Chapter Six

Kaleb was taken to the back room of the club, and I'd been pushed into a booth in the corner with the stern command not to move until Dean Hart was ready to speak to me.

Though I couldn't see or hear anything in the backrooms, I winced with every imagined scream of pain. Thinking of Kaleb's bloody leg and wondering if they had to dig out the bullet or if it had gone straight through.

My hands were covered in blood. It had dried under my fingernails.

My braid had fallen out of my hair, and the magic had gone with it. I was left hollow, praying that Kaleb would pull through. Hoping that my idiot ex-husband hadn't just sparked a war between the wolves and humans of Locket.

A shadow fell over my table, and I looked up from my hands into the searching eyes of the Alpha.

Dean Hill slid into the booth without waiting for an invitation, though I supposed he didn't need one. Every inch of the Chug belonged to him, from the bottles behind the bar to the coasters under the drinks.

He watched me as I watched him. His eyes flicked down to my hands, no doubt smelling the coppery tang of Kaleb's blood.

"Tell me everything." Dean's command was soft, but it was a command nonetheless.

I didn't bother fighting the golden pack magic that swarmed me and pressed against my skin to coax an answer. Instead, I took a deep breath and told Dean everything from arriving at the house with Kaleb in wolf form to being followed down the driveway. I told him about Dave, the officer who entered the window, and how my ex-husband knew I wasn't human. How Joel had tried to kill me when I'd found out about the affair, but it hadn't taken. Guilt slashed across Dean's face when I spoke about Joel, but I ignored it. He'd been eager to brush Joel and the pack's promise of protection away because the dead animals had been a glamour.

"Kaleb saved my life," I said, jutting my chin and meeting his eyes. "I'd be dead if he hadn't come with me."

"Then he did his job as a bodyguard," Dean murmured, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"How is he?"

"The healer is tending to him now," Dean replied. "He was shot in the leg, but luckily, it was a standard issue bullet and not one made of silver."

"I don't think Joel knows about werewolves," I muttered, closing my eyes and pressing my hand against my head.

"What does Joel know?" Dean asked.

"He knows I'm not human." I shook my head. "And apparently, that has given him sanction to try and kill me. Before he put his hands on my throat, I would have said that Joel wasn't capable of something like this. He could be mean. He often pushed me out of the way, or slapped my hand, but nothing like this. Something evil has crawled inside him, and I don't know the man anymore."

"How long would you say he's been acting like this?" Dean prodded gently.

"Since we…" I cleared my throat and tried again. "Since we lost the baby two summers ago. It's not anything supernatural. He's not on drugs. He's just a weak man who couldn't cope after… that. I don't think I've loved him in a long time. I just didn't want to be the asshole that ruined a marriage just because I wasn't happy. I thought if I worked hard enough, happiness would come. I kept waiting for him to do something bad enough that I'd leave. I was waiting for it." I took a shaking breath and met the Alpha's eyes, aware that his pack magic had loosened my lips much more than I had intended. "It's my fault. For not being a good wife. For lying about what I was. Who I was. No one can be in a relationship where they hide part of themselves."

Something shifted in Dean's eyes, and I wondered if he had ever been in a relationship where he had to hide who or what he was. Being an Alpha was difficult. It wasn't just a position amongst the wolves or status. It was a birthright, and it came with responsibilities. Alphas were built differently and had a different command of wild magic than other wolves.

"It wasn't your fault that he attacked your home this evening," Dean told me. "While we have been focused on the Gate and an attack coming from outside the valley, the humans have been rallying behind a force known as ‘humans against other beings'."

"HAOB?" I clarified.

"Yes. That catchy acronym." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. I took a moment to study the slope of his broad shoulders, hunched over as if he had the weight of the world pressed down on his back. Dean Hart wasn't what I had expected from an Alpha beyond the size of his muscles and the press of his magic. He carried a strange softness when he spoke to me—like a child holding a wounded bird.

"How long have you lived in Locket?" Dean asked, knitting his fingers together and laying his hands on the table.

"All my life."

"As a Fae, you've managed to keep yourself hidden well." Dean quipped, but his heart wasn't in it.

