Page 86 of A Wolfe in the Woods

I felt a flush wind its way up my neck. She could tell?

Jonathan exhaled, long and low. He looked down at me, his lips quirking slightly, his eyes holding mine, a shared secret floated between us. “That’s a long story.”

The fire had burned low, casting soft light across the main reception cabin’s kitchen. Supper was mostly gone—just the leftovers of roasted root vegetables on a platter and a half-empty bottle of dark elderflower wine between our glasses.

Jonathan sat to my left, between May and me, his arm resting across the table, the gash along his forearm still raw. He was wrapped in one of May’s thick wool shawls, the ends draped low to cover him. May had already threaded a needle, her movements sure and efficient. I had offered to sew the wound for May, but she worked like someone who’d done this a hundred times, as if she could see the flesh clearly—needle flashing in the firelight, thread pulling tight through skin with small, practiced tugs.

On the stove behind her, the teapot began to hiss, steam spitting out in thin, wild ribbons. Without looking or breaking the steady rhythm of her stitching, she flicked her fingers in its direction.

The sound stopped and the steam quieted. I looked at kettle for a long moment before turning back to May, swallowing. Maybe I should have suspected before, but it was only too apparent now.

Jonathan barely winced, though his jaw clenched once.

As if that small tensing was a bellow, May chided, “Oh, hush. I’ve mended worse on you than this.” She looped the thread once more, knotting it with a flick of her fingers. Then she glanced toward me with a knowing half smile. “This ain’t his first stitch and sure won’t be his last.”

The will-o’-the-wisp flame from earlier still lingered faintly on the counter beside her, hovering in place like a tame ember that hadn’t decided to die. It pulsed gently, alive.

I hadn’t asked how the flame had appeared out of thin air—but I didn’t need to. Not anymore.

May wasn’t just a woman who lived in the woods. There was something older in her bones. Something that listened when the trees spoke and answered back.

For a long moment, I just watched her, listening to the rhythmic sound of needle and breath, the faint crackle of the fire. Then, gently, I said, “May…you’re not human, are you?”

Was that rude to ask outright? I couldn’t be sure. But my eyes kept flicking to the glowing wisp, the unspoken question tangling on my tongue until I’d been brave enough to ask it. It made sense. The way the rooms seemed to change. The tingle of magic that caressed my flesh. Magic that was like a fine dusting that covered the shelves and knickknacks in the reception cabin.

Though blind, May could see more than anyone.

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, not quite a denial.

She didn’t look up as she answered, “Didn’t say I was, dear.”

I watched her, strangely transfixed. The way her hands moved—precise, practiced. The act felt more ritual than medical. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the woody sweetness of the fire, and I couldn’t tell which unsettled me more. Jonathan didn’t complain anymore, didn’t even look at what she was doing. There was a quiet understanding between them. It dawned on me then that this wasn’t new to either of them. Blood. Pain. Secrets sewn shut as easily as skin.

Her tone warmed with a knowing tilt. “And after the day you’ve had, you should know by now—not everything here is what it seems.”

I hesitated, glancing toward the faint glow of the wisp before looking back at her. “Then why hide it?”

She gave a small huff. “Ain’t hidin’. Just don’t wave it around.” Her needle never paused. “That’s the trouble nowadays. Folks always needin’ to know what ya stand for, which goddess ya pray to…what ya do in the dark. Ain’t no one’s business but my own.”

I understood her instinct toward privacy. Witches had been as persecuted as Lycans throughout the centuries. People feared strength and power. Together? Witches and wolves were…formidable.

I recalled the Whispering Woods, the voice in the darkness. Strangely, for the first time, I thought of our harvested berries. Had any survived the mad raceaway? I couldn’t remember.

I flicked a glance toward Jonathan, saw that his blue eyes were pinned on me, watching me process May’s words. It wasn’t so long ago when those eyes had been half-lidded, bright and feral in his pleasure. My fingers curled into my palms beneath the table.

“What…” I cleared my throat when it the word came out like a croak. “What was that place?”

May’s voice dropped low, like the walls were listening, still hunched over Jonathan’s arm.

“There are countless stories,” she said. “Of nymphs, sprites, or things that mimic. Some say even lost souls that can’t find rest. Others say things older yet, things that were never human to begin with. Spirits, tricksters, shadows that wear the voices of those you love.”

Her eyes flicked toward the window, toward the black silhouette of the woods. “The Whispering Woods is very different from the rest of this area. The air bends sound, warps it. You’ll hear your own name. Or your mother’s voice…or a cry of a lost one. That’s its trick. It knows what would make ya turn your head to look.”

A silence stretched. Even the fire seemed to hush. I remembered the woman’s voice, so clear, so strong. Like it was spoken next to me instead of weaving through the trees like a tapestry.

“That Circle of Thornblood sits at its heart. The Crown Stones are there. Seven of ’em. Tall and jagged, set in a ring, like teeth in a broken jaw. Uneven, misshapen, each carved with unknown symbols that shift if ya stare too long. A ruin, half-swallowed by moss an’ fog. But it ain’t just a pile of rock, mind ya. That place was a threshold. A crossin’. The Immortals went down into it, into the catacombs that ran deeper than the mine shafts ever touched. Some never came back. It’s sacred ground. Even birds won’t fly above it since the air inside the circle don’t move. Wind doesn’t pass through. Even the forest leans away from it—did ya notice?”

I’d been a little too preoccupied with the woman’s voice and Jonathan’s shift to notice, I realized.