Violet brought out all her athletic gear, laying it across the massive floor of her bedroom like pieces of a complicated puzzle. There was even the Under Armour special winter suit bought by Stan, the man whose throat she'd ripped out in her first full shift.
'Thank you, Stan! May your soul get purified till it's extra clean in the fires of hell,' Violet prayed, a dark, ironic prayer that didn't quite erase the guilt, but certainly made the jacket feel warmer.
However, these suits were still only suited for the subtropical sprint in New England, not the arctic, wind-whipped severity of a Dakota spring. The temperature was still well in the negatives in the Badlands. She remembered the scout guidebook she'd pulled from the bottom of an old trunk. The windchill was a real and deadly opponent on the moors of Badlands, as opposed to the relatively sheltered mountains of the East.
If they really wanted the Snowbell bulbs—which only grew far away from any civilization—they must venture into that unforgiving expanse. It meant a lot of alone time, just for herself and William Wolf, where at the slightest mishap, they might need to sleep hugging each other in order to share body heat.
Violet blushed at the thought. Her eyes flashed golden.
Her body started to react!
Damn it!
This too-sensitive body! If you are this sensitive, at least let my mind remember the experience, she scolded herself. Then, for a moment, she looked around by habit, scared someone heard her, before remembering she was not in a cramped condo any more. The walls were thick, and even if they were flimsy, there was no one around to hear her.
Laughter bubbled up from the bottom of her heart. Finally! A place of their own! With enough space to run about, scream, litter (and cleanup), or just plain be crazy in. Even if only for a short time, this house and its seclusion felt like a precious, earned respite. She let the laughter bubble up until her cheeks hurt. It was the first truly unburdened laugh she'd had in weeks.
The Wardrobe Strategy
The golden flash was a problem. It signaled the wolf, and the wolf was always dangerously close to the succubus—especially around William. If she was going to be alone with her mate, her internal combustion engine was going to be running hot, and in her current state of vulnerability, she couldn't risk losing control and draining him again.
The biggest challenge wasn't the weather; it was her wardrobe. Her "Winner" persona clothes (the skimpy, beautiful ones she wore in the solarium as the mysterious 'Angel') were physically superior—tailored for maximum wolf-form comfort, lightweight, and resilient. But wearing them with William would signal her true self, an identity she desperately needed to keep separate from the nerdy 'Violet Darkwood' who ran the Supernatural 101 club.
Her "Dowdy" persona clothes (the shapeless hoodies, thick corduroys) were mentally safer. They acted like a psychological barrier, a cloak of invisibility against William's piercing gaze. But they were woefully inadequate for a Badlands blizzard.
She settled on a compromise, a new, third persona: The Prepared Adventurer.
She carefully selected the layers. Thick, thermal base layers (borrowed from Wynona's surprisingly well-stocked 'emergency closet') would go underneath. Over those, she layered the best of the Under Armour gear. Finally, she chose a bright, visible ski jacket in deep violet and ash-gray furred thigh-high boots, both designed for visibility in snow—and just fashionable enough to give her a confidence boost.
She looked in the mirror. The oversized round glasses remained, firmly taped to her nose bridge with clear medical tape to prevent them from flying off. Her hair was still pulled back in a severe ponytail. But the new clothes gave her movement, and the boots, though practical, made her legs look miles long. It was the most attractive she'd ever looked as her 'Nerdy' self.
"Violet Darkwood, prepared for research," she muttered, adjusting the strap of a heavy-duty hiking backpack. The pack contained: A first aid kit, a satellite phone (rented on Wynona's insurance), high-energy rations, and a specially insulated stainless steel flask. The flask wasn't for coffee. It was for ice. Lots of ice. She'd remembered Wynona's tactic.
The Bargain with Wynona
She found Wynona in the kitchen, casually smoking a cigarette and sipping coffee, an almost domestic picture that was constantly at odds with their wildly abnormal lives.
"You're really going to the Badlands with that boy?" Wynona asked, her voice laced with an unusual level of tension, the cigarette smoke curling around her head like a reluctant halo.
"Yes, Mom. For the Snowbells," Violet stated firmly, trying to sound like a science student dedicated to her club project, not a lovesick hybrid trying to get laid without killing the boy.
"Snowbells. Right. They only grow in the deepest, most cursed parts of the Blackwoods, which everyone calls the Badlands now because 'Blackwoods' was too cliché for the tourists." Wynona sighed, stubbing out the cigarette with unnecessary force. "William is a wolf. You are… a complex situation. Going out there alone is asking for trouble, Violet. And don't give me that look. Trouble always finds us."
