The silver-plated slug, forged and blessed against the oldest wolf lines, smashed the protective raven into non-existence. The shadow-infused feathers turned to dust, a fleeting wisp of dark Eola energy immediately dissipated by the silver's profane touch.
A kilometer away, Wynona, lying in a hastily prepared ritual circle near the abandoned camp, screamed—a sound only the deepest roots of the forest could hear—as her heart seized, feeling the echo of the fatal impact. The contract, the bond of her sacrifice, was momentarily breached, the protective conduit annihilated.
Violet, in her sleek, shadow-black wolf form, felt the impact not as a physical wound, but as a chilling, profound emptiness where the raven's guiding presence had been. It was like a vital nerve, connected to her mother, had been severed. The loss of that spiritual shield, coupled with the lingering effects of her own exhausted power, triggered a primal, terrifying panic.
Retreat. Must retreat.
The vampire troop leader, his face a mask of shock and grim determination, watched the remnants of the shadow raven vanish. His fear solidified into cold certainty: this was not a mere werewolf, but a being capable of controlling illusion and the Eola. They were outmatched in this territory.
"Regroup! Fall back to the trail!" he roared, but it was too late.
Violet, running on pure instinct now, didn't need the raven to guide her. The crag, once a trap, was now her killing floor. She was a black wraith moving between the moonlit protrusions, a creature woven from shadow and vengeance. She wasn't just using her speed; she was bending the light and sound, folding the space around her to be everywhere and nowhere at once.
One vampire, still stunned by the death of his comrade, felt a searing pain in his thigh before he even saw the movement. He crumpled, clutching the deep laceration left by a single, perfectly aimed swipe. Another whirled, trying to track the invisible threat, only to be struck across the throat with a force that crushed his larynx.
"They're too fast! We can't see them!" The second-in-command shouted, firing wildly into the shadows, wasting the expensive silver ammunition.
The troop leader, recognizing the escalating disaster, grabbed his men. "No more! We run now! Report only what you saw!" He knew that reporting a simple wolf was one thing; reporting a high demon that cost them four highly trained vampires would invite the wrath of Ken Castelli in a way that would make them wish for death. They scrambled back into the narrow tunnel, their earlier arrogance replaced by ragged, desperate fear.
Violet watched them go, her body trembling not with cold, but with overexertion. The sheer effort of maintaining her illusions and speed on such a high level while wounded was draining her core life force. She slumped onto a cold, flat stone, her breath coming in ragged, steaming gasps. Her limbs felt like lead, and the silvery luminescence that usually pulsed faintly around her paws—the ambient Eola of the Winter Moon—was barely a flicker.
Then, she caught a scent.
It was William. But wrong.
It was thick, metallic, and overwhelming—the smell of hot, freshly spilled lifeblood, layered with the distinct, electric musk of a wolf in the final throes of exhaustion.
She rose, ignoring the screaming protest of every muscle, and followed the smell deeper into a less-treacherous part of the crag, toward a shadowed recess she hadn't noticed before.
And there he was.
A magnificent silver wolf, larger and more powerful than she had ever seen him, yet utterly defeated. He was sprawled on his side, his silver-white fur matted and stained crimson. He was covered in jagged, haphazard wounds, as if attacked by multiple blades, not just vampire claws. These wounds were not simply bleeding; they were weeping a dark, oil-slick substance, the vampire-venom-infused anticoagulant that Chapter 16 would later confirm.
But the most shocking sight was the area around him. A dense, shimmering field of moonlight—the concentrated Eola energy—was pouring over him, trying desperately to knit the lacerations shut. Yet, the energy was failing. As soon as the silver light touched a wound, it would sizzle, and the dark ooze would momentarily stop, only to resume its flow seconds later. The poison was actively fighting the moon's healing, burning up his Eola reserves faster than the winter moon could replenish them.
He was dying.
As Violet approached, the Silver Wolf (William) slowly lifted his massive head, his golden eyes dull and hazy. He recognized her instantly, not by sight, but by her unique scent—the strange, sweet blend of wolf, succubus, and something ancient and wild.
He gave a low, weak whine, a sound of pain and recognition. He didn't have the strength to shift back to his human form, or even to move his tail. He used the last fraction of his will to push his paw out and nudge her. He nudged her toward a deep gash near his flank, the largest, most persistent wound.
