(Dorian's Perspective)
Witchblood.
Linden blood.
Well, this keeps getting better and better.
My gaze flicks to the crowding, writhing horde of Rényú, not one of them uttering a single intelligible sound. Yet at least half of them are descendants of Agatha Linden and her family. And the witch-gifted charm of her great-grandaughter, Mattie, to our father prevents anyone blood-bound to a MacOmb alpha of Desert pack from harming even one of them.
Jesus fⴎcking Christ, we are so screwed.
Aiming at Silas with her scepter, Muirgen bathes his floundering body in an ugly orange gleam.
Thrashing, he rolls to his belly, locking gazes with me. I cringe and stare, horrified, as the familiar golden spark of the MacOmb alpha bloodline in his irises is slowly overwhelmed with Muirgen's black magic, turning his eyes the same malevolent orange shade as hers.
