Page 33 of Iced Out Mate

I was about to insist to Dylan that we turn around when the tickle behind my neck became a tight snare around my throat. I shot my hands up to grip at the vine that was closing my airway like a boa constrictor trying to snuff out the life of its prey.

“He needs to find someone,” Dylan continued speaking into the camera.

I clawed at my neck. Coughed. Kicked toward the porch. Dylan turned around and his eyes went wide. He launched toward me as more thick vines snapped down from the roof and wrapped themselves around my arms, tight around my torso, continuing to close around my throat.

“No! Stop! Help!” Dylan tore and pulled at the vines but they wouldn’t break. They’d only tighten their grip. As if angry. My vision blurred. Lungs burned. Acid hot.

“Miles!” Dylan’s face was panicked. He tried to break the vines around my neck. I could feel him trying his damndest. Could see him through the pinhole that formed my vision. I wanted to apologize to him. Never should have brought him here. Put him through this.

No words came. No breaths. No help.

A dark curtain fell over my vision as I went limp.

Chapter Fifteen

Powerless

DYLAN

Confusion froze me for a split second before fear spurred me into action. I jumped toward Miles, his eyes already bulging and red from the vines that worked to strangle him. I shouted for help. I tried desperately to pry the vines off but they kept coming, grabbing him by the arms. They began to lift him up. His feet were off the boards of the porch.

“No, no, stop! Let him go!” I managed to get my fingers between his throat and the vines. I tugged and yanked. I leaned in and shredded at it with my teeth. They weren’t sharp enough. I could turn to my wolf form but would that take too long? Would it be of any help?

His eyes were full of fear before they started to lose focus. I could see the curtain starting to draw. My heart was close to bursting. This couldn’t be happening.

I searched the porch for something, anything, that could help. A pair of scissors left out or a knife sitting on the ledge or a shovel with a sharp edge to it.

There was nothing. Just more vines falling from the roof and reaching down toward his legs.

The door to the druid’s home swung open. It slammed against the wall. “What’s going—Dylan?!”

“Help us, please, stop this!”

Hunter briefly looked from me to Miles’ unconscious body, the skin around his neck turning a bruised and stomach-wrenching purple. He said something under his breath and raised his hand, swirling it in the air then yanking it back toward his chest. There was a rush of air. The sickeningly sweet scent of blossoming roses filled my lungs. The vines eased, gently lowering Miles back onto the porch, laying him down before retreating back to their rooftop post, dangling off the edge as if nothing had happened.

I fell to Miles’ side. I grabbed his hand in mine. Cupped his cheek with my other. It took an agonizing couple of seconds but his shifter genes began to kick in. The bruise on his neck faded, turning back to his regular tan complexion. The cuts and scrapes that were all across his forearms closed, scabbed, and recovered. A straggling piece of vine had wrapped around his golden bracelet and broken off.

His eyes blinked open. They focused in on me.

“Oh fuck, thank god. Are you okay?” I asked.

He coughed and reached up for his throat. “I think so, yeah,” he said, his voice scratchy.

“I am so sorry.” It was Hunter, coming over and helping me get Miles back onto his feet. “Those are my watcher vines. They only activate when there’s a clear and present threat or some dark energy that usually comes with black magic users.”

“That’s neither of us,” I answered. “We’re both shifters, we can’t use magic like druids.”

“Yes, yes.” Hunter’s thin brown eyebrows twitched together. “They may have misread the situation. I will look into that. But for now let’s get inside and get you some water.”

“Thank you,” Miles rasped. He was already healed enough to walk on his own. I walked close to his side in case he needed some extra support. My heart still raced at about a thousand beats per minute. Adrenaline flowed through my veins like water in a raging rapid.

We entered Hunter’s cluttered home. It was like stepping into a blowout sale inside of a Michaels. There were dozens of random knickknacks and figurines with an eclectic assortment of furniture and a couple of those mass-produced watercolor cow paintings. We crossed through the living room, filled with dappled light from two arching windows. The trees pushed right up on the house, their branches scratching at the glass.

“Sit. I’ll bring water,” Hunter said as he motioned us to the large gray couch in the center of the sunken space.

Miles and I went to the couch. “You sure you’re okay?” I asked again. The adrenaline was being replaced by fear, along with another, more toxic, emotion: uselessness. If it wasn’t for Hunter, this situation could have been very different. I was powerless to help him. I was watching him die and there was nothing I could do about that.

The thought chilled me more than the residual fear.