Violet had to fight her rising panic. Wynona was rarely this serious. She decided to go on the offensive.
"I'll tell you everything about the trip if you tell me what you did to me when I was little. The full story. No more half-truths about Stan."
Wynona tilted her head, considering the offer. "Fine. I wanted to see the end of this topic today."
Violet sat there, giving her stepmother silent treatment, knowing that pressure was the only way to get real answers.
Wynona endured what she could, before she tried to coax Violet. "Fine. I will answer one question. In return, you will tell me every small detail of your planned date, leaving nothing out. And I mean every detail, from the moment he picks you up until you are back here and the door is locked."
"Answer first," Violet bargained.
"Very well." Wynona agreed.
This is what Violet liked about her stepmother. Though she was many times negligent, abrupt, and cold, she wasn't inconsistent. When she promised answers, she would give the truth as directly as possible. Otherwise, why would Violet be the only kid in kindergarten who did not believe in the Tooth Fairy or Santa?
Wynona took a deep breath, the confession sounding rehearsed, but the underlying pain was real.
"There was a time when you were a toddler, around three years old, when you had your first full shift. You had been angry at me for forgetting your birthday. You went from a crying toddler to a full-grown wolf in seconds. You were… magnificent, but terrifying. I threw you into cold water, the bathtub. After some time, you transformed back, shivering and confused. Later, I noticed your eyes would flash golden—just before you lost control and changed. I started putting you in cold water whenever that happened. It stopped your transformation to a cold stop, a shock to the system. It took the heat right out of you."
Wynona paused, looking at Violet's shocked face.
"That's not the question I want you to answer. I want to know where I came from. Who are my parents?" Violet tried, but her mother put a stop to it.
"It's the only question you are getting an answer to, for now. That's enough to keep you safe in the woods." Wynona insisted, her eyes hard. "The Cold is your Muzzle, Violet. Use it. Now, the details about the date."
Violet hung her head in defeat. No chance of getting the sweet origin story now, but the knowledge she gained was far more valuable. The cold is the Muzzle. It explained why she felt so invigorated after the thunderstorm kiss, and why she felt fine in the Dakota cold—her internal heat was being neutralized by the climate, keeping the beast in check. The cold wasn't just physical; it was a psychological governor.
The Second Contract
Wynona watched her daughter process the information, a flicker of pride in her eyes. Violet was smart; she would figure out how to use this.
"There is one more thing," Wynona continued, lowering her voice until it was barely a whisper. "This isn't a question, but a second part of our deal. I need you to take something with you."
Wynona reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden bird. It looked like a raven in mid-flight, its wings outstretched. It was warm to the touch and hummed with a subtle, electric energy that made the tiny hairs on Violet's arms stand up.
"What is this?" Violet asked, taking the raven and turning it over in her palm. It felt unnervingly alive.
"It's a charm. It's attuned to you. You must keep it close to your person—in an inside pocket, touching your skin, or even tucked into your boot. Do not lose it. Do not tell William about it. And if… if you find yourself in danger you cannot escape, let it fly."
"Let it fly?"
"Just throw it into the air and wish for rescue," Wynona said simply, though her eyes were filled with the complexity of a thousand unspoken oaths. "That's the other side of the bargain. You take the charm, you use the cold water tactic, and I get all the details of your outing. This isn't Stan's trip, Violet. This is the Badlands. You need more than just good boots."
Violet looked at the raven. Wynona had never given her a charm before. In fact, Wynona avoided anything overtly magical or supernatural, preferring to live a normal, if morally ambiguous, human life. This raven felt like a desperate act. It felt like the price of survival.
"Okay, Mom. Deal." Violet secured the small raven into the inner zippered pocket of her ski jacket, right over her heart. It pulsed with a faint warmth.
The Rendezvous
For the next twenty-four hours, Violet's focus was surgical. She meticulously planned the route, cross-referencing William's vague directions with satellite maps and geological surveys she found online. The area was indeed a cursed mess of sharp crags, ice-slicked canyons, and sudden, lethal drops. The cold water was one thing, but she needed a fail-safe.
She packed her bag like a marine going behind enemy lines: the ice flask, high-calorie bars, rope, flares, a silver-plated knife (found in Stan's old tackle box, and she figured silver was a decent all-purpose supernatural repellent, just in case Ken Castelli's scent was anything more than a fluke), and a large, durable garbage bag she could use as a wind-proof bivvy sack in an emergency.
