The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Page count: 8

"Welcome home, love," the man drawled.

Dean went rigid beside her. The arm he'd been using to block her rushed forward, wrapping around her back, hand locking onto her hip. He hauled her into his side, gun raised, eyes narrow and murderous.

Hermione knew that voice. She just couldn't place it—until the figure stepped into the moonlight.

"It's you," Hermione said flatly.

"Miss me, darling?" he smirked.

"Not really. I could go the rest of my life without seeing your ugly mug."

Dean cut her a sideways look. Shock, pride, and worry are all fighting for dominance.

"What?" she asked innocently, keeping the demon in her peripheral vision.

"That's the King of Hell," Dean muttered. "Crowley."

"I know," she replied lightly.

She angled her body subtly, wand hidden behind her back. Crowley's eyes flicked between her and Dean, intrigued.

She tutted. "I do hope you've learned from your past mistakes and at least tied our Sammy to a comfortable chair. Upsetting me right now would be deeply unwise. I'm tired, drained, hungry, and I should be home in bed eating a banoffee muffin."

Crowley arched a brow.

"But instead, I'm in a creepy basement watching someone I care about bleed out. And all over the shirt I bought him, too. Not cheap, by the way. Once we've kicked your arse, you're paying for the shirt."

Dean's grip tightened on her hip.

"So," she continued sweetly, "you have two choices. The easy way: you untie Sam and get out of my sight. Forever. Or the hard way: you untie Sam, I beat you to death with your own limbs, and then you get out of my sight. Forever. Personally? I prefer option two."

"My," Crowley drawled, amused. "You're awfully feisty."

"I'm not someone you underestimate," Hermione said, voice low and edged with steel. "Especially when I'm pissed. And right now? That's entirely your fault. So whatever happens next? That's on you."

He smirked and snapped his fingers.

To anyone else, nothing seemed to change.

To Hermione, everything did.

The air thickened. Pressure crawled up her spine. Every hair on her body stood on end as a cold prickle ghosted down her neck — the primal awareness of prey being watched by a predator.

Her eyes darted around the room. Low growls echoed in the darkness.

Then she saw it.

A massive black dog slunk out of the shadows, stopping obediently at Crowley's side. Hermione's stomach lurched — it looked like a Grimm at first glance, but wrong in all the ways that mattered. Its eyes weren't red but empty, bottomless pits. Its fur wasn't long; it was short, sharp, like bristling spikes ready to shred skin on contact.

Her gaze flicked around the room. Four more closed in from different angles, slow and deliberate. The sixth sat at the top of the stairs, blocking the only exit.

Dean was threatening Crowley — she registered his voice distantly — but Crowley's attention was locked entirely on her reaction, drinking it in with infuriating satisfaction.

"Dean," she said quietly, "what are those things?"

He shot her a confused look. She stepped away from him, spinning so her back covered his, wand raised as she watched two hounds stalk closer from behind.