Page 112 of Alpha's Rejected Warrior
It’s Branson’s voice. Branson’sthoughts, filtering through Rhiannon’s bond with her packmates and somehow reaching me.
The realization hits like cold water. I’m catching echoes of the pack-bond through whatever links me to Rhiannon.
But there’s no time to process it.
Holden is making his move.
Not physically, because he’s still pinned, but the magic bursts from him in a concussive blast that sends Branson, Conan, and Xander flying. They hit the walls with sickening thuds. Stone cracks. Dust rains from the ceiling.
Rhiannon staggers, but holds her ground.
Holden rises, taking his sweet time. Blood drips from his split lip, but he’ssmiling.
“You think you could win that easily?” He brushes dust from his torn robes like it’s a spot of lint he discovered before a formal dinner. “You don’t even understand what you’re fighting.”
The temperature plummets. My breath fogs in the air. Frost crawls across the stone floor in spiraling patterns, radiating outward from Holden’s feet.
“My father’s magic.” Holden spreads his arms, and the runes on the walls blaze to life, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. “Every attack, every failure of the peace talks. It all served one purpose: weakening him. Breaking him down until the transfer ritual could begin.”
. . .transfer. . .no.Rhiannon’s thoughts come in fragmented bursts.
Commander, get yourself under control.Xander’s Alpha voice cuts into our minds.
I watch her force her breathing to slow. I sense her pushing her wolf down like trying to push lightning into a bottle. The connection between us steadies and tightens, snapping back into place like a dislocated joint.
“What did you do to Elder Stasio?” Akila asks.
“My father clings to life in that infirmary bed, surrounded by Lycans who pretend to care. But his power?” Holden’s smile widens. “That left him the moment I finished the incantation, though youalmostinterrupted me. Every ounce of magic he spent decades cultivating now flows through my veins.”
The temperature drops another ten degrees. My teeth start chattering.
“The transfer ritual.” Branson pushes himself up from the rubble. “That’s forbidden to your people. Your father will die.”
“Forbidden by cowards.” Holden’s eyes flash. “My father’s generation forgot what we were. What we couldbecome. He let Lycans slaughter us, enslave us, drive us to the margins of our own lands...and called itpeace.”
The crystals in the hexagon pulse faster now. Brighter. The light they emit has shifted from white to a sickly green that makes my eyes water.
“Once this ritual is complete, his magic becomes permanently mine.” Holden speaks with absolute certainty. “No reversal. No counter-spell. My father’s legacy, centuries of accumulated Shaman power, will be mine forever.”
Xander finds his feet, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. “And then what? You think your people will follow a patricidal warmonger?”
“They’ll follow the one who will help them to avenge the massacre of their Elders.”
The words hang in the frozen air.
“What massacre?” Conan finally asks.
“I’ll summon every Elder to this temple.” Holden’s gaze sweeps across us. “My father’s magic signature is unmistakable. A beacon his fellow Elders won’t ignore. They’ll come running to help him. And I’ll sacrifice them all, frame your pack for my father’s and their deaths.”
“You mean, you’ll slaughter them,” Xander says.
“Sacrificesmust be made for the good of our people.”
“You’d commit genocide against your own people just to incite hatred against us.” Rhiannon’s eyes glow with rage.
“I’d give my people acauseto rally behind.” Holden’s eyes blaze with fanatical light.
“When they find their beloved Elders lifeless, with wounds from claws and fangs, even the most servile Shaman clinging to my father’s false peace will beg me to lead them to war. We will burn your kind to ash.”