She couldn't deny the thrill. She was going on a date with her gorgeous, powerful mate, and it was also an extreme survival challenge that would test her transformation control. It was the perfect blend of danger and desire.
Violet spent the night before the trip lying in bed, running through scenarios in her head: Golden eyes flash. Reach for the ice flask. Apply ice to the back of the neck. Muzzle the wolf. Maintain the "Dowdy Violet" persona. Do not kiss the boy.
The fear of hurting him was greater than the fear of being exposed. If he knew she was the 'Angel' who almost killed him, he might reject her. If he died, she would be alone. The wolf inside howled at the thought of losing her mate.
She fell asleep just before dawn, the image of William's golden eyes merging with the metallic sheen of the Snowbell bulbs.
The next day was cold and sunny, the kind of deceptive winter morning where the sky was bright blue, but the air felt like shards of glass.
Violet was already dressed: thermal layers, Under Armour, violet jacket, thigh-high boots. She felt invincible, insulated against the elements and armed with the knowledge of the cold cure.
William drove his uncle's beaten-up Subaru Outback to the southside mansion. He was dressed in dark brown pants, light gray furred boots, a vintage tan undershirt and waistcoat. Atop that, he wore a light gray furred coat, with wolf teeth buttons. He actually could make such a rustic look high fashion just by wearing it.
Violet swooned internally.
She really wanted to run up to him and tell him she was the girl he kissed, if she weren't so afraid that it was her kiss that brought him to the edge of death at the lake.
William's eyes fell on Violet, and he smiled at her in approval.
Violet is decked up in all her under armour winter hiking glory, with ash grey furred thigh high boots, two layers of thick black footed tights and violet waterproof runner shorts, a grey t-shirt, and a violet ski jacket atop that.
A normal human being would never be able to survive camping just with this set of clothes. After all, the temperatures were negative, and what Violet had worn was used for spring hiking where it's slightly warmer and mountainous than what it is currently. But William knew better. He saw the strength radiating off her, the resilience that defied the fragile human clothing.
Wynona, however, was dressed similarly to Violet in her standard teal ski gear.
William looked at her in surprise.
Violet smiled back at William cheekily. "One more set of hands means fewer trips. My mother's free today. It's been a while since we spent time outdoors. You don't mind, do you?" Violet asked Willaim.
Wynona stepped forward, giving William a look that was part appraisal, part warning. Her eyes conveyed a clear, silent message: Touch my daughter, and I will end you.
William, the wolf prince, caught the subtext immediately. His smile didn't falter. "No, of course not. The more, the merrier. And a local guide will certainly help. We wouldn't want to get lost out there, now would we, Wynona?"
He extended a hand to her, a gesture of respect and, perhaps, a subtle acknowledgment of their shared secret. Wynona's hand, cool and firm, met his. The tension between the two adults was thick enough to cut with Stan's silver knife.
"Lost?" Wynona repeated, her eyes narrowed. "Not a chance. I know those woods like the back of my hand. Every fallen tree, every hidden creek. If any of you stray from the path, I'll be the one bringing you back, one piece at a time." Her warning was clear and pointed. She wasn't just coming along to help carry bulbs; she was coming as an armed guard.
William just laughed, a deep, resonant sound that eased the tension and made Violet's inner wolf—the one still safely muzzled by the sub-zero air—twitch with anticipation.
"Then let's go, ladies. The Snowbells await."
Wynona locked the door to the mansion with a heavy, complex click, glancing back at the house—at the place where the fiery raven was born—with an expression of profound finality. Violet, focused only on the handsome wolf beside her, missed the chilling look entirely.
The three of them piled into the Subaru Outback. William adjusted his rearview mirror, catching a fleeting reflection of Wynona. He frowned slightly. Something was off. He could smell the faintest trace of salt, sulfur, and burning feathers on the wind, a scent that was entirely out of place in the cold, clean air of the Badlands.
He shook it off, putting the car into gear. Snowbells. That's all we're after.
But as they drove away, leaving the warmth of civilization behind for the bleak, beautiful expanse of the wilderness, the small wooden raven tucked into Violet's jacket grew noticeably warmer, a faint, hidden pulse of magic preparing for the coming storm.
The game was afoot, and the innocent search for a flower was about to become a battle for life and death.