emma and the other woman stumble to a stop in front of me, gasping for breath. Up close, the other woman’s resemblance is even more unmistakable—same heart-shaped face, same determined chin. One of her eyes is swollen shut, the other wide with fear and desperate hope. Plus, my wolf recognizes the scent of family—subtle notes that match Bridget’s storm-and-lavender signature.
“Brianna?” The name comes out rough.
Her good eye fills with tears as she nods. “You have to help her.” The words tumble out between sobs. “She made sure we got out. We have to go back—”
“We will.” I grip her shoulders, steadying her. “She’s alive?” The tether pulses weakly in response, but I need to hear it. Need confirmation from someone who saw her.
“Yes, but—” Brianna’s voice cracks. “She stayed behind. Made us run while she held them off. They were coming for us and she just…she wouldn’t let them take us.” Fresh tears spill down her bruised cheeks. “Please, we have to—”
Movement ripples through the perfect neighborhood. Doors slam open in unison—a choreographed attack we should have expected. I shove Brianna and Emma behind me as Court witches pour from their perfect houses, my wolf’s growl vibrating through my chest.
Rachel’s hands move in swift patterns as she deflects the first attack. Blue light shatters against her shield, spraying harmless sparks across the lawn. Behind her, our witches move with lethal precision. The sound of bodies hitting grass punctuates each flash of power.
“Get them to the cars,” I order one of Lawrence’s male witches, already scanning for the next threat. But Brianna jerks away from his reach, her heartbeat spiking with fresh fear.