"Not really. I was kept inside. Sheltered until my magic became more stable." I replied shortly. "I have avoided most Other politics in town, but I wasn't unaware. I knew about the wolves and the witches."

"But you did not make yourself known." Dean finished my thought with a drawl.

"My grandmother thought it was better that way. There aren't many Fae in the Human Realities, and we often have a bad reputation for making bargains with humans that leave them at a disadvantage." I explained, adjusting the hem on my shirt before letting the material drop when I noticed more blood. "My grandmother was a powerful Weaver. A full-blooded Fae. I am technically not even half Weaver. I can't do what she could."

"But you're not without magic." Dean nodded to himself. "You hid Kaleb from your attackers and gave him an advantage."

"I told him to go find you . To bring reinforcements." I snarled.

"Kaleb is an ancient wolf." Dean signed. "Though I am an Alpha, he pledged himself to the Beast-King's court many years ago. He is here at the Huntsman's behest. He does not owe me loyalty. I might be an Alpha, but I am not his Alpha."

"The same Huntsman that has you all bound to some kind of contract?" I clarified. "That Huntsman?"

"You wouldn't understand." Dean looked away as if he couldn't meet my eyes. "The Beast-King and the Huntsman war raged for hundreds of years. So many lost their lives. We didn't know he had cursed us, not until we had lost too many of our own. You should know the pain. You have lost a child. No one but true mates can carry a Wolfkin to term."

I placed my hand on my stomach before I curled my fingers into a fist. "The Wolfkin are cursed?"

"The wolves belong to the Huntsman." Dean's jaw hardened. "It was the only way to end the war. We helped his wife, éabha, escape the Aos Sí. We all bear the punishment for those who betrayed the Huntsman."

"Will Kaleb be okay?" My voice was tiny.

Dean didn't answer my question. "I would like to introduce you to the Others of Locket. I believe you might be at the center of whatever is happening." Dean explained. "You are the only Sídhe in Locket, and though your knowledge is limited because you do not hail from the Aos Sí, your grandmother was a respected and powerful female."

"I…" I tried to speak but struggled to grasp the words I needed. "I am not a powerful Weaver like my grandmother. I don't want people to think I am available to make artifacts that can turn their neighbors into goo or make bulletproof sweaters. My magic doesn't work that way. It's more about suggestion. I was fortunate today with the ‘can't see me' charm. It only works on the weak-minded. I doubt you or any of your wolves would fall for something like that."

Dean rubbed the stubble of his chin with his knuckles. "The weak-minded?"

I shrugged.

"The witches and the demons of Locket need to know about HAOB. It is up to you how much you wish to reveal of yourself." Dean dipped his head, sliding to the end of the booth and standing. "Kaleb has asked to see you. He said some very interesting things once the healer gave him something for the pain."

"Interesting?" I feigned confusion. I couldn't lie, but that didn't mean I had to offer up truths left, right, and center.

Dean watched me, his expression benign, as he waited for me to fill in the blanks. I said nothing, watching him with a subdued smile. He sighed and held out his hand, offering to help me from the booth. I took his offer—physical touch was a big deal for the Wolfkin and if it would help him feel less threatened by me, then I was willing to offer the small concession.

The moment my bloodstained hand slid into his, dwarfed by his large fingers and broad palms, Dean's whole face changed. Something akin to sunlight brightened his features, though his stoic expression didn't change save for the widening of his eyes. A breath lodged in my chest, and refused to budge as we stood, our hands linked together, next to the booth in the dark corner of the biker bar.

I could smell the leather of Dean's cut. See the ugly stitching on each patch. The frayed edges of his t-shirt collar, where he had undoubtedly pulled it over his head dozens of times before. His eyes were the strangest shade of orange, not bright like peels but deep umber. His nose was crooked, just a bit. He studied me just as I studied him, without knowing why the other person suddenly became the only thing in a room filled with people chatting and drinking beer.

His pupils expanded, and his nostrils flared.

I knew what he was trying to scent, but he wouldn't find it.

I wasn't Wolfkin.

I was Fae.

I snatched my hand back and rubbed my clammy palm down the front of my shirt.

