“Is it the family from the Brennan hollow? The Oklahoma group?”
“Different. These are new. Dawes says they’re not clean.”
Not clean. My stomach drops. Not clean means magic-blooded. Means the protocol applies.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
I drive to the compound. My wolf is quiet. Not settled, just waiting. He knows what’s coming. He’s done this before.
Garrett’s on the porch with Dawes. My brother’s in ranch mode: boots, work shirt, coffee in hand. His face is set in the expression I know as the alpha processing a problem. Dawes stands beside him—mid-twenties, built solid through the chest, carrying himself with the coiled readiness of a wolf who runs boundary patrols the way other people breathe. He’s been on perimeter duty for months, and he’s good at it. Quiet, thorough, doesn’t miss much. He’s holding a thermos and a folded map.
“Talk to me,” I say, taking the porch steps two at a time.
Dawes opens the map. “Found them yesterday evening. South ravine, about two miles past the creek crossing. A couple, two kids. They’ve set up camp in one of the overhangs.”
“How’d you find them?”
“The kids. The older one was playing in the creek. I picked up his scent on the boundary patrol.” Dawes’s expression is neutral, professional. “The scent’s wrong, Conner. Magic signature. Faint, but it’s there. Both the kids.”
Both kids carry magic. My gut tightens. The Oklahoma family in the Brennan hollow was clean. Simple assessment, simple outcome. This is different.
“The parents?” I ask.
“Father reads clean. Mother’s borderline. Hard to tell without getting close.”
“How old are the kids?”
“Dawes thinks the older one’s about eight,” Garrett says. “Younger one’s maybe three.”
Eight. Three.
“Standard protocol,” Garrett says. He drains his coffee. “Assess, confirm, relocate if necessary. You know the drill.”
“Yeah. I know the drill.” But I don’t like it.
“Take Tate with you. He needs the field experience.”
“I don’t need Tate.”
“It’s not about what you need. The kid’s been on watch duty for three months. He needs to see how an assessment works.” Garrett sets his cup on the porch railing. “Take him. Let him learn.”
I don’t argue. There’s no point arguing with Garrett when he’s in operational mode. He’s already moved on to the next problem. I can see it in his eyes, the way the alpha cycles through priorities like a man sorting mail.
“Sure,” I say, moving to turn away.
“And Conner…”
“Yeah?” I glance back at him.
“How’re you getting along with your outsiders? The women in town.” Garrett’s expression is inscrutable.
“Fine,” I answer. “All good.”
“All good?” He cocks his head. “All good in what way?”
“In the good way,” I deadpan. “Been keeping an eye out, like you asked. She’s been keeping her nose clean.”
“That so?”