Violet, the shadow wolf, barked in protest. No, William! You're losing too much!
He ignored her, nudging her again, then—with a gasp of effort—he leaned his head into her neck and let out a long, resonant howl, a sound of pure, unadulterated Eola-infused magic.
The moonlight surrounding him intensified, shimmering wildly. It was too much for his wounds, which began to bleed harder under the pressure. The Eola energy, instead of channeling into his own flesh, began to flow outwards, specifically toward Violet.
She felt it hit her—a shock of pure, vibrant warmth. It filled the emptiness left by the raven's destruction, slamming into her core and replenishing her depleted reserves in an instant. The crushing fatigue in her limbs vanished. She felt the power surge, hot and violent, neutralizing the residual poison that had already started to slow her movements.
He was giving her his healing light. He was giving her his life force.
Stop! You fool, you're killing yourself! Violet snarled, trying to pull away, but William held her pressed against him with the weight of his large body.
He forced the wounds from his body onto her, not physically, but spiritually. As he pressed his bleeding flank to her side, the vibrant surge of Eola coursed into her, and the wounds she had sustained during the skirmish—the shallow scrapes and the internal bruising from the impact of the silver bullet's near miss—vanished. More importantly, the psychic link to the raven, the magical contract that had just been severed, began to re-establish itself. The energy stabilized Wynona's essence.
It was a final, desperate act of the Winter Moon Alpha to ensure his mate—and the mysterious power protecting her—survived. He sacrificed his already diminished Eola to save hers.
When the transfer was complete, the silver wolf gave a final, rattling sigh and collapsed completely, his heavy head thudding onto the cold earth. The golden light in his eyes faded to a blank amber, then went out. The vibrant moonlight field around him dimmed to almost nothing. He was still alive, his scent told her, but he was beyond critical. He was only skin and bone clinging to life by a thread.
Violet licked his face once, a long, desperate swipe of her tongue, a promise and a plea. She knew she couldn't carry him. She was strong now, thanks to him, but his body was too large, too heavy, too broken.
He must have understood. The massive silver paw feebly nudged her again, pointing not to the main trail, but to the tunnel, the way she had come. He wanted her to run.
It was the hardest decision of her young life. Leave the dying mate who had just used his life force to save her, or stay and watch them both die?
She chose life. She chose Wynona. She chose the promise she had made to herself to survive.
With one last, deep mournful lick to his muzzle, Violet turned and bolted back through the tunnel, her shadow wolf form now moving with renewed, desperate speed, the stolen Eola light giving her the energy she needed to outrun the rising panic.
The run back to the campsite was a blur of adrenaline and fear. Her paws barely touched the earth as she flew through the snow-covered Blackwoods. The world was a canvas of speed, a smear of black and white, punctuated only by the scent trail she had left earlier.
She burst through the treeline and skidded to a stop near the camp. The campfire was still a bed of smoldering embers, but the tents were intact.
Then she saw Wynona.
Her stepmother wasn't dead, but she was lying in the middle of the ruined ritual circle. The strange sigils Wynona had drawn with chalk and earth were smeared by a pool of dark, viscous blood. Wynona's face was chalk-white, her teal jacket soaked. A black, crusty burn ringed a deep, crimson wound in her right shoulder, where the silver bullet, blocked by the shadow raven, had still grazed and broken through her defenses.
The sight of her mother's blood sobered Violet more completely than the cold water Wynona had used in the past. Her panic, which had been a wild, roaring beast, suddenly became a cold, focused machine.
Vitals. Assess. Triage.
Violet shifted, the transformation painful but necessary for human actions. She was naked, shivering in the negative temperatures, but she didn't care. She was completely focused on the wound.
It was a catastrophic hemorrhage. Wynona's sacrifice and the backlash from the broken raven contract had used up all her internal resilience. The small bullet graze, which should have been minor for someone of Wynona's secret heritage, was bleeding her out.
Violet ripped the fur lining from her abandoned ski jacket, pressing the thick material hard against the wound.
"Mom? Wynona? Stay with me!"
Wynona's eyes fluttered open, dark and unfocused. She tried to speak, but only a bloody cough escaped. She managed to lift a weak hand, her finger pointing back towards the deep woods, towards the crag.