"Kaleb asked for me?" I prompted.

Dean blinked, shaking his head as if trying to flick the moment away from his thoughts. "This way." His voice was brusque. Deeper somehow.

He turned away, walking toward the staff room. His gait was stiff and on edge.

I wanted to press myself against his back and rub against him.

I wanted him to whisper my name.

I imagined how his voice would sound, pressed against my skin.

Inside of me.

I stopped walking.

"I need to go home." I blurted out. "I need—" I shook my head to clear it, struggling to gather my thoughts. "I need my things. I need to sleep. I need—"

"You can stay here." Dean glanced over his shoulder; a shadow cast over his face as he frowned. "You cannot risk going back home this evening. Even if you don't believe those humans will return to try and finish whatever they started, it's not safe to be alone right now, and I don't have any wolves to spare."

"Mitchell?" I pleaded. "Wyatt?"

Dean gave me a dry look. "Is there any reason you are listing my beta and lead-enforcer?"

"They could come with me," I begged. "I just need—" I stopped the truth from falling from my lips again. I bit back the please on my tongue that would put me in his debt whether I wanted it to or not.

Dean clenched his fist, pressing it against the muscle of his thighs. "Kaleb has asked for you." He reminded me. "My wolf took a bullet for you, and you want to go home?"

I didn't like the look on his face.

Disgust.

I told myself that it was better that way. I needed my calming smoothies. I needed the comfort of my wards. I needed to protect myself.

But… Kaleb had taken a bullet for me.

I hung my head. One breath. And another.

My heart rate began to slow, and Dean relaxed when he heard the sound. The Alpha reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. Every muscle in my body locked, but Dean pretended not to notice.

"He's fine," Dean told me. "He's awake and unharmed. No permanent damage."

"It's my fault." My lips were numb, and though the words were true, I wasn't sure what I was referring to. My fault that Kaleb had gotten hurt, or my fault that Joel McGowen had gathered the HAOB against me and tried to put me down.

Dean walked to the staff door, putting his hand on the small of my back as he led me through the club. Every step was robotic, and my mind was far away, unable to feel anything aside from the warmth of his hand through my bloodstained clothes.

I told myself it was because I hadn't been touched in so long.

I was like a feral cat, startled that physical touch and affection still existed because I'd been denied both for so long.

Dean led me to a set of stairs behind a door on the right. The smell of stale beer greeted me, and the concrete walls exuded a chill that had nothing to do with air conditioning.

I smelled blood and magic. Our footsteps clanged against the metal spiral staircase, leading us into the darkness. I struggled with the lack of light until we passed the rows of metal beer barrels and pressure gauges lining the path to the back room, where Kaleb lay on a makeshift gurney.

"Melly?" I said, startled when I saw the older witch gathering the bloody gauze and placing it in a metal trash can. She glanced up, giving me a tired but genuine smile.

"You're up late, Miss Mallory." She reached into her pocket and produced a pack of matches. "But I'm glad you're not hurt."

"I didn't know you were a healer," I said lamely.

She tossed the match into the waste paper bin, and the scent of burning cotton and blood filled the air momentarily. The fire rose high and died in an instant. "I've got a few tricks." Melly winked. "I've lived in Locket for a long time and appreciate all the Wolfkin do for our town." She slanted a look at Dean, though he pretended not to be interested in our conversation. "It's only right to offer back where I can. Especially when they keep our valley free from monsters."

"Huh." I chuffed thoughtfully. I wasn't sure whether to feel anger at Melly or my grandmother for keeping me in the dark about the Durrach and the Huntsman.

"Kaleb Morrow has fallen asleep. The pain potion doesn't always agree with the older wolves—and Kaleb is older than most of the Kings and Queens of the Aos Sí." Melly hooted. "He was speaking all sorts of gibberish. Shíorghra, this and that. He called me a ráitseach, whatever that means."

Dean choked a laugh. " Raw-itch-ekr ?" He pronounced the word back, deliberately enunciating the syllables.

Melly nodded. "I take it to mean beautiful, youthful, and clever. Or something to that effect."

"Or something," Dean muttered as he looked down at Kaleb's sleeping form.

