Filed to story: Tangled in Moonlight Unshifted Novel by Lenaleia
The words I don’t say hang heavy in the air. Every alpha faces this choice—pack or mate. The needs of many versus the call of your heart. Right now, my chest aches, but my alpha bond is yanking me forward.
There are times I can let the world burn to choose my mate, but this is not one of them.
She’s strong, Aurum reminds me. He, too, feels the pull to our pack. To those taken from us, dead and alive.
I know.
The familiar weight of command settles over my shoulders as I shift to resume the hunt, leaving that damned wheelchair behind. It doesn’t make the ache in my chest any less, but the explosion of scent at least keeps my mind busy as I trot behind my scouts, aggression pulsing through my veins.
When we find these damn bloodsuckers, I’m tearing out every one of their throats. Every vamp will burn on pyres stacked to the sky.
And whoever’s casting this dark magic on our dead—them, I’ll rip apart limb by limb.
Move out. My order rings out sharply in the pack link, and I can sense bloodthirst rising in all of them.
We’re all ready for a confrontation. We’ve spent too long hiding from our enemy.
Snow tells a story, if you know how to read it. Fresh powder covers most tracks, but beneath that pristine layer, chaos reigns. My nose brushes the ground as I follow the faintest traces, piecing together what happened here.
Multiple sets of prints. At least seven distinct patterns, but possibly more.
There’s one set that catches my attention the most. A little heavier, the stride inconsistent. Perhaps someone carrying Jericho; I can catch his scent like an afterthought.
A growl builds in my chest. Seven against one injured wolf and whoever was carrying him. The cowards.
The tracks weave between the trees. This was no casual stroll, but a run for their lives. We might not be able to differentiate the different supernatural scents saturating the trail, but the tracks have already told the story.
Here. Vester’s voice cuts through my concentration from the vanguard. Blood.
My head snaps up. Twenty feet ahead, crimson stains the snow. Not much, but enough to confirm violence. The scent is days old, muddled with vampire stench and something else. It smells like mushrooms and tree rot and summer. Strange.
Spread out, I command. Check for diverging paths.
The prints tell an ugly tale. Scuff marks in the snow indicate a struggle. Jericho didn’t go quietly—wheelchair or not. Pride mingles with fury in my chest. He fought back.
Drag marks, heading northeast. One of the scouts has already found what we’re looking for.
My muscles tense, hackles rising. Drag marks mean Jericho was incapacitated. Alive, but helpless.
More blood here, another reports. And signs of magic use. No idea what kind, but it has that itchy smell that Luna gets sometimes.
The snow around that spot is melted in a perfect circle, as if hit by intense heat. But we already knew the vampires weren’t working alone.
I press my nose to the ground again, trying to separate the scents. Vampire. Wolf. Blood. And underneath it all, that itchy-smelling magic my scouts have already scented.
If Ava were here, she could probably glean some information from that. Unfortunately, she’s back at Wolf’s Landing.
At least, I sure as fuck hope she is.
It doesn’t take long to clear the area; only one trail heads out for any distance, and we follow our noses faithfully.
The tracks continue northeast, growing fainter with each yard. Seven sets of prints become five, then three. They’re covering their trail—professionals, not random attackers. And they’re no longer hunting. They have what they came for.
Maybe Jericho. Or maybe his friend. Or—neither of them. They were searching his hideout; perhaps they wanted an object, not a person.
The possibilities are endless, but they give us all something to bounce around in our heads as we continue the hunt.
This is too easy, Vester’s voice echoes in my head. Like they wanted us to follow.
They covered their tracks, and yet still left a clear trail. His suspicion isn’t unwarranted; I’ve been feeling a similar uneasiness.
How many scouting parties have we had run into rogue wolves? And yet, aside from a brief glimpse of some corpses and strange magic, we’ve had no hiccups on our run.
Luck for the unlucky is ominous.
Alpha! Over here! The excited bark of one of my scouts cuts through my uneasy thoughts. I found Delta Ryder’s scent!
Vester’s wolf form slows from a lope to a trot. His ears are flat against his skull, and I can smell his apprehension mixing with the crisp winter air.
I should feel elated. Finding Ryder’s scent means we’re on the right track, means we might actually rescue our people. But Vester’s words ring too clear in my head.
Coming. My reply is terse as we change direction.
The snow crunches under our paws as we trot toward the scout. Every step feels weighted with foreboding. My instincts scream that something’s wrong.
The scout’s tail wags as we approach, but I barely acknowledge his enthusiasm. My nose is already working, parsing through the layers of scent.
Yes, there it is. Ryder’s distinct scent, as clear as if he’d just passed through. Too clear. Like a freshly laid trail.
It’s recent.
Too recent, Vester mutters. How haven’t we caught wind of him before now?
The words hang in the pack bond like a death knell. We all know what this means. What it has to mean.
It’s a trap, I state flatly. No point dancing around it. We’re far behind those we’re tracking, but someone seems to realize we’re here.
Perhaps we triggered something when we stumbled upon that strange sod house. That would make sense. Like the wards Ava placed for Wolf’s Landing.
Orders, Alpha? Vester’s mental voice is steady, grounding.
I scan our surroundings. The trees stand silent witness to our dilemma, their branches heavy with snow. Somewhere ahead, our enemies wait. Behind us lies nothing but emptiness.
Why would they bring out a new scent when we’re already following, though? Only one possibility comes to mind.
They’re trying to split our forces, I warn Vester. It would make sense for one group to follow the old trail, and the second to follow the new trail of Ryder’s. We stay together. If they want us split, that means we have a chance in a head-on fight.
LUCAS
For Ryder’s scent to be so crisp, he should be in range for a pack link.
And yet there’s nothing when I try.
More evidence it’s a trap.
We follow the original trail. There’s always a chance I’m wrong, and it’s really Ryder. If it is, though, he’s in a better situation than Jericho to survive.
Choices. It always comes down to choosing. The hardest part of leadership.
My pack falls into line without question as we continue our pursuit of the attackers.
The original trail weaves between snow-covered pines. The tracks continue to lessen, until it seems as if only one of them remains, but each step is heavy in the snow. Jericho’s drag marks persist, but at intervals, as if he’s carried at some times and pulled along at others.
But then, after another mile of tracking, it all stops.
Vester circles the area where the trail ends, agitation swishing his tail. There’s nothing. Not even a lingering scent.
The growl that vibrates my chest comes from Aurum; my brain’s too busy processing what we’re seeing. Check the perimeter. Twenty-yard radius.
My wolves spread out, methodically searching every inch. They examine trees, rocks, anything that could hide a clue. The sound of their movements only emphasizes the unnatural silence that’s fallen in this part of the world.
But there’s nothing.
We widen the perimeter, but stick together. Fifty yards.
Then seventy-five.
One hundred.
Still nothing.
First the empty camp, then the bodies, now this. Every lead dissolves like smoke the moment we get close, as if they’re playing with us.