The cookies sat on our granite countertop, smelling of vanilla, brown sugar, and a terrifyingly absolute peace. Mrs. Gable had not moved from the porch. She stood behind the screen door, her hands folded over her apron, her eyes fixed on Maya with the blank, serene adoration of a saint carved from marble. Beyond her, the sidewalk was no longer a public thoroughfare. It had become a gallery. Six of our neighbors were standing in the afternoon sun, not talking, not moving, simply breathing in the invisible violet mist that my daughter was exhaling into the autumn air.Inside, the house felt like a pressurized tank. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator, but it was being drowned out by a deeper sound: the collective heartbeat of Oak Creek."They are waiting for a command," Killian said, his voice low and gravelly. He was standing in the shadows of the hallway, his hands clenched so tight his knuckles were white. Without his wolf, he could not smell their intent, but his instincts as a
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