I'd often heard my grandmother speak in Irish Gaelic when she felt particularly irked by something. I didn't have the heart to tell Melly that Kaleb had called her a ‘prattling floozy.'

"Melly," Though Dean was close, I stepped toward her, lowering my voice. "Do you have any of my special herbs in your bag? I didn't have time to bring some from home."

Melly whistled through her teeth. "I only brought essentials, dear." She gave me an apologetic look. "But I'll drop some off at your shop when I'm in town. Is that all right?"

I didn't want Dean to know how badly I needed those herbs. If he pressed Melly for answers, I wasn't sure if she would give them. She was my grandmother's friend, and though I trusted her to a point, my grandmother had always told me to be wary of everyone.

I looked down at Kaleb, his silver hair streaked with blood and his face pale and clear of expression as he slept. I reached out and placed my hand on his, squeezing his fingers. He had gotten hurt because of me. Because I'd chosen Joel. Because my magic wasn't strong enough, and my wards had faded with my grandmother's death.

I quickly pulled my car keys from my pocket and found the hamster keychain. It had a cowboy hat and sang ‘Rawhide' when you pressed its belly. I unclipped the hamster and placed it in Kaleb's hand, tucking his fingers around the fluffy cowboy.

Once it became clear that Kaleb was out cold, Dean directed me from the room. Again, placing his hand on my bicep as he led me away. I knew what he was doing, though he would never voice it out loud—Dean Hart was marking me with his scent. Making it clear to the wolves under his care that I was not to be harmed, though I was Fae.

"How many wolves are in your pack?" I asked as we ascended the steps but did not go back toward the bar.

"There are less than twenty wolves in Locket." He answered honestly. "I count four of those in my inner circle. My beta, Mitchell. Kaleb, the lone Sigma. Wyatt, my lead enforcer, is the only Gamma."

"I know what an Alpha and Sigma are, but what are betas and gammas?" I asked.

"Betas are not as dominant as Alphas but have a similar command of pack magic. They often work as buffers or mediators for pack demands." Dean pushed through another door, in the endless corridor of doors—like a scene out of scooby doo. "Mitchell is my beta. My second in command."

I licked my lips. "And you don't care that he's…" I paused, wincing at the glibness of my question.

"Scarred?" Dean quirked a brow. "He lost his eye in service of the pack and the Huntsman. Protecting one of his brothers. He wears his scar with pride."

"Oh." I looked down.

"It's okay to ask questions," Dean assured me. "Mitchell would tell you the same himself. He isn't ashamed of his scars. They were too deep, and we did not reach a healer in time. Along with infertility, the Huntsman's curse has many other effects. We do not have our accelerated healing."

"Does that mean shifting is painful?" The words were said in a horrified whisper.

Dean glanced away, though he stared at nothing in particular, I got the feeling he was seeing something I couldn't. "Many things are now painful for wolves." He cleared his throat, his eyes settling on mine; until that moment, I hadn't realized he had been avoiding my gaze.

Looking into Dean Hart's eyes was like being punched in the chest.

"We have many rooms. So, you'll have your pick. It's unlikely that your ex-husband or any member of HAOB would be able to find you here." Dean continued, the spell between us broken. "There is a tunnel to the barracks, deep in the woods. The barracks are hidden underground, and we own the surrounding land."

"Stops your wolves being shot by overzealous hunters?" I guessed.

"Exactly." He flashed his teeth. "The Fae that come through the Gate also hunt in that area. We don't want humans accidentally stumbling across a beast they can't handle or see. It's marked as government land, with tall fences and razor wire. The only way in or out in the tunnel."

"How far away are the barracks?" I asked, in awe.

"Several miles. Much too far to walk." He assured me. "We have golf buggies."

"Golf buggies," I replied dryly.

"Something funny?"

"No." I couldn't imagine Dean Hart, who looked like he competed in Strong Man competitions for a living, lifting tires and pulling cars, riding in a golf buggy.

Dean rode with me to the barracks, making small talk. He liked Italian food, like I did, but expressed that he wasn't very good at cooking it. We discussed my recent project, the pumpkin granny-square crochet cardigan I was working on, and how the store was handling the approaching holiday season. Our conversation was pleasant but superficial, which I needed after such a hectic day.

