Son of Saints: A Dark YA Fantasy Adventure: Renegade Guardians: Book Two

by Kyra Quinn

  Viktor’s chest tightened, and he found himself straightening his posture and glancing down at his feet despite his lack of transgression. He had no idea what anyone in Starbright thought of his kind. The uniform still bore five rings, but only four of the clans had governed the town in the last several decades. Did any wolves remain in Starbright? Or had they fled long ago, now forgotten as much as the tower he’d spent the night in?

  It was too early to nip into a tavern for a drink, though he desperately craved a glass of something to take the edge off. No one would respect a man wasted before lunchtime. He shoved his hands in the pockets of the coat he had borrowed from an abandoned bedchamber and allowed his eyes to wander over the signs above the shops. He tried to imagine how the wolf shifters lived after the pack went up in smoke with the building.

  For the first few minutes, nothing stood out to him. His hope deflated a little with each mundane shop he passed. He couldn’t picture one of the wolves kneading dough in the bakery or tending to flowers with the botanist. Perhaps the wolves had all fled Starbright after his father’s murder. Maybe they lived in the wild, no longer slaves to the needs and desires of their human flesh.

  Lost in his head, Viktor almost didn’t notice the massive bronze statue positioned in front of one of the shops. He shuffled a few steps past it before the image registered in his mind. He stepped backward until he stood next to the sculpture. When he studied it, his heart raced.

  A massive wolf sat in the center of the statue. His mouth was open, his lips rolled back over his fangs as he snarled. Round amber eyes glared up at the sky. Two smaller wolves flanked his sides. Each had their head back and mouths open as they howled silently at the sun. They stood on a solid wooden platform, the sign declaring the place something called ‘Howl at the Moon.’

  Viktor’s entire body tensed. He shot a glance towards the unassuming brownstone building. His throat tightened. Wolves. He hadn’t picked up on their scent before, but it burned his nostrils now. Heaviness settled into his limbs, but he forced himself up to the front door. He’d come too far to turn away.

  Unsure what sort of establishment he’d found or what they considered standard protocol, he raised a shaky fist to the door and knocked. The shuffle of movement appeared on the other side of the door, followed by a shrill promise of, “One minute!”

  Viktor tapped his foot and waited for what felt like an eternity for the door to open. He tried to rehearse what he might say in his head when the door open, how best to introduce himself and explain his sudden presence at their doorstep. When the door jerked open, however, all Viktor’s preparations fled his mind.

  A tall, muscular woman with pale yellow eyes scowled at him from the other side. Frizzy dark hair flew around her wrinkled face. Her hand flew to her round hip as she snarled, “Can I help you with something?”

  Gods, he hoped so. He cleared his throat. “Forgive my intrusion, but I couldn’t help but notice the statue in front of your shop.”

  “What about it? It’s not for sale, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “What? No, of course not—”

  “What is it? I have a business to run here.”

  Under any other circumstances, Viktor would have made small talk to soften her and warm up to his real question. The cross expression on the woman’s tanned face, however, suggested the woman had no patience for pleasantries. He leaned forward and asked, “The wolves. Where did they all go?”

  A moment of silence stretched between them while the woman gaped at him as if he’d asked the color of the sky. “Your flesh bears the markings of Clan Kinzhal. How can you not know?”

  Viktor shook his head, unable to meet her gaze. “It’s...complicated. I left Starbright after the fire.”

  “Many did. Not much left here for our kind.” She sighed, lifting her eyes to stare at something behind him. When she spoke again, her voice sounded far away. “Plenty of us remained here, though. Nowhere else feels like home.”

  Viktor made a noise of understanding, though he didn’t. He had always assumed the restlessness inside of his bones came from his lycan blood, that all wolves struggled with a constant restlessness begging their feet to stay mobile.

  “Why do you ask these questions?” she asked. “Who are you?”

  He hesitated. Deception would earn him no trust. But he had never spoken the words aloud, and a hard lump formed in his throat. When he spoke, the tightness of his own voice made him want to cringe.

  “I am Viktor Kinzhal, son of Norrix and Grace Kinzhal.”

  The woman blinked twice, threw her head back, and howled with laughter. “Sure ya are, kid. And I’m the Queen of Astryae. Get out of here and stop wasting my time.”

  “But—”

  “I said go!” Her nostrils flared as she gestured to the street behind him. “Every member of the Kinzhal family is dead to this town. I have no idea what you’re playing at, but there’s no power in that name. If one of the children had survived, they never bothered to return to their throne or their people.”

  “What if they couldn’t?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Then they are a coward. I have no love for those, either. Next time, I suggest you pick a different alias for your con. Good day, sir.”

  The door slammed closed, leaving Viktor alone with his shame.

  * * *

  By sunset, Viktor had given up all hope of success. He had managed to locate six wolves by the day’s end. All had reacted with the same contempt, the same disgusted wrinkle of their nose and spite lacing their voices. He had hoped his father’s name might earn him some credibility, but he had underestimated the weight of loyalty to the wolves. No one believed him when he gave his name, and all made it clear they wouldn’t care regardless.

  Viktor slumped over a sticky table inside of an aged brownstone structure coined The Busy Buffalo. A half-empty bottle of ambrosia sat in front of him, the contents room-temperature. Conversations prattled on around him, but he paid no mind to the other patrons. His pity party demanded full attention.

