leather pack to reveal tufts of fur, oils, and all sorts of other things he’ll need for tonight’s ceremony. Then he walks over to the large bonfire, stopping just in front of it, and sets down his sacred haul. Meticulously, he spreads out several small pots filled with dried herbs, powders, and other mysterious things that those with magic know about, while those that don’t never question.
As quick as a stalked hare, the Weaver pulls an arm-length log from the burning fire, not even flinching as it sparks and sputters in protest. A hush further blankets the pack as he lowers the burning wood to the things he gathered and sets the contents of the pots aflame. Immediately, large plumes of white musky smoke pour out from the bowls, and the Weaver hands the torch off to Seamus.
I watch the beta, wondering if he’s had a chance to tattle on me yet. When I look away from him, my gaze accidentally lands on Burke, but to my dismay, he’s already watching me. I try to read what’s swimming in those inky, conniving depths, but it’s impossible to know the inner workings of such a tainted mind. If he knows what I was saying about him, he doesn’t let on, and even though I know I should drop my gaze and not provoke him, something in me refuses to do it.
Just this once, I don’t want to feign submission. I stare at him for what I hope is the last time. Soon, I’ll no longer be forced to cater to his ego for the sake of flying under the radar. For whatever reason, tonight, I want him to feel the weight of my judgment and scorn, to know that I don’t bow down to him and never will. I want him to see the girl I’ve been forced to hide, the one I decided deserves to be free.
Our eyes stay locked on each other for a long moment. I can tell he’s waiting for me to avert my gaze like I always do, but it’s not going to happen this time. Whether I make it out of this pack alive or dead, I’m done pretending to have any respect for this wolf and the wolves that follow him.
Weaver Yaromir starts to chant the magical words of the wolf spirits, and Burke is forced to break my gaze when he’s handed something. I quickly get to my feet while his back is turned and slip amidst the group of people who have already gotten up from their tables to gather around. As soon as his attention comes back, he’ll be searching me out instead of paying attention to the ceremony. Good. Maybe then the Spirit Weaver will start to see the cracks in the perfect alpha facade.
Several older members of the pack start to hum in harmony, lending their voices to the steady chant spilling from Yaromir’s mouth. The eerie wolfish music mixes with the magic smoke that carries the smell of bay leaves, angelica, and calendula. The Weaver picks up an apparatus that looks very similar to a priest’s aspergillum, but instead of sprinkling holy water, he whirls it around his head, spilling blessed and secretly curated oil out in arced circles around him. Then he raises a small ball and chain and whips it expertly around his head, creating an unearthly whistle to aid the call of the spirits. If I listen closely, it’s almost as though I can hear the lonely note of a single wolf calling to the moon.
The melodic words of shifter magic take on a more urgent note, and chills crawl up my arms as a wind whips around the pack playfully, like the spirits are here to cavort. People hoot and children laugh while they start to chase the unseen and howl into the darkening night, dreaming of the day it will be their turn.
Excitement ripples through the crowd in a wave, and awe fills the faces of so many in the pack as Weaver Yaromir’s piercing voice starts to call out the invitation to the spirits that belong to those of us participating tonight.
He’s speaking in a language I don’t know, one I’m not even sure is really used anymore other than for the spirits. But regardless of my inability to understand what’s being said word for word, it’s impossible not to see the beauty and raw power in what’s happening. The Spirit Weaver then starts to do exactly what his title suggests and