Dean deposited me into a room that looked like it belonged to a college dorm. The evening hit me when Dean closed the door behind him, leaving me alone with blood under my fingernails.

Though the room had an en-suite, I was too tired to do much more than wash the blood from my hands. I soaked my shirt in cold water and scrubbed it with hand soap, removing some of the blood from the fabric, before hanging it to dry on the shower rod.

There was no window, and though I should have felt suffocated by the painted concrete walls and sparse furnishings, being surrounded by earth was somewhat comforting.

I fell asleep shortly after, face first on the pillow. Exhausted.

My mind kept playing the evening over and over, infecting my dreams. Dave, the intruder, played a role as he climbed through the window, but instead of his eyes glazing over me—in my nightmares, he found me.

I woke, unrefreshed and just as tired as before I had fallen asleep.

I debated putting my damp shirt back on when a gentle knock sounded at my door. I pulled my blanket over my chest and cleared my throat.

"Yeah?" I called out.

Mitchell poked his head around the door; he gave me a lopsided smile, brushing his shaggy hair away from his eyes by flicking his chin. His arms were full of fabric.

"Good morning." He nodded, "Can I come in?"

"Sure?" I eyed the clothing in his arms, frowning as I tried to work out what the strange smell was.

Mitchell placed the bundle on the chair in the corner. "Wyatt and I went over to your place in the early hours. We thought you'd want your own clothes."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness." I smiled, feeling my cheeks warm.

"Can't just say thank you, huh?" Mitchell joked.

"Don't thank the Fae," I warned. "It implies a debt."

"Oh, I fully intend to collect on this debt." Mitchell's dark eyes sparkled as he waved to the clothing. "I saw your leftovers in the fridge."

"I'm guessing my fridge is empty now." I joked.

Mitchell winked.

"A Fae debt isn't a laughing matter," I told him, picking at the threads on the blanket. "It's a tangible thing. It can make you do things you don't want to."

"Don't I know it." Mitchell shook his head indulgently. "Fae bargains, debts, and boons are the bane of my existence. Besides, you didn't answer my question. You cook?"

"I cook." I agreed. "I like... Making things. Putting the ingredients together and seeing a finished project that people can enjoy. Cooking allows for a bit of flare. Some margin for error. Baking is a whole different ballgame, but I can cook. The same goes for sewing and knitting. Cleaning. It's gratifying to see the results of your labor, you know?"

"I'll take your word for it, Doll." Mitchell perched on the edge of the bed. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough. I've been worried about Kaleb. And the house. The window was broken, and I half expect Joel to come back and trash the place."

"Wyatt stayed back and boarded up the window," Mitchell told me. "You should really get an alarm."

"I have wards." I hedged. "Blood and bone. Blood and runes for the thresholds and bone buried around the perimeter. Anyone that wishes harm can't cross the line."

"Those men certainly wished you harm last night." Mitchell's fist clenched, though his expression remained clear.

"I don't know what happened," I murmured.

"I'll tell Wyatt to look for a break in the wards."

"Joel wouldn't know about wards," I argued.

"And the others? Would they know?" Mitchell parried back.

I shook my head, pushing my fingers through my tangled dark hair. "I don't know," I admitted. "Ever since he started going to those meetings, he changed."

"Dean mentioned some of your difficulties," Mitchell admitted.

"After I lost the baby," I took a shaking breath, "he found comfort in God at the First Baptist. I couldn't find comfort in a god that let me carry a child for four months, only to take them from me before they were born."

Mitchell inhaled a sharp breath.

"I blamed God. Joel blamed me." I told Mitchell. "But what happened, happened. There's no changing it. Joel got his wish in the end. He will have a new family with Faith, and I'll just..."

"You'll just what?" Mitchell prompted.

I sucked my bottom lip between my teeth, trying to will away my stinging eyes. "Look at me, being all pathetic. One little break-in, and I lose all my sense."

"They had guns, Mallory," Mitchell said sternly. "I'm glad you decided to stay here instead of returning home."

