before them. They’d turned onto a gravel road, which was lined with pine trees on one side and high snowbanks on the other. What she guessed were yard lights beamed across the soft blanket of snow, making it glitter as if a faerie stage. The beauty of winter offered a deceptive masquerade.
“I thought this was an old property the River pack had abandoned for digs in Wisconsin, but there are lights on everywhere. Hell,” Ridge said. “Could they really?”
“They’re obviously up to something,” she said.
She knew it pained him to consider any from his breed could still be involved in the blood sport. His naivety was odd, coming from one who had garnered much respect from his peers through his fierce mien and honorable manner.
“Do you know this vampire? What’s his name? What does he look like?”
“I, uh …” She didn’t know what he looked like.
Ridge flashed her a wincing shake of his head. “How are we supposed to find the guy if you don’t know what he looks like?”
“I’ve been told his name is Mac York. We just call out his name.”
“That’s your plan? If you were a vampire—any vamp—kept chained and starved by werewolves in a filthy cell, and you heard a rescue team call out a name other than your own, wouldn’t you stand and plead that is your name?”
“Oh.”
Ridge pulled the truck over on the side of the road and turned off the headlights.
“We can’t stop—”
“We are going to think this through,” he said firmly over her complaint. He cast a narrow, hard gaze at her that she could see, despite the darkness in the truck.
Abigail did not back down. Instead she lifted her shoulders and delivered an admonishing gaze right back at him. No one told her what to do.
“You can stare at me all you like, Abigail, but I can smell your fear. So just chill and let me think this through.”
“If I wasn’t afraid I’d be too cocky,” she challenged. “Fear is necessary when facing an enemy.”
“Abigail.” He clasped her jaw and turned her chin to face him. Normally she’d fling magic at anyone who touched her without consent, but his domineering manner quieted that urge. “This is going to be dangerous. I know nothing will stand between you and saving your son, but let me be your shield, will you? Don’t get in front of me. In fact, stay as far back as possible. Let me stand before whatever danger presents itself, or neither of us will survive.”
“But I can throw magic—”
“How far? And what kind? Are you going to geld them all like you did me? That’ll only make them angry, and you know they’ll all wolf out then. If they’re not already in werewolf form.”
“I didn’t geld you.”
“Close.”
“Whatever. I’m a master with air magic. I can toss a man through the air, send objects flying like a car, weapons, whatever you need me to do. I’ve also mastered fire.”
“Is that so? Tell me how a practitioner of fire gets herself tied to a stake with a circle of flaming fagots laid around her feet?”
Indeed, how? Had it been because she’d been so stupid in love—as was her frustrating mien—that she hadn’t seen it coming? “He overpowered me. I am a woman. That means there are some men who are stronger than me, no matter what my skills.”
“Exactly. So let me do the talking, right? And keep your flaming trigger finger holstered until I say so. No flames, Abigail. Deal?”
She nodded, but mentally crossed her fingers. She’d walked through more than a few wars in her time. She knew how to wield magic in battle. Real battles that had involved men on horseback brandishing swords and fighting for their king and country.
This witch could certainly handle a few werewolves.
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