Cordelia's cottage sat in a clearing that shouldn't have existed, surrounded by pine trees growing in perfect circles. The building looked older than the mountains, weathered wood and moss-covered shingles, smoke curling from a chimney that never stopped burning.

Ivy had followed the woman down a path that twisted impossibly—turning left three times but somehow ending up straight. Her hunter instincts screamed at her to turn back, but the promise of answers kept her moving forward.

"Don't mind the wards," Cordelia said, reading her thoughts. "They keep out casual visitors. Anyone with Blackthorn blood passes through fine."

Inside, the cottage was bigger than it looked—impossible but unsurprising. Shelves lined the walls, holding jars of unidentifiable things. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling like botanical stalactites. In one corner sat a primitive Army radio, all tubes and crackling static.

But the smell got to her—not just herbs and woodsmoke, but something underneath that made her hair stand up. Magic. Real magic.

"Sit," Cordelia gestured to a chair beside a table covered in maps. "This conversation requires tea."

Ivy remained standing, hand near her pistol. "I'd rather just hear what you know."

Cordelia smiled. "Direct. Your grandmother was the same way. Never could waste time on pleasantries when there was business."

She moved efficiently, pulling herbs from jars, measuring them into a ceramic teapot. The radio crackled with distant voices, fragments from very far away.

"You want to know who killed your family. I can tell you. But first you need to understand—this wasn't random. This was an execution, planned by someone who knew exactly what the Blackthorn name meant."

The word hit Ivy like a blow. "Who?"

"Kieran Nightshade. Alpha of the most powerful werewolf pack in the Northwest Territory. His family controlled this region for three generations, building an empire on violence."

Ivy had heard whispers of the Nightshade name in conversations that stopped when children entered rooms.

"Why? What did we do to them?"

Cordelia's expression grew serious. "Your father was planning something that would have changed the balance of power forever."

She carried the teapot to the table, setting it beside maps that weren't ordinary—they showed territories marked with protective ward symbols.

"Samuel was contacting other hunter families. The Torrances in Oregon, Castellis in California, even the Ashfords back east. They were planning to unite all the bloodlines for the first time since the treaties."

The treaties. Ivy knew the stories—agreements her great-grandfather helped negotiate after the War Between the States, establishing boundaries between human law and supernatural justice.

"That doesn't sound bad," Ivy said carefully.

Cordelia's smile was sharp. "Depends on perspective. The hunters wanted to renegotiate. Claimed supernatural criminals were getting too bold, using Prohibition as cover for activities violating the old agreements."

She poured tea into mismatched cups, liquid darker than expected. Steam carried scents of forest floors and ancient secrets.

"Your father believed werewolf packs like the Nightshades were using bootlegging to expand beyond treaty boundaries. They weren't just running liquor—they were taking over entire towns, eliminating threats."

That made sense. Ivy had heard stories about certain off-limits areas where federal agents who got curious tended to disappear.

"So Kieran killed them to stop hunter unity?"

"Not just to stop them. To send a message. The Blackthorn name carried weight. Samuel's death showed everyone what happened to those who challenged the new order."

Ivy stared at the tea, watching steam curl in patterns that almost looked like faces. It smelled good, like her mother's medicinal teas, but something made her hesitate.

Grandmother had warned about accepting food from hedge witches—not because they were evil, but because their magic could cloud judgment.

"How do you know all this?" she asked, not touching the cup.

Cordelia's eyes flicked to the untouched tea, then back. Something like approval crossed her features.

"Smart girl. Your grandmother trained you well." She settled back, cradling her cup. "I hear things. People come for remedies, charms, protection spells. They talk while I work."

The radio crackled—fragments about territorial disputes and tribute payments.

"The supernatural community is smaller than you think. Everyone knows everyone's business, especially bloodshed. Word travels fast when an entire hunter family gets wiped out."

She leaned forward intensely. "But it's not just gossip. I was there the night it happened."

Ivy went rigid, anger flaring. "You were there? You watched them die and did nothing?"

"I tried to warn them. Sent word to your father three days before. Told him Kieran was planning something, that the pack was mobilizing."

