Against Devil

13 - Save my soul

Rain beat against the window like a war drum, steady and unrelenting, as I sat stiffly in the leather chair of the council office, trying not to scowl at the blinking screen in front of me. My hair was pulled into a low, no-nonsense bun, but a strand kept curling near my cheek thanks to the humidity clinging to every damn surface in this building. Everything in this room felt suffocating—from the old oak desk to the endless bickering of the so-called regional advisors chiming in from their comfortable offices, probably dry and sipping tea.

"Bella, if we reroute the eastern lumber shipments through the secondary pass, we can offset the taxation delays—"

"We'd also risk the wood spoiling," I cut in, clicking through the weather logs with a little more force than necessary. "That region's flooded half the time. We'll lose thirty percent of the cargo to rot before it even gets to market."

A long pause followed, broken only by the annoying crackle of someone's mic. Then a dry, tired sigh.

"Well," a man's voice muttered, "perhaps a partial reroute—"

"Or perhaps we stop patching holes in a sinking ship," I snapped, leaning forward. "The trade agreement was drafted before the rivers even shifted. It's outdated. Dangerous. And frankly, insulting to keep pretending otherwise."

Silence. No one argued. Cowards. Gods, I hated council meetings. Like dragging a carcass uphill with nothing but red tape for rope.

I was seconds away from suggesting we light the whole damn timber contract on fire and start from scratch when the door slammed open so hard the hinges screamed.

Marcus stood there, drenched and wild-eyed. Rainwater streamed down his bare chest, carving rivers over old battle scars and pooling around his feet. His chest heaved like he'd run the whole length of the ridge barefoot.

His eyes met mine—glowing faintly with the shimmer of someone whose wolf was clawing just beneath the surface.

"We have a problem," he said. Low. Measured. But the kind of voice that doesn't allow room for questions.

I muted the call without a word and stood. "Emergency on-site. We'll reschedule," I said curtly to the stunned faces on screen before shutting the laptop with a satisfying finality.

"How bad?" I asked, already moving around the desk.

"Attack on the western ridge. Patrol didn't catch the scent until too late. Four of ours pulled into a skirmish."

I grabbed my boots from beside the door and yanked them on, fingers working fast. My white tank was already sticking to my back from the thick air, and the black cargo pants I'd changed into earlier hugged my legs like a second skin. I threw on my rain jacket mid-stride as we charged down the hallway.

"Casualties?" My voice came out too sharp.

Marcus didn't look at me as we jogged. "No deaths. One's torn up pretty bad. He'll make it."

A breath escaped me, sharp and tight. But my pulse didn't slow. Because the last time I'd gotten a call like this—

A tree. A body. Hung upside down like some grotesque offering. Limbs shattered. Eyes bulging. A crimson mark carved into his chest, almost reverent in its symmetry. Whoever did it hadn't killed for necessity.

They'd killed for ritual.

I shook off the image. Now wasn't the time to be haunted.

We sprinted into the forest, the rain slicing sideways through the trees like thrown knives. The air was thick with petrichor, blood, and ozone. Branches slapped against my arms, mud dragged at my steps, but the path to the ridge was burned into my bones.