The Werewolf's Bride
Pain flared, hot, bright, but she did not let go.
She slammed his head against stone, once, twice, until his eyes rolled back.
The bundle lay still.
She tore the cloth away, hands shaking.
Inside: a doll, crudely made, stuffed with straw.
Another decoy.
Garrick laughed, weak, bloody, through broken teeth.
“You’re too late,” he rasped. “The real child is already gone. The Order took it hours ago, while you played at ritual.”
Elara’s claws pressed to his throat, drawing blood.