Tangled in Moonlight: Unshifted novel Chapter 426

LUCAS

All of us stand in what must be Jericho's room. His scent is heavy in the air, and a wheelchair sits on its side, tossed into a corner.

It's an unnerving sight that begs the question—is he still alive? Even if he ran, how far could he get without a wheelchair? And if he's taken captive, how badly is he being treated as an invalid?

Aurum snarls, his rage echoing through my skull. The sight of that wheelchair burns into my eyes and soul. A stark reminder of Jericho's new vulnerability—and my failure to protect him.

Vester is the first to break from the ominous sight, his voice clear through the pack bond. What is our next move?

The watch is still dead. No signal from Wolf's Landing, no word from Ava or Kellan. The silence is filled with too many scenarios I've played out in my head.

But the mate bond pulses steady in my chest. Ava's alive. They all are—every mated pair in our group can feel their other half. It's the only comfort we have right now.

"We follow Jericho's trail. Kellan and Ava know the evacuation protocols. They'll keep our people safe if anything happens."

They have to.

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.

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