DAVE
The Wendigo's Truth
My neural pathways feel like someone's taken a blowtorch to copper wiring and tried to reshape it into fiber optics. I'm propped against our headboard, third cup of coffee growing cold in my hands, when Margot appears in our bedroom doorway without knocking—a wood fae trait that's becoming irritating.
"I've called someone," she announces, reality bending slightly around her edges like heat shimmer off summer asphalt. "Old friend. Very old. He can fix what the blessing burned through."
"Fix?" Kat's arm tightens around my waist, possessive. Through our bond, I feel her wolf's reluctance to let anyone else touch what's hers. "You said he'd heal with time."
"Heal crooked, maybe. Like a broken bone set wrong." Margot's eyes shift between present and probable, track