  “You sure know how to make an appearance,” a husky, familiar voice called from behind. “Everyone in Starbright is whispering about the madman wandering around claiming to be the heir to Clan Kinzhal.”

  Viktor’s grip around his glass tightened. He glanced around the room, but there were too many witnesses to risk striking Jett in his traitorous face. His drew in a slow, steady breath. “What are you doing here?”

  Jett slid into the empty chair across from his own. He had tied his hair back behind his head and changed into a fresh pair of clothes. Mistweed smoke lingered on his coat. “I had a hunch Moara might send you here.”

  “What does she want with the wolves?” Viktor asked, curious if she had given Jett the same story about the glory days of law and order in Astryae.

  “If I had to guess, the same thing she wants with anything else: power. As it stands, she and her husband struggle to rule over any of the villages and towns this far away from the castle. If she can place a man she controls in Starbright, it expands her reach.”

  Viktor snorted and gulped down another few sips of his drink. When he spoke, the words tasted like venom in his mouth. “How long did you know?”

  Jett tensed. “Who you were? From the first time we met. Even if your markings hadn’t given it away, you have your mother’s face and your father’s build and temperament. For anyone close to your parents as I was, the resemblance is striking.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I could ask you the same.” Jett’s eyes narrowed, but he leaned back in his chair and sighed. “I assumed you would tell me when you were ready to. If you didn’t want to discuss it right away, I had no desire to force the issue.”

  The explanation made sound enough sense, but Viktor didn’t want to accept it. He didn’t want to forgive Jett for the weeks he’d spent feigning ignorance. Not that his own dishonesty hadn’t played its own role, but Viktor wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. Not until he
figured out how to handle Jett.

  “It’s hopeless,” he said instead, eager to shift the conversation away from their shared mess. “None of these shifters give a damn about the clan or my father.”

  Jett shook his head. “They do, but they’ve had nothing to believe in for decades. It may take time to earn their trust back.”

  Viktor slammed his fist against the table. The bottle of ambrosia rattled between them. “Time is the one thing we are in short supply of these days. I need some sort of shortcut to earning their trust.”

  Jett frowned. “There is no shortcut or substitution for forming a genuine relationship with others. The wolves, they don’t trust you. The last time anyone here spoke your name was at a remembrance ceremony.”

  Viktor stared down into his glass. He had spent most of his life avoiding Starbright and the wolves, eager to avoid detection and find himself where he sat now. How could he expect the wolves to listen to him or care what he had to say? He’d spent decades pretending he was as dead to them as his parents.

  “How do I do it?” he asked after a long pause, his voice clipped. “How do I convince them to come home?”

  Jett only scoffed. “They are home, Vik. Clan Kinzhal dissolved ages ago. They made new homes, found new families. The tower isn’t home to anything but memories anymore.”

  “What do I do?” he growled through his teeth. “If I fail to uphold my end of the bargain, gods only know what Moara will do to Remiel. And with the war on the horizon, we need all the men we can find.”

  For a long moment, Jett said nothing. He fixed Viktor with a hard stare, as if he were a jeweler inspecting a new gemstone. When he spoke, his voice sounded strained. “Demonstrate your intent to lead and restore Clan Kinzhal to its former glory. Words are not enough repentance, not here. You must prove it to them.”

  * * *

  Viktor and Jett stayed at The Busy Buffalo until closing time. Two more bottles of ambrosia disappeared inside of them while they buried their heads together and plotted. Viktor hadn’t forgiven Jett’s deception, not yet. Still, most of his anger melted away by the end of the first bottle of ambrosia, replaced by determination and a touch of dread. Uncertainty clouded the future, but at least he no longer had to face it alone.

  When the barmaid rang the last call bell and poured everyone their last drink of the night, Viktor and Jett stumbled out of the tavern and into the snow. Viktor led him back to the remains of the clan tower. When they reached the gates, Jett froze and hung his head.

  “I never thought I’d find myself back here,” he said, voice low and twisted with emotion.

  Viktor pushed the gate open. “Why didn’t anyone rebuild it after the fire?”

  “Things spiraled into a state of chaos for everyone. The tower burned and Norrix and Grace died in the space of what felt like seconds. Rumors flew around town about demon attacks and underhanded deals for power. Brother turned on brother, and wives on their husbands. No one knew who to trust or what to believe. Eventually, things—" He cut off, gesturing towards the ruins of the once majestic building. “They fell apart, far worse than the damage done by the fire or the demons. They crumbled from the inside until no hope of repair remained.”

  “We can stay here for the night,” Viktor said, leading Jett up to the open front doors. “No one will bother us. It seems Starbright has forgotten this place.”

  The somber expression on Jett’s face told Viktor the older wolf had forgotten nothing. He walked Jett through the cracked and broken floors, the smell of smoke heavy as if the building had burned days before. Jett’s mouth hung open as he gawked at the largely undamaged lower floor, his eyes wistful like a man lost in memories. Viktor’s thoughts drifted towards their conversations about his years with Clan Kinzhal, how he’d served by his father’s side until the end. How much had Jett fabricated to earn his trust?

  “I don’t remember most of these rooms,” Viktor confessed in hopes Jett would spiral off on another tangent about life during the clan’s glory days.

  “I’m surprised you remember any of it, to be honest. I always thought if you or your sister had