"I'm a right state." I wiped my eye with my wrist. "I didn't even have time to leave a sign on the store."

"People will understand," Mitchell assured me. "Besides, Dean asked me to tell you the meeting is in an hour."

"I've still got blood under my fingernails." I protested.

"Better hurry up and shower then." Mitchell waggled his brows.

"Dean told me you're his beta." I looked him up and down. "Is this part of your job? Welcoming the wayward strays. Orientation at the werewolf compound?"

Mitchell threw his head back and let out a loud bark of laughter. "That's me. All I need is a name badge and a tour guide flag."

I rolled my eyes. "Who is coming to the meeting? Do I even need to go?"

"The Witches. One of the demons. All of the wolves." Mitchell listed off. "Can you think of anything out of place in the last few weeks?"

"Is this meeting about my stalker or about the HAOB?" I wondered.

"Both." Mitchell shrugged. "We don't hide our presence in Locket. The town was formed many years before humans settled here. If they have an issue with the wolves, witches, and demons, maybe it's time they moved."

"It seems like they have an issue with the Fae." I pointed out. "Because I was the only one targeted."

Mitchell stepped further into the room, sitting on the end of the bed. "Can you walk me through that?" He asked. "Your husband was not aware of your Sídhe lineage. Your magic. But something changed."

"Do you remember Faith?" I asked. "The woman who came into the store?" Mitchell had been my bodyguard at the time.

"Woman?" His nose wrinkled. "I doubt she's legally able to drink."

"Well, no. She isn't." I sighed. "Joel took a life insurance policy out on me. A lot of money, too. I doubt he planned to kill me himself, but I found the policy documents. I found the texts and hidden photo album on his phone. I confronted him, and it just went... wrong ."

"He's hit you before?" Mitchell's fist clenched.

"Not hit ." I rushed to say. "Not really. He'd push me, sometimes into a doorframe or down a step. Or use his shoulder to bump me out of the way. He was rude. He was always angry, but he never hit me. Not really. The kind of thing that could be explained as an accident. When I confronted him that day, he changed. He wasn't Joel anymore. He's always been angry. But I'd never seen him like that before."

"What happened?" Mitchell's brow furrowed.

"He put his hands around my throat." I clutched the blankets tighter. "He was going to kill me. I know he was. I just held my breath. Played dead."

"And when you didn't die?" Mitchell pressed, frowning. "He decided you were some unnatural thing? Some kind of demon?"

"I lay on the floor. As still as I could, I listened to Joel pack his bags. He called her on the phone." I continued, staring at a spot on the wall. "He told Faith he loved her and was finally free." I held up my hand, showing my fingers. "He took the wedding ring off my finger, and it took everything I had to lay there. Limp. Dead. He draped a sheet over me before he left."

Mitchell cursed, pressing his fist to his mouth.

"He tried to come back inside." I let out a bitter laugh. "He must have forgotten something. Phone. Keys. Wallet? I don't even know. He got out of his car. I watched him from the window. I couldn't let him back in the house."

"Your wards?" Mitchell guessed.

"No." I let the word hang in the air. "No. I lost control. I..." I shook my head to clear it. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Mitchell eyed me, trying to gauge my emotions, but I couldn't tell him.

I couldn't .

Mitchell cleared his throat, pointing to the scar on his cheek. "Dean said you asked about my scar." His tone was pithy, attempting to lighten the mood.

My eyes widened. "I didn't mean—"

Mitchell waved his hand, dismissing my discomfort. "Did Kaleb tell you about the Huntsman?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"The Huntsman doesn't choose just any wolf you know. We're all wrapped up in his curse and can be called anytime, but he chooses the fastest. The strongest. The ones with something to prove." Mitchell knotted his hands together and looked down to his lap. He laughed, the sound sardonic and empty. "He chose my brother. My twin. Milo."

I remained silent, watching as grief flashed over his scarred face. "We lived in Kansas. A small little pack, a few families." He shrugged, his gaze fixed on his hands. "The Huntsman had to replace a wolf. He has to have a hundred in his retinue. Fuck knows why. Maybe it's something to do with the gods. Maybe it's just OCD. The Huntsman came for a wolf, and we all lined up like a firing squad, ready to meet our doom. He picked Milo, and off he went."

