Five days later, Ruka and I stood before a roaring bonfire that ripped at the sky with furious orange talons. Even at twenty feet, the heat pressed against us like a physical force, turning the air into liquid shimmer and making sweat bead along my hairline.
The CDC's verdict had been damning. Variola virus—smallpox—contaminating the boxes. I hadn't hesitated. Everything burned. Every blanket that might have warmed a child, every piece of clothing meant for those in need, every cursed item from those tainted boxes—all of it now fuel for the inferno, transforming into ash and bitter smoke.
The FBI was building their case, arrests supposedly imminent. But standing beside my mate, I could feel the fury coiled inside me like a living thing, pulsing with each heartbeat, having nothing to do with the bonfire's scorching waves. My hands were white-knuckled fists. I wanted blood—wanted to face the monster who'd done this.
And I knew Ruka did too.
He reached for my hand, and when our fingers interlaced, the contact sparked something primal between us—a shared rage that needed no words. My grip was fierce, almost painful, but he welcomed it. We stood there like sentries before the flames, watching the illusion of goodwill and hope reduced toembers and smoke, and I felt my own fury rise to meet his like a tide answering the moon.
Someone had weaponized death against our people. Against children. Against the most vulnerable souls under our protection. That someone would answer for it—not in some sterile courtroom months from now, but soon.
The unspoken understanding passed between us in a heartbeat. As one, we pivoted away from the inferno and strode toward the weathered wood barn hunched at the village edge. Our boots struck the gravel in perfect rhythm, a war drum cadence, and I felt my muscles coiling tighter with each step.
The barn's interior swallowed us in shadow and the scent of old hay. The Hummer crouched there like a sleeping beast, all chrome and black paint, waiting to be unleashed. I fished the keys from my pocket, then froze, my hand hovering over the driver's side door as if it had suddenly become electrified.
"What if we're about to blow the FBI's investigation?" The words tumbled out, raw and uncertain. I finally met Ruka's eyes, and I knew he could see the war raging inside me—fury battling caution, instinct wrestling protocol. The FBI agent in charge of the investigation—Agent Morrison—assured me they had zeroed in on the suspect and were coordinating with local law enforcement to make the arrest. But that wasn't enough for me. I wanted to look them in the eye. I wanted them to know that I knew the depth of their evil and that they'd been beaten.
He closed the distance between us, covering my trembling hand with his against the cold metal. "Are you certain? Sure in your suspicion?"
"As certain as my own heartbeat." No tremor in my voice. Pure conviction, forged in fire and death.
He held my gaze, letting the weight of tradition and duty settle between us. "Then you have every right—more than right, the sacred obligation—to face them. This isn't about their laws ortheir courts, Jordan. This is clan law. Blood law. The chieftain's mate protects her people, and no one can strip you of that right."
Something shifted in my chest, doubt burning away like morning mist. I searched his face one last time, and the doubt cleared from my eyes, replaced by determination.
"Let's go," I said, wrenching the door open with renewed purpose.
Ruka circled to the passenger side, claiming his place without hesitation. This was my prey to track, my justice to claim. I'd been the one to follow the thread through the labyrinth, to see the pattern hidden in chaos. And as chieftain's mate and healer, the right to confront those who'd struck at our clan belonged to me.
I needed this. I could feel it in every taut line of my body, in the way my fingers strangled the steering wheel. I needed to stand face-to-face with the monster who'd done this, to demand answers with my own voice.
The Hummer's engine growled to life beneath us, a beast awakening. I commanded it down the serpentine mountain roads with the confidence of someone who knew every curve, every hidden dip in the asphalt. I watched the world streak past my window—towering pines surrendering to jagged stone faces, then reclaiming their territory in an endless dance of forest and rock.
My thoughts refused to settle, circling like ravens over a graveyard.
"Something troubles me," Ruka said, shattering the weighted silence that had settled between us.
I flicked my eyes toward him, then back to the twisting road ahead. "What?"
"If the boxes were packed at the hospital, why did no one there fall ill? Surely whoever handled those contaminatedblankets would have been exposed to the same poison that devastated our people."
The corner of my mouth curved upward—not quite a smile, more like the baring of teeth. "That's actually the detail that convinced me it had to be someone from inside the hospital. Someone who didn't just understand the virus, but knew exactly how to weaponize it without becoming a casualty themselves."
I could feel Ruka's frown deepening as he waited for me to elaborate.
"Smallpox spreads primarily through respiratory droplets—think coughing, sneezing, breathing the same air as someone who's infected. It can also transmit through direct contact with contaminated materials, but here's the crucial part..." I paused, guiding the Hummer through a hairpin turn. "The nurses who packed those boxes? They're all vaccinated against variola. It's mandatory for ER staff at Franklin Memorial—has been for years."
"So they were immune," Ruka said slowly, and I could hear him working through the implications.
"Exactly. But it goes deeper than that. The boxes were assembled in the nurses' station—a controlled, sterile environment. The people handling them weren't sick, weren't actively shedding the virus. They were simply moving contaminated fabric. And as nurses, they would have washed their hands or used sanitizer before touching a patient. Without someone coughing the virus into the air, without that respiratory transmission, it stayed dormant on those blankets. Waiting." My knuckles bleached white against the steering wheel.
"Until my people touched them," Ruka finished, his voice dropping to a growl that rumbled from somewhere primal and ancient.
My nod was sharp, my jaw set like stone. "They knew exactly what they were doing. They knew the hospital staff wouldwalk away unscathed. They knew the virus would survive in the fabric, patient as a spider in its web. And they knew—they knew—that an unvaccinated population would be decimated."
I could feel Ruka's rage coiling beside me, not just heat anymore—molten, volcanic, threatening to break free.
The hospital materialized ahead like a tombstone against the mountains, its sterile white walls a mockery of healing. My hands tightened on the wheel.