"Then why—"

"Because Samuel didn't believe me. Thought I was just a crazy old woman spinning tales. The Blackthorns were always too proud, thought their reputation would protect them."

Ivy wanted to defend her father's memory, but the words stuck. Pa had been proud, and had believed the Blackthorn name meant something.

"I arrived too late. The pack had already overwhelmed your family's defenses. All I could do was watch from the tree line and hope someone would survive."

The pain in her voice sounded real, but Ivy's instincts picked up something else—a wrongness that made her skin crawl.

"You're lying," she said.

Cordelia raised an eyebrow. "About what, specifically?"

"Something doesn't add up. My family didn't die from pride. They died because someone betrayed them."

The cottage air grew thicker. Herbs swayed without breeze.

"Careful, child," Cordelia said softly. "Grief can make us see enemies where there are only friends."

But Ivy's senses screamed, picking up deception beneath Cordelia's facade.

"Maybe. But it can also help us see the truth when people hide it."

They stared at each other, tension crackling. Then Cordelia laughed, warm and genuine.

"You really are Sarah's granddaughter. She had the same ability to see through lies. Made her a formidable hunter."

"Then you know I won't be satisfied with half-truths."

"No, I suppose not." Cordelia pulled a map toward her. "Kieran Nightshade operates from a stronghold forty miles north. His pack controls everything from the Canadian border to the Columbia River."

The map showed territories and boundaries, trade routes and meeting places—the scope of the operation.

"They run liquor from Canada to California, but that's surface business. Underneath, they're building a network connecting werewolf packs across western states, all answering to Kieran."

"And my father was going to stop them?"

"Try to. Hunter families maintain balance between human law and supernatural justice. When that balance breaks, innocent people die."

Ivy studied the map, memorizing locations. If Cordelia was right, Kieran had built an empire on the bones of anyone opposing him.

"How do I find him?"

Cordelia's smile was sharp enough to cut. "That's the beauty of criminal empires—you must maintain contact with subordinates."

She pulled another paper showing an abandoned logging camp layout. Buildings and roads marked precisely, guard positions noted.

"Kieran holds monthly tribute ceremonies. All human criminals under pack protection pay dues. Bootleggers, gambling operators, anyone running illegal operations in pack territory."

"When's the next one?"

"Two weeks from tomorrow. Full moon, naturally. Pack power is strongest then, perfect for Kieran to remind everyone who's in charge."

Ivy studied the layout, mind working through possibilities. The camp was isolated, surrounded by forest providing cover. But it would be heavily guarded, full of werewolves at peak abilities.

"It's suicide."

"For most people. But you're not most people. You're a Blackthorn, trained from birth to hunt creatures ordinary humans can't see."

Even with advantages—enhanced reflexes, resistance to supernatural compulsion—killing an Alpha werewolf surrounded by pack members wasn't like shooting a rabbit.

"Even if I could get close, they're fast, strong, and protected by pack members who'll die for them."

"True." Cordelia pulled out a wooden box, setting it between them with reverence. "Which is why you'll need the right tools."

She opened it, revealing contents that made Ivy's breath catch. Silver bullets blessed by priests, concentrated wolfsbane extract, and blades forged from metal that drank lamplight.

"Your grandmother's personal arsenal. She asked me to keep it safe for whichever Blackthorn needed it most."

Ivy reached for a bullet, feeling its warm weight. The silver was inscribed with symbols that hurt to look at directly.

"These will kill any werewolf. But you'll only get one chance. Miss, and Kieran will tear you apart before you reload."

The reality hit her—walking into enemy territory to face the creature that killed her family. Smart would be running, taking her aunt's offer, disappearing into city life.

But smart had never been the Blackthorn way.

"The next tribute ceremony is in two weeks," Cordelia said, sliding across a final map showing pack territories and meeting locations with dates and times. "Your only chance to catch him vulnerable, surrounded by humans he can't afford to slaughter in front of business partners."

Her eyes met Ivy's with crawling intensity.

"The question is, child—are you ready to finish what your family started?”