"What happened next?"

The muscle in his face jerked. "Milo wasn't a good fighter. He hated violence. He cried at scary movies. Hell, he cried when watching the news for Pete's sake." Mitchell's nose wrinkled. "Milo needed me. I didn't know why the Huntsman chose him and not me. I'd been training since I could walk. Swordsmanship. Martial arts. Boxing. I was the jock, and Milo dressed as Doctor Who on Halloween. One of the obscure ones with a scarf no one knew the name of."

"Tom Baker?" My nose wrinkled.

Mitchell chuckled, shaking his head. "You would have got on. Kaleb told me about the hamsters. He used to collect things like that, too. Figurines from Japanese cartoons."

"Anime." I supplied.

Mitchell rolled his eyes but kept speaking. "Everyone knows about the Gate in Locket. About the Huntsman throwing away his Hounds like cannon fodder. The older wolves would pray to Lugh and the Wolf Lord—any assignment but the Gate. The Gate is a death sentence. Stationed at the rip between worlds."

"Our picture-perfect town." I joked.

"I came to Locket and begged Dean to let me stay." Mitchell ignored me. "I had no idea where Milo was stationed, but if the Huntsman put him in Locket, I could protect him. I didn't have to be a hound to hunt monsters."

"You patrolled the Gate willingly?" My brows threatened to disappear into my hairline.

"The Huntsman has fae that work for him." Mitchell jerked his chin, meeting my eyes. "I killed one. It wasn't an accident."

"What kind of creature?"

"The Huntsman has several Fae he keeps close. The Dullahan—the Headless Horseman. A Redcap named Dorly. A soothsayer with teeth of iron." Mitchell listed. "They are his agents. He sent the Redcap to Locket, and he killed a boy. We let him walk the town because he belonged to the Huntsman, unlike one of the feral beasts coming through the Gate. But Dorly came and took a child. He was scouting for something and got hungry ."

It took everything in me not to gag, but my mouth tasted of metal, and my vision clouded with anger. "He ate a child?"

"The Tanner boy." Mitchell nodded. "A couple of years ago."

"I heard about that," I gestured to the clothes on the chair, and Mitchell passed them over, giving me his back as I pulled one of my loose dresses over my head. When dressed, I stood up and placed my hand on Mitchell's shoulder. "It wasn't your fault. Dorly killed the child. Not you." I struggled to remember what I knew about redcaps. "Redcaps dip their clothes in their kills, don't they? They paint their hats red with blood."

"Yes." Mitchell's scarred lip twitched in distaste. "Redcaps are Wild Fae. Like the Selkies, Kelpies, Hags and Wolfkin. Capable of higher thought. They are not known to hunt humans; they are most regarded for their skill in battle. Ruthless and clever."

"But Dorly ate a child?"

"Yes." Mitchell rubbed his thumb over his good eye. "Redcaps live and hunt in hordes. They have their own society and ranks, much like the Wolfkin. Dorly aided the Huntsman during the war. He was his horde's sole survivor, and the Huntsman rewarded him for his bravery and cunning. Redcaps do not do well when separated from their hordes. The working theory was that Dorly had been alone too long. Given free reign to do whatever he liked."

Mitchell continued speaking, his voice empty of emotion. I knew why he was telling me all of this. To make me feel better for sharing about Joel, to show I wasn't alone even though I felt lost. Empty.

"The Huntsman came to Locket, full of piss and vinegar. Angry that his agent had been killed." Mitchell sneered. "I'd succeeded in getting his attention."

"Was Milo with him?" I wondered. "As one of his wolves?"

Mitchell shook his head. "The Huntsman took his pound of flesh for killing Dorly." He waved his hand toward his face. "I thought he would kill me, but he said he had an opening. He needed a wolf."

"He has to have a hundred hounds." I echoed.

Mitchell wordlessly agreed. "It seemed there was an opening. One of his wolves had been killed a few days before." His voice was empty of emotion. "It seemed that Milo had failed to return from a hunt during Samhain. I was too late to save my brother, so I took his place."