The Alpha's Runaway Luna
I kiss Lily’s hair while she paints a rock blue and inform Miss Pat she is in charge of the world.
“I already was,” Miss Pat says, unbothered. “Go break their toys.”
The old foundry squats on the river like a memory nobody dusted, with red brick, and broken windows gone to wind and weather. A mezzanine ribcage, bead-web strung where catwalk meets shadow, witch fire runs the strands, faint, but smug.
“Net guns on one,” River murmurs. “No rounds until you have eyes.”
“Cams up,” Becky whispers in my ear. “I’ve got heat ghosts, two, maybe three, moving behind the furnace. Not veil-smart, human form. The ladder’s the only real witch in the room.” Max’s clay rod hums when he lifts it.
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