He heard her scream his name. His name. It echoed through him and he lost all control as they charged across a model home west of that shit’s house. Evershaw flew into his wolf form without conscious thought and broke through the door, ignoring the pain of a battered shoulder and splinters in his paws and chest. Deirdre. Deirdre was there.

He smelled her everywhere in the air, along with hints of awful magic and smoke, and he paused only long enough to inhale deeply before his claws tore into the carpet and launched him at a door that led to a basement. He didn’t give a shit where anyone else was in the house, nor that Smith floated through the still-closed door like it didn’t exist. All that mattered was Deirdre.

Evershaw launched off a wall and snarled as he caught sight of Deirdre through the smoke, tied to a shattered chair, as that son of a bitch stood over her and shouted something that felt heavy in his ears. Magic. He hated that fucking magic.

The scream that ripped out of Deirdre tore through him, rending his heart and soul and the very core of his body. Evershaw leapt and snapped his jaws closed around Palmer’s throat, the kid cutting off with a gurgle, and all the weird static in the air crackled into lightning that illuminated every corner of the basement.

Evershaw staggered as he hit the ground, his chest empty, and it felt as though he’d died—truly died. The world ended inside him as he stared at Deirdre’s prone, still form. The link to her had disappeared; that familiar, irritating little itch in the back of his head that was her faded to nothing.

“No,” he said, and fell to his human knees next to her.

Todd cursed and ran into the room with a fire extinguisher, trying to manage the flames, but Evershaw didn’t give a shit. He’d burn with it all. Deirdre was dead. The son of a bitch killed her, and it was Evershaw’s bad luck that he could only kill the fucker once.

When Smith got too close to his fallen mate, Evershaw growled a warning. The old man wouldn’t touch her. No one would touch her. His throat closed and a keening cry tore free. Evershaw clenched his jaw until his teeth cracked and he saw nothing but bright red sparks.

“She’s not dead,” Smith said. The smoke avoided him, somehow curling away from the bastard as he stood all serene and unruffled in the middle of the darkness, and left a cloud of clear air around the ErlKing. Smith held out his hands, gesturing for Evershaw to hand Deirdre over. “He did something magical. She isn’t dead, just stunned. Let me evaluate the damage.”

“Upstairs,” Todd barked. He tossed aside the spent fire extinguisher and covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. “Get her upstairs, or we’re all going to die from fucking smoke inhalation. If we don’t burn to death. Get moving.”

Evershaw snarled at him in warning, and his cousin backed up a step, though his gaze remained steely. “She lives, Miles. Focus on her. Get Deirdre upstairs. Save her life. She needs fresh air; the medic is already on the way.”

The fog of despair in his thoughts cleared somewhat, and Evershaw found a new goal. Get Deirdre upstairs. She didn’t deserve to lie down there in the darkness and smoke. She needed sunlight and fresh air. He growled and scooped her up, ignoring the lean dark figure of the ErlKing as Smith followed him, and took the stairs three at a time until he shouldered aside the remnants of the basement door.

Sirens rose up far away, and several of the pack handed down buckets of water and hoses and more fire extinguishers, though they went silent and still as he walked past with Deirdre in his arms.

Evershaw made it to the front lawn and the cool grass before he went to his knees once more. He held Deirdre close to his chest and turned his face to hers, squeezing his eyes shut so he wouldn’t see the blank expression on her face. He inhaled from her hair and found that thread of scent that was hers alone. Deirdre. He couldn’t live without her.