Silver melted like mercury in the iron pot. Ivy held the flame steady, two weeks of preparation leading to this—Kieran Nightshade dead or herself torn apart in some remote clearing.

The root cellar beneath the hunting cabin was cramped, musty, lit by oil lamps casting shadows on stone walls. Her father's reloading equipment, her grandmother's blessing tools, and enough privacy to work without questions.

Twelve bullet molds warmed on the stone shelf. Twelve chances to kill a werewolf. She'd tested the silver three times—pure enough to burn supernatural flesh, blessed enough to carry holy intention.

"Grant me steady hands," she whispered, pouring molten metal. Steam hissed up, carrying sharp metal scent and something deeper that made her enhanced senses prickle.

Each bullet was prayer and promise, blessed three ways and marked with symbols that hurt to look at directly. The ritual words came automatically—burned into memory from countless nights watching her father work in this same cellar.

She'd spent the first week watching, learning pack territory rhythms. The Model T Ford that belonged to Marcus made decent transport, though the engine ran rough.

Pack operations were massive. Bootleggers ran from Canada twice weekly, trucks loaded with real whiskey selling for triple rotgut prices. Money flowed through speakeasies and gambling halls, all ending in Kieran's pockets.

She'd found his patterns following tribute routes, tracking human criminals who owed protection fees. They led to the abandoned logging camp Cordelia had mapped. Seeing it in person was different—a fortress surrounded by forest hiding werewolves, with sight lines making any approach a nightmare.

Twelve bullets cooled while she prepared wolfsbane extract, grinding dried plant into powder fine enough to coat silver. The herb smelled like bitter almonds and old death, but would burn werewolf flesh worse than acid.

"Each blade carries justice," she murmured, working extract into metal. The words stretched back through generations of Blackthorn hunters.

Her dreams had worsened since starting preparations. Every night brought the same visions—her family's voices calling from burning ruins, faces twisted with pain. Why hadn't she been there? Why hadn't she died with them like a proper Blackthorn?

Nightmares always ended with werewolf howls and blood smell so strong it woke her gasping. She'd started sleeping with weapons within reach.

Worst wasn't fear or grief—it was isolation. Three months alone had taught her to suspect every shadow. She'd catch herself listening for footsteps that never came, watching tree lines for movement that might be imagination.

Sometimes she wondered if someone watched her back. Tire tracks near the cabin that didn't match her Ford. Cigarette butts appearing where no one should smoke. But every investigation found nothing concrete.

Knife blades came next, each cleaned and sharpened until it could split hair. Silver-plated steel with bone handles carved with protective symbols—her mother's family wedding gifts passed down through three generations.

She'd practiced combat forms until movements came naturally, muscle memory taking over when conscious thought would be too slow. Parry, thrust, roll away from claws that could open her throat in one swipe.

The hardest part was waiting. Two weeks of preparation left her ready for war, but war wouldn't come until tonight's tribute ceremony. She'd driven past the logging camp twice more, memorizing every detail. The place would crawl with pack members, but also be full of human criminals who couldn't witness supernatural violence.

That was her edge against creatures faster and stronger than any human. Kieran couldn't let his werewolves loose in front of bootleggers and gambling operators who kept his empire running. He'd have to maintain the facade of being just another criminal boss, at least until she forced his hand.

Her enhanced senses had grown sharper through weeks of preparation, honed by constant vigilance. She could hear heartbeats from fifty yards now, smell fear and aggression on wind like a bloodhound.

The abilities had always been part of her, inherited through bloodlines stretching back to first treaties between human and supernatural authorities. But grief and purpose had awakened something deeper. Sometimes she caught herself moving with inhuman grace, reacting to threats normal people couldn't perceive.

It should have been frightening. Instead, it felt like coming home.

Final preparations took place by lamplight, each weapon cleaned and loaded with ritual precision. The pistol held six blessed silver bullets—enough for any ordinary werewolf but probably not enough for an Alpha before his pack.

Knives went into concealed sheaths, positioned for quick access. Backup weapons hid in her clothing—derringer in her boot, silver wire for garroting, throwing blades that could punch through supernatural hide at twenty paces.

She'd sewn protective charms into her jacket lining, symbols worked in silver thread that would turn aside claws and fangs. Not enough to stop determined attacks, but maybe enough to buy the split second she'd need.

Storm clouds had been building all day, rolling from the northwest like an omen. By evening, rain drummed against windows with steady persistence. Perfect weather for the work she planned.

She'd studied approach routes until she could navigate blindfolded, but rain would turn forest paths into muddy traps. The Model T would get her most of the way, but final approach had to be on foot through terrain favoring defenders.

The tribute ceremony started at midnight, giving human criminals time to gather at the logging camp. Kieran would want to make an impression, remind everyone who owed him money that payment was due.

She'd timed her arrival for just after the meeting started, when everyone would focus on business. The plan was simple—get close enough for a clean shot, put a blessed silver bullet through Kieran's heart, get out before the pack could organize response.

Simple plans were usually best, her father always said. But simple didn't mean easy, especially when the target was a werewolf Alpha surrounded by his pack.

The clock showed ten-thirty when she finished the final weapon check. Time to move. She'd already loaded gear into the Ford, everything secured for what might be a very quick departure.

Rain had eased to steady drizzle, though clouds overhead promised more weather. She could smell ozone—electric scent that came before lightning—and something else that made her enhanced senses prickle.

She was being watched. Had been for the past hour. The feeling was subtle but unmistakable, awareness that came from generations of hunter instincts. Someone or something was out there in darkness, tracking her movements.

Scanning the tree line revealed nothing but shadows and rain-soaked pine boughs. Whatever watched her was good at staying hidden, which probably meant it wasn't human.

The thought should have been terrifying. Instead, it filled her with cold satisfaction. If Kieran's people were already watching, they considered her a real threat. Good. She wanted them to know she was coming, wanted them to understand the Blackthorn name still meant something.

She started the Ford's engine, sound rough and loud in mountain stillness. Headlights cut through darkness as she backed from the clearing, illuminating trees that seemed to lean closer than they should. The feeling of being watched intensified, but she didn't look back.

Let them watch. Let them report to their Alpha that Samuel Blackthorn's daughter was coming to settle accounts. She had twelve blessed bullets and two hundred years of family honor on her shoulders.

The road wound through forest that grew darker with every mile, rain streaking the windshield faster than wipers could clear. Storm clouds pressed down like a lead ceiling, lightning flickering on the horizon.

She reached into her jacket and touched her pistol's grip, feeling familiar weight against her palm. In a few hours, either Kieran Nightshade would be dead or she'd be joining her family in whatever came after.

"Grant me steady hands and true aim," she whispered into darkness, the ancient Blackthorn oath spoken by hunters for seven generations. "Let justice be done, whatever the cost."

The headlights swept across a road sign—Cascade Logging Company, 2 Miles. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as something cold settled in her stomach. Not fear, exactly. Recognition.

She'd been on this exact stretch of road before. In her dreams. The same curve, the same pine trees pressing close to the asphalt, the same feeling of driving toward something that would change everything.

But in the dreams, she never made it to the logging camp.

In the dreams, she always woke up screaming just as something with red eyes stepped into her headlights.