Chapter 197: Be The Fox
The square was an offensive house. Within minutes, twenty members of the Feral Convoy were nothing but broken husks in the dust. The husbands were moving like slaughterhouse machinery, their sanity fraying with every second she was missing.
Damien was about to lunge for a cowering Jackal, not the one who took her, but a scout, when a massive, heavy hand slammed onto his shoulder.
"Enough!" Voss roared. The wolf beastman, a living tank with amber eyes that glowed like forge fires, stood in the centre of the madness. His Weapon Manifestation flickered, a massive iron shield appearing in his hand to block a stray bolt of energy. He looked at Damien, then at Exile, who was currently trying to crush a stone building just because he thought she might be behind it.
"Look at yourselves!" Voss’s voice carried the weight of a true Alpha. "You’re losing the trail because you’re too busy painting the town red! If she’s gone, we need to move, not mourn!"
Voss stepped toward Exile, his strength manifesting as a calming, grounding aura. He grabbed the thrashing anaconda by the thick of its neck. "Exile! Look at me! You are a hunter, not a butcher! Find her scent or get out of the way!"
Exile hissed, his serpentine body coiling tightly, wild-eyed and nearly blind with rage. Voss did not release his grip until Exile’s violent movements slowed. Gradually, the killer instinct in Exile’s eyes faded, replaced by the focused intent of a tracker.
At the edge of the square,
Ivan stood still. The lion beastman, usually stoic, tilted his head and flared his nostrils. His elite team stood behind him, silent and unmoving.
"The wind is shifting," Ivan muttered, his voice low and dangerous.
Victor landed beside him, his frost-covered wings retracting. "Did you find it?"
Ivan didn’t answer at once. He walked to a narrow alley leading north. He knelt, pressing his hand to the dirt. The others gathered, air thick with metal and copper.
Even Damien calmed, pulling shadows back, though his hands still shook.
"The Jackal’s space jump was sloppy," Ivan said, his golden eyes narrowing. "He was carrying too much weight. He leaked. Jasmine... and a hint of something sweet. Like a fox in the sun."
Exile let out a low, vibrating hum. He smelled it too—the faint ghost of a scent beneath the stench of the dead Convoy. Exile’s gaze tracked the source as it wound toward the highest peak, where a hidden bunker sat nestled into the cliffside.
"They didn’t just take her to a leader," Ivan said, voice dropping. "They took her to the old mines. They’ll trade her tonight."
Victor’s hand tightened into a fist, fire and ice swirling in his palm until they formed a jagged, unstable spear of pure energy. "Then we don’t just kill them, we erase the mountain."
The pack moved as one, a silent, lethal shadow flowing out of the decimated town square. They were no longer the tattered caravan of survivors they had been that morning. They were a war party.
Miles away, in a cold, damp room smelling of rusted iron and old grease, the violet light of a containment field flickered.
Felicity woke up panting.
The air in the containment cell was thick with the scent of damp earth and oxidised metal, a stagnant, heavy atmosphere that pressed against Felicity’s lungs. When her eyes snapped open, the first thing she felt was the cold. It wasn’t the clean, mountain chill of the Southern Highlands; it was the biting, artificial cold of a bunker buried deep beneath the earth.
She sat up with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers curling around the smooth, familiar surface of the cracked marble hanging from its cord. It was still there.
She was still her.
She reached out with her senses, her fox ears, hidden but straining—trying to find the anchor of her team, her pack. She searched for the nuclear heat of Victor, the heavy, comforting weight of Exile’s presence.
There was nothing.
The silence was absolute, a void that made her stomach churn. For the first time in months, she was truly alone. She was surrounded by the scent of grease, old sweat, and a sharp, musky odour that she realised belonged to her captor.
My husband’s... the team... they must be tearing Kangaroo Valley apart, she thought, a shudder rippling through her frame. She could almost see Victor’s eyes turning that hollow, terrifying white. She could imagine Damien’s shadow-magic devouring the town. They were probably losing their minds, and that thought scared her almost as much as her current predicament. If she didn’t get back to them soon, there wouldn’t be a valley left to save.
She looked around the dim space. It was a makeshift cell in what looked like an old mining office. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by a single, flickering lantern. And there, leaning against the heavy iron door, was the Jackal.
He wasn’t a brute like Krux. He stood about 6’1", with a lean, wiry build that reminded her of a high-end athlete or a "hot IT guy" from the old world. He had messy, sand-colored hair and sharp, intelligent eyes that flickered with a restless, spatial energy. He was Level 92—a power-house in his own right, but a different breed of dangerous. He didn’t look like he would break her bones; he looked like he would simply delete her from existence.
Felicity felt a wave of genuine repulsion roll through her. After months of being surrounded by men built like literal fridges—men with shoulders broad enough to carry the world and muscles that felt like carved granite, this lean, twitchy man felt... wrong. He lacked the grounded, heavy presence of her husbands. But she swallowed the bile in her throat.
I’ve been here before, she reminded herself, her mind flashing back to the terror of Tidehaven. I know how to do this. I have to be the fox.