The Witch And The Werewolf

Chapter One: The Cabin Meeting

The cabin smelled like pine resin, old wood smoke, and something faintly metallic that Silas couldn't quite place—probably the residue of whatever wards River's uncle had layered over the property decades ago. Silas stood on the sagging porch, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, and watched Damian haul another duffel bag from the back of River's ancient Jeep. The October air bit at his cheeks, sharp enough to sting but not quite cold enough to justify going inside yet.

"You planning to help anytime this century?" Damian called, dropping the bag with a theatrical grunt.

Silas pulled out his phone. "I'm providing moral support."

"That's what you said twenty minutes ago."

"And I'm still providing it. Consistently. That's called dedication."

Damian flipped him off with both hands, which was impressive given he was also trying to balance a cooler against his hip. Caleb appeared from around the side of the cabin, mortal and earnest and somehow still looking like he'd stepped out of a New England tourism ad despite the smudge of dirt across his forehead.

"There's a whole family of raccoons living under the back deck," Caleb announced. "River says we should leave them alone, but I'm pretty sure one of them hissed at me."

"They can sense weakness," Silas said without looking up from his phone.

"Silas."

"What? I'm not wrong."

The app on his screen—Nightcall, though everyone still called it supernatural Grindr because that's essentially what it was—refreshed with a soft chime. Three new profiles within a ten-mile radius, which was pretty good for the middle of nowhere. One of them had abs that looked Photoshopped. Another had a bio that just said "here for the weekend, let's make it count," which could mean anything from a casual hookup to a blood ritual, and Silas had learned the hard way not to assume.

The third profile made him pause.

The photo showed a guy with dark curls falling into warm brown eyes, a shy half-smile, and the kind of bone structure that made Silas's fingers itch to trace it. The bio was sparse: Luca, 26, werewolf, just passing through. No pack affiliation listed, which was either refreshingly independent or a red flag Silas was choosing to ignore.

His weasel familiar, Jinx, poked her head out of his jacket collar and chittered disapprovingly.

"I know," Silas muttered. "I'm working."

Jinx bit his ear.

"Ow—fuck—fine, I'm not working, but neither is anyone else if you think about it. We're on vacation."

"We've been here fifteen minutes," Damian said, appearing at the base of the porch steps with his arms crossed. "You can't call it vacation until we've at least unpacked."

"Watch me."

River emerged from the cabin's interior, all rangy limbs and perpetual bedhead, with Elara trailing behind him. Her pink hair was tied back in a messy bun, and her third eye—the one in the center of her forehead—remained firmly shut, though Silas could see the faint shimmer of its lid catching the afternoon light.

"The kitchen's a disaster," River announced. "But there's running water and the stove works, so we're not completely fucked."

"Yet," Elara added. She had a way of making single words sound ominous. It was one of her more endearing qualities.

"Silas, I swear to god, if you don't put that phone down—" Damian started.

Silas was already typing.