The first offering wasn’t dramatic.
That felt important.
No bonfires.
No chanting.
No blood.
Just work.
“We start small,” Vera said, as Pack members gathered in the clearing by the old stone. “Push. Watch. Listen.”
It was a week after the Calder incident.
Rogues had stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
We’d doubled patrols.
Hayes had practically moved to my porch, muttering about “weak spots” and “soft Alphas.”
Theo had barely slept.
I’d doubled my coffee intake and tried not to grind my teeth at night.
“Remember,” Vera said now, sweeping her gaze over the assembled wolves and humans. “We are not…appeasing. We are…partnering. This is not…debt. It is…exchange.”
“That’s semantics,” Hayes muttered.
“Words matter,” she snapped. “Especially with old magic. It listens.”
We stood in a loose circle.
Theo at my side.
Vera and Hayes near the stone.
Elias, Sam, Nora, Ivy, Jordan.
Doc Hargrove, surprisingly.
Patty.
Thom.
Even Jim with his perpetually dying goats.
Not everyone was there.
Some still clung to the old ways. Some thought this was pointless. Some were afraid.
It was enough.
“We’ve always…thanked…the Ridge,” Vera said, voice carrying. “In our own ways. First hunt. First snow. New pups. We howl. We…give back. But we’ve never…assembled it. Focused it. We’ve let the bond with this place run on…autopilot. Today, we…steer.”
She nodded to me.
My stomach clenched.
“Uh…hi,” I said brilliantly. “I’m…Rory. You know this. I…uh.”
Theo squeezed my hand.
Right.
Words.
“This isn’t…mine,” I said, louder. “This…Ridge. This…Pack. This…magic. It existed before me. Before…Margaret. Before Eliza. It’ll exist after me. After us. But right now, it’s…listening. To me. To us. To what we do. So…we’re going to…offer it something new. Not just…blood. Not just…staying. *Work.* Effort. Intention. We’re going to…see if that…moves the needle.”
“That was very…TED Talk,” Jordan whispered.
“Shut up,” I hissed.
Vera smiled faintly.
“Tonight,” she said, “we offer…healing. Doctor’s work. Doc’s work. Pack’s work. Together.”
We’d chosen a patient.
Not a person.
Not yet.
A tree.
An old pine near the edge of the clearing, struck by lightning the previous summer. Half its branches were dead. The others clung stubbornly to life. The bark was scarred, sap leaking.
“The Ridge is…in this,” Vera said, laying a hand against the trunk. “In every tree. Every rock. Every root. We heal this. We…reinvest.”
I stepped forward.
Laid my palm on the rough bark.
Sap stuck to my skin.
I closed my eyes.
Reached.
Not full pull.
Not like in the field.
A…tap.
Like touching the surface of a river with my toes.
*Here,* I thought, projecting down and out. *We’re here. We’re working. Take this, not just…what bleeds from me.*
Images flickered behind my eyelids.
Trees.
Snow.
Elk.
Wolves.
Hands—human and fur-covered—lifting, mending, tending.
Theo stepped up beside me.
Laid his hand over mine.
His wolf’s presence flared, hot and sharp.
Pack scent wrapped around us.
One by one, others joined.
Hands on bark.
On shoulders.
On arms.
A chain of contact.
Energy thrummed.
Not wild like in the field.
More…steady.
A low hum, like a well-tuned engine.
“Think,” Vera murmured. “On the work you’ve done to keep this place alive. Hunts. Rescues. Births. Burials. Repairs. Think on…effort. Sweat. Tears. Laughter. Give that. Not your…blood. Your…memory. Your…intention.”
I thought of Daisy.
Of the cow in the field.
Of the barn cat I’d spayed.
Of Patty’s dog, now buried under the maple.
Of Rufus, pressing against me when the howls scared me.
Of every set of stitches I’d placed, every wound I’d cleaned, every shot I’d given.
I poured all of that into the touch of my hand on the tree.
Beside me, Theo exhaled.
I felt his memories brush mine.
Runs.
Fights.
Nights on his porch, keeping watch while others slept.
Mornings breaking up fights between stupid teenage wolves.
Afternoons fixing pipes in old cabins.
Evenings sitting at my clinic desk, pretending not to watch me bandaging a cat.
The bond between us thrummed, braided with the one between us and the Ridge.
For a heartbeat, everything aligned.
Pack.
Place.
People.
Magic.
The tree shivered.
Literally.
A tremor ran up the trunk.
The dead branches creaked.
A shower of old, brown needles fell.
New buds swelled along one scarred limb.
Tiny. Green. Stubborn.
A murmur rippled through the circle.
Jordan’s jaw dropped.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “Photosynthesis powered by feelings. We’re eco-terrorists’ wet dream.”
“Jordan,” I hissed.
But I was grinning.
The Ridge’s hum shifted.
Warm.
Full.
Pleased.
Hungry.
But not for my blood.
For more…of this.
Effort.
Work.
Intention.
“Again,” Vera said, eyes bright. “Other nights. Other offerings. We…train this. Like a muscle. We make it habit. Tradition.”
Hayes looked…stricken.
And hopeful.
“This will not…erase…the old deal,” he said roughly. “Not quickly. Not easily. But it may…lessen the weight. Spread it. Give us…room.”
He looked at me.
“You won’t be the only one feeding it,” he said. “Not anymore.”
Relief punched through me.
Tears stung.
“Good,” I said. “I have enough on my plate.”
Laughter rippled.
Theo’s arm slid around my waist, tugging me close.
We stood there, pressed against each other in the circle, hands on bark, hearts beating in time with a mountain.
For the first time since I’d arrived in Cutter’s Ridge, I felt…not like a debt.
Not like a lamb.
Like part of a…team.
Messy.
Flawed.
Terrifying.
Mine.
***