Page 6 of Crimson Moon Falling

“Stay here.” Freda turned off the vehicle and checked her sidearm. I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off. “It’s standard procedure. Bennion and I clear the perimeter and house, and you stay put until we say otherwise.”

The coldness inside me sharpened, dissipating my annoyance. “Alright.”

Gunnar opened his door. “I’ll check the yard and that shed,” he grunted, nodding toward a tilting structure about fifteen yards from the main cabin.

They exited the vehicle in formation, Freda scanning the tree line, Bennion moving toward the rear of the cabin, and Gunnar heading to the shed. My gaze drifted back to the line of skulls marking the driveway. They weren’t randomly placed, but formed a perfect boundary around the property.

A protection circle? The idea surfaced unexpectedly. Mary, my mentor, taught me about various warding methods used by different practitioners. Some used salt, others iron filings or carved symbols. Animal remains were less common but powerful for certain types of boundaries, especially in Slavic countries.

I closed my eyes and reached out, letting my energy expand beyond the vehicle. The defensive vibrations I’d sensed earlier became more distinct, and felt like an invisible net that had been cast over the entire property. Whoever had created this barrier knew what they were doing.

My thoughts circled back to the connection between Viggo and my father. What had they discussed over those maps all those years ago? Were they tracking something or someone? Or maybe a place?

Memories floated just beyond reach, tantalizing but incomplete. I was young when my father disappeared, and grief had a way of warping reality. But I remembered Viggo’s voice, gruff and low, like he had a throat full of gravel. My father sometimes nodded at whatever he said, their conversation hushed and urgent.

Freda approached the front door of the cabin and knocked sharply. The loud sound boomed in the still morning air.

No one answered. She knocked again, louder this time.

Gunnar returned from the shed, shaking his massive head. “Nothing but tools and fishing gear.”

I watched the trio converge on the porch, discussing something I couldn’t hear. I was perfectly capable of defending myself. I’d been doing it long before I became anyone’s Mate.

The coldness inside me shifted. It always seemed worse when I felt trapped or powerless. Through the windshield, I noticed something odd about the cabin’s windows. They reflected the morning light strangely, as if something more than just glass were embedded in the frames. I squinted, trying to get a better look. Faint but unmistakable symbols had been etched into the glass.

Bennion returned to the SUV while Freda and Gunnar continued examining the cabin’s exterior. He opened my door, his expression grim.

“No signs of forced entry, but no answer either. Place feels empty. Gunnar wants to try the door, see if it’s unlocked.”

I nodded and scooted over to exit the vehicle, but Bennion held up his hand. “Not yet. We’re still assessing.”

Frustration bubbled up again. “I’m conducting this investigation, Bennion. I need to get out to do that.”

“And it’s my job to keep you alive while you do it.”

I sank back into the seat as a rumble came from the gravel road, followed by a rising cloud of dust. A vehicle was approaching.

Automatically, I reached for the sidearm holstered beneath my jacket and stepped out, ignoring Bennion’s hissed protest.

“Stay in the vehicle,” he grumbled.

“I’m a sitting duck in there.”

Freda and Gunnar both turned toward the sound, instantly alert. Bennion moved closer to the SUV, his stance shifting. An ancient Jeep Wagoneer emerged from the dust cloud, its unique brown paint chipped and faded, with patches of rust beneath. It came to a jerky stop about ten feet from our SUV.

A woman with flowing snow-white hair framing her sharp, lined face sat behind the wheel. She had high cheekbones and lush lips, but it was her eyes that drew me. Her irises were pitch-black, seeming to absorb the light. She stared right at me.

Beside her, sitting upright in the passenger seat, was one of the largest domestic cats I’d ever seen. Its tawny, spotted coat and bobbed tail made it look more like a wildcat than a house pet. The animal’s intelligent, amber eyes fixated on me with uncanny focus.

When the woman stepped out, a familiar energy radiated from her. It washed over my skin like static electricity before a storm. The astringent scent of witch hazel hit me, reminding me of my former landlord. The cat climbed out and sat at her feet.

This woman possessed that same wild, primal power linked to herbs and earth magic, along with blood rites under the moon. She was a witch, or maybe a vedma, and practiced some form of the old ways.

She wore olive pants tucked into quality boots and a flowy cream shirt beneath a crimson velvet embroidered vest. The cat walked at her side as the woman came toward us.

No one spoke as she looked over our group before settling on me. She stared as if she knew me, but the silence stretched. I sent a tendril out to read her, but she’d created some kind of static shield.

“I’m Agent Riley Blackthorne with the Investigative Services Branch, and this is my partner, Gunnar Alfson. Freda and Bennion are here for backup.”