Goddess Of The Underworld (Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 132

Chapter 132

Noah

Envy sleeps hard, blanket to her chin, one hand on her belly. She needed this nap. We make the kingdom quiet on purpose. Xavier leaves water on the table. Haiden writes a note to let her know where we are. Levi checks the thermostat and leaves it warm. Elliot and Macey build a harbor out of cushions. Layah parks beside them, chin on paws, always

watching.

I take the corridor loop under the throne room with Hawk stretching in my skin. He likes this, stone, distance, the hum of the Underworld breathing. By the storage hall Levi’s decoy door purrs, content. Nothing curious at its edges.

The mindlink hits like a knuckle on glass.

‘Noah“. Tommy, topside. Short on breath. “North fence, orchard run. Ten, no, twelve. Moving wrong. We’re engaged.”

I stop. Hawk lifts his head and starts to pace. “We go.”

Copy,” I send. “Hold the line. Don’t overextend. Where’s Zion’s pair?”

On your creek line. We’re pulling them in.” A beat.” Ash and river on the wind.”

I’m on my way.” I turn back down the hall. “Levi,” I say out loud and on the link.

Listening,” Levi answers from two rooms over.

Tommy’s fence. Orchard run. Twelve. I’m going up.”

I’ll hold here,” he says. “I’ve got the decoy and the kids‘ door. Haiden’s outside I’ll link

im.”

Do it,” I say. “Let Envy sleep.”

[awk comes up fast. I shift in the hall and take the stairs three at a time, claws ringing on tone, then nothing as the portal takes me.

land in the orchard and the world is sound. Whistles. Snarls. The hard thunk of bodies

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Chapter 132

into boards. Apples knocked down and rolling underfoot. The smell hits a half second

later, mud and ash over fur, metallic like rain on old iron. Wrong.

Hawk goes low and long. We clear the first row of trees and see them. Twelve. Coats dirty,

eyes glassy. They move like they’re listening to someone on the other side of a window. Our warriors are tight, three–and–three, no gaps. Zion’s pair is already sliding to the flank, good.

“Don’t chase,” Tommy calls, not loud and everyone hears him anyway. “Drag and pin.”

I hit the first rogue from the side, shoulder to ribs, take his feet out without breaking his leg. He snaps at air. Up close I see ash ground into the fur along his jawline, a smear under one eye. He smells like river and candle ends and something sweet gone wrong. “Left:, Hawk warns. We pivot. Another wolf lunges and then, stops. Not a check. A full halt like a leash got yanked. He blinks like waking and then surges past me, eyes empty, headed for the gap that isn’t there. Aleisha steps in, hooks his front legs, and drops him

into a hold.

“Under the bridge,” Tommy throws me, chin flick to the north. Saw a coat.”

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Human. Not wolf. The word doesn’t go out loud. Hawk wants the run. I give it to him. We

break off the main tangle and take the service path, dirt slick, reeds whispering. The humming is there if you don’t try to hear it, thread–thin, steady, like someone**

remembering a tune and not caring if the notes are wrong. We hit the culvert and the world narrows. Shade. Drip. A tin can on a string tied to the grate, spinning slow, the

sound coming from inside it like a caught insect. At the far edge, a figure in a coat the

color of old paper slides up the bank and into brush. They’re fast. Not wolf–fast. Human- running–fast, which is clumsy and loud in reeds.

We go. Up the bank. Over the low fence. We catch a sleeve just shy of the treeline and it tears off in my teeth. White fabric, ash rubbed into the cuff. The figure doesn’t look back. They vanish into sumac and the old quarry trail where we can’t run without announcing ourselves to the whole county. I drop the sleeve. We listen. The humming fades. Back at the culvert, I nose the can without touching the metal. Inside: a little twist of wire and bone suspended on a thread, a crescent cut through a straight sliver, the same mark as the bridge post. The can makes the sound when the wind hits it. Cheap, ugly lure. Smart.

Aleisha arrives at my shoulder, breath easy, eyes hard. “Saw the coat?”

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We bag two more off the grate, tiny vials with grit clinging to glass, a twist of hair bound with red thread that isn’t ours, a scrap of paper with a single word scrawled in a tight hand: hands.

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