She stirred and he froze, arms still tight around her, and the witch’s eyes fluttered as she tried to open them. Evershaw held his breath and brushed the hair from her face. “Deirdre. Deirdre, can you hear me?”

Smith approached from behind and Evershaw growled to warn him off. The ErlKing retreated to a safe distance, though he cleared his throat. “Evershaw, there is something—”

Evershaw’s snarling grew louder and the old man cut off, then the alpha could turn his attention back to his mate. Even though he didn’t understand what had happened, she was still his mate. That much would always be true. He inhaled from her over and over, desperate to convince himself that she was still there, she was still her. Even if the connection that made it clear she was his mate had been severed. Somehow.

God help him, for a moment he thought he’d lost her and wanted to die. He’d wanted to walk into traffic and end it, because life without those eyes and that smile and that attitude... A knot tied his throat and made it impossible to talk, so he just smiled and brushed the back of his knuckles against her cheek. “Deirdre.”

Something wasn’t right. Something definitely wasn’t right. She’d lost the spark that made her his, that ignited the fire in his chest. The wolf howled in mourning.

He sat her up and let her look around, though she didn’t turn. She didn’t display any interest in the house burning behind him or the pack members hanging back a respectful distance so Evershaw wouldn’t murder them for getting too close to his mate. Deirdre only blinked and breathed. She didn’t even look at him. It was like she was gone; all the spirit and attitude that made up his mate had evaporated and left behind only the shell of her body. 

The awful keening cry rose up in his chest and the pack moved nervously, looking around, and Evershaw held Deirdre closer. She had to be okay. She had to be. 

Smith approached slowly, his face suddenly weathered like an ancient oak tree, but sat on his heels well beyond arm’s reach. “Deirdre.” 

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t respond. Just sat there and let Evershaw hold her. His voice escaped, rough as rocks breaking, “What happened to her? What did that bastard do?” 

“He meant to sever the ties to you and me,” the ErlKing said, then gestured for someone else to approach. A faceless servant, mostly smoke and vapor, floated closer to hand over the ashy remains of a book. “That is what the spell was intended to do. He no doubt saw you and me as a threat to winning her over, or perhaps making her compliant. We will not know for certain.” 

“Then what the fuck happened? He wanted her like this?” Evershaw’s growl twisted into an aggrieved cry. The son of a bitch. The sick son of a bitch stole away the best parts of Deirdre—the maddening attitude and self-confidence, the sassy mouth, the caring heart and soft smile and that sharp look in her eyes when she told him he was being a big baby. 

Smith handed the crumbling book back to the ghostly servant, and both disappeared into nothingness. “Perhaps. I do not think it went as intended. Can you still feel a bond with her?” 

“No,” Evershaw said. He stroked the hair back from her face, hoping that the gesture would reawaken her irritation. But she remained passive and silent. “It was like…she died. She just disappeared out of the pack bond, out of our bond, and... I lost my mate. I lost her.” 

“She is not gone,” Smith said gently. “She is here. I do not think all of her has been cast adrift by the miscast spell. I will research and try to understand what this is. I do not know how to fix this, but I will do everything in my power to bring her back.” 

Evershaw rested his forehead against Deirdre’s shoulder, not caring that his pack watched him mourn the loss of his mate while she sat in his lap, and couldn’t risk looking at Mercy’s tearstained face. “What am I supposed to do now? What…where do we go from here?”

“Take her home,” Smith said. He rose and stepped back. “Her home, ideally. Surround her with familiar things. Reach out to her aunt to see if there is a witchcraft remedy, or something in their books that will facilitate healing. Talk to her. Feed her. And do not lose hope. We can fix this.” 

Evershaw couldn’t entertain the alternative, but the alpha part of him knew he might have to face the cold reality of living without his mate. “And if we can’t?” 

“We can. Do not lose hope. I will tell you when it is time to lose hope.” 

He didn’t like that. He didn’t like that at all. His thoughts drifted to the favors he could call in among the shifters. Maybe Rafe’s freaky mate with the weird powers could help, or Benedict Chase’s part-Medusa mate with the magic blood that healed everything. There weren’t physical wounds on her, but maybe it worked on mental trauma or spiritual issues or whatever the fuck stole Deirdre away. 

Evershaw didn’t look up as Smith retreated and disappeared into thin air, nor as Todd approached and muttered about fire trucks arriving and needing to get moving. He stood, cradling Deirdre, and strode over to the waiting SUV. The pack dispersed, some running off in wolf form, and they avoided the police cars and fire trucks that flooded the street. Evershaw didn’t care. He held Deirdre in the back seat of the SUV and prayed for the first time that he could remember in a very long time. 

He needed her. It wasn’t like when Ashley left. Losing Deirdre would end him. He wouldn’t get over her; there wasn’t a way to carry on and start over. He’d walk into the woods and have done with it. Todd could lead the pack. All Evershaw needed was his witch. He closed his eyes and squeezed her tight to his side. Maybe Smith was right and he just needed to hope. 

But deep in his chest, in his heart of hearts, he feared they were already too late.