Page 57 of His to Hunt

“I’ve never heard of Witch Hunters sitting down for a meeting. They usually don’t ask questions before they start burning people at the stake.”

“That’s how they used to operate, but I haven’t seen a Witch Hunter in decades,” Saul says. “Wolves aren’t the same as they used to be; maybe they’ve changed too.”

“They better choose their words carefully,” I say once I get to the door. “You know how the mating bond is. If they’re a threat to Taryn, they won’t leave here alive.”

“I’m aware, but there’s no reason to kill them unless we have to,” Saul cautions. “Taryn’s no witch, even if she’s descended from druids. She’s no threat to them, so hopefully they won’t be a threat to her.”

We walk into the warehouse that looks like it’s been abandoned for years. The windows are boarded up, but enough daylight slips through the gaps to cut pale lines across the dusty floor. Old pallets are stacked against one wall. Rusted metal shelves line another. The air smells like mold, old oil, mice, and human fear.

The fear is coming from a table in the center of the warehouse. Five Witch Hunters sit around it. They don’t look like the fire-worshipping zealots from old stories. There are no robes or torches. No iron cages waiting in the corner. They look more like mercenaries, dressed in dark clothing, tactical vests, and gloves. Their weapons are visible enough to be a warning, but some are hidden behind the table to be polite.

As Saul and I approach the table, I catch the scent of silver. It’s more bitter than magic and scratches the back of my throat. My wolf presses hard against my skin, ready for a fight, because that’s what silver usually means.

I’m already inventorying everything in my head. One of them has a silver-edged blade strapped across his back. Another has two pistols holstered at his sides, the rounds inside carrying the same poisonous scent. The woman at the end of the table has a short spear by her feet, the point flashing in the dim warehouse light. The youngest one keeps touching the hilt of a knife at his thigh like he’s trying to remind himself it’s there. The oldest has no visible weapon, which makes me trust him the least. I’m sure one of the ones hidden behind the table is within his reach.

I mark all of it. The exits. The rafters. The broken windows. The distance between me and each throat. Saul’s right. They could get lucky, but they’d only get one chance. All five of them would be dead before they could get off more than a few swings or shots.

The oldest man stands when we get to the table. His hair and beard are both the same shade of grey, both trimmed short. His face is lined with age, but his eyes are sharp. Too sharp for my liking. He looks at Saul first, then at me. I don’t like the way his gaze lingers, either.

“I’m Saul,” my pack leader introduces himself then extends his hand and gestures to me. “This is Victor. He’s a member of my pack.”

“Cal,” the Witch Hunter says, shaking Saul’s hand. He turns to me, but when I don’t offer a handshake, he introduces his companions. “Marty, Amy, Dale, and the kid.”

Cal smells like controlled fear. Amy is alert. The kid is excited—scared, but way too fucking cocky. Marty and Dale are just tense.

“The kid doesn’t have a name?” I growl, looking at the youngest man at the table.

“I’m just the kid,” he chuckles, smirking a little. “That’s all anybody needs to know.”

“Sure, got it,” I narrow my eyes at him and pull my chair out. “Let’s get down to business.”

Saul and I sit down. I look each one of the Witch Hunters in the eyes, watching as their fingers twitch near their weapons. The scent of their fear already gives it away; they’re terrified this will turn violent. They know the odds aren’t in their favor. Considering they’re packing silver, they’re probably quite familiar with shifters.

“I’ll admit I was rather surprised to find wolf shifters in Covington, especially an entire pack,” Cal begins. “We’re always equipped for everything and anything, there’s a reason we came here. I’m hoping we can talk this out and avoid stepping on each other’s toes.”

“That might be a little more difficult than you think,” Saul says. “Why don’t we start with you telling us why you’re in Covington.”

“That should be obvious,” Cal says. “We sensed magic in this area. Some kind of spell being cast or curse being broken. It’s our job to investigate things like this.”

“It wasn’t a curse, it was a fate-block,” I speak clearly and decisively. “I had to break it in order to find my mate.”

That’s not the entire truth, but it’ll deflect things away from Taryn. If they need a target, I’m the one they should be looking at. They won’t get anywhere near her unless they go through me first, and I’ll fight to my dying breath to protect my mate.

“A fate-block? That’s rather curious,” Amy interjects with false lightness. “The magic we sensed was druid magic. As far as I know, wolves can’t cast spells, nor do they have the power to break fate-blocks.”

“A shaman helped,” Saul explains. “As you know, fate-blocks and curses are very similar.”

“Ah, a shaman, okay,” Amy replies. “Their magic isn’t strong enough to concern us, but who cast the fate-block? It was powerful magic. As far as we know, druid magic that powerful hasn’t existed in a very long time.”

“The fate-block is older than we are,” Saul says. “It doesn’t really matter who cast it because they’re long dead.”

“No,” the kid interrupts. “You’re not telling us everything. There’s more to it.”

“You’re accusing us of lying?” I snarl, making eye contact with the kid.

“The kid can see things in your words you don’t even know are there,” Cal says. “It’s his gift.”

“If you’re not being honest with us, then we will have to continue our investigation. That means we may cross paths again. We’re here to avoid that,” Amy’s tone almost sounds like a veiled threat.