William.
Violet's breath hitched. Wynona knew. She was pointing toward the man who had just used his dying moments to save her.
Her mind raced, cycling through impossible variables.
Variable 1: Wynona. Needs immediate, expert medical attention. She needs O-Negative blood, a sterile environment, and surgical repair. She is currently bleeding to death. Her best chance is a helicopter and a trauma center.
Variable 2: William. Needs an even rarer kind of help. Normal medicine wouldn't even recognize the poison running through his veins, the dark, anticoagulant ooze. He needed the moonlight, the Eola, and a wolf healer—neither of which she had. He was miles away in an inaccessible crag. He would die before she could drag him out, and he would certainly die if left for too long.
Whose life matters more?
It was a cruel, sickening choice, the stuff of Greek tragedy, and she had exactly thirty seconds to make it.
If she took Wynona to William, they would both die in the crag while she tried to find a signal. If she took William back to the camp, Wynona would be dead by the time she returned. If she called 911 for William first, they would never find him in time, and Wynona would still bleed out.
Violet looked at the satellite phone on the table—the one Wynona had packed precisely for emergencies like this. Its small screen showed a faint, blinking signal line.
Wynona is here. I can stabilize her. I can call and guide them to her, and they can send a second team for William.
But William was too far. No. The rescue team would deem her description of the crag, the vampires, and the silver wolf as the ravings of a panicked, traumatized girl. They would never search deep enough for a body that was "humanly impossible" to reach (as Chapter 16 later confirms).
She gritted her teeth, her jaw aching with the impossible strain of the decision. She was a hybrid, a being of two worlds, but her heart was fiercely, humanly attached to the one person who had saved her life a hundred times over.
She looked at her mother's pale, beloved face. "I will come back for him," Violet whispered fiercely, her voice cracking. "I promise."
She quickly pulled on the ice-filled pants and coat Wynona had prepared (Chapter 20), not for heat-crazed lust this time, but as an armor against the biting cold, stuffing her feet into the ice boots. The brief delay was agony, but she needed to be able to move.
She used the sat-phone, her voice oddly steady despite the chaos. She didn't have time for nuance, only facts. She held the phone tightly, her knuckles white.
"Hello! I am calling to report an accident in the Blackwoods. Female, thirty seven year old, O - Negative, bullet wound in the right shoulder. She has lost too much blood. And, one other member of our party is lost in the woods…"
She gave them the coordinates for Wynona's location first, describing the camp and the severity of the wound, knowing the O-Negative detail would flag the highest priority response.
Then, before the dispatcher could interrupt her, she rushed on, pouring every shred of desperation and certainty into her voice.
"The second victim is a male, eighteen years old. Name is William Wolf. He is in the crag at these coordinates. He is unconscious and critically wounded. He is not bleeding from an animal attack; he is covered in puncture wounds and his blood will not clot. You must send a separate unit. He is beyond humanly possible distance, but he is there! His life is fading. Please, please find William Wolf!"
The words poured out of her, a cascade of necessary, impossible truths. She finished the call, throwing the phone down, the single remaining connection to the world severed.
She stood in the chilling air, a naked wolf beneath the ice clothes, watching the distant lights of the rescue helicopter—a distant, mechanical raven—growing closer, coming for Wynona. The sound of the rotor blades was a promise of survival for one, and a terrifying ticking clock for the other.
As she knelt by Wynona one last time before fleeing, her eyes locked on the faint, silvery residue of William's life force—the ambient Eola—still faintly coating her own hands. She had the key to his survival now, a powerful memory of his true essence. If only she knew how to use it.
She had done all she could. Now, she had to wait for the world to catch up to the supernatural horror she had just survived.
Now that Wynona was located and the rescue was in motion, Violet had only one choice left: she had to disappear. She was a shadow wolf, and if the vampires returned, they wouldn't stop until they found the 'high demon' they feared. She took one last look at Wynona, gave a final, silent nod of resolve, and vanished into the dense, dark shelter of the Blackwoods, leaving the flashing lights and blaring sirens behind.
She would wait in the shadows. She would survive. And she would find a way to honor the silver wolf's sacrifice, using the borrowed Eola light that now pulsed, faintly and dangerously, beneath her own skin.
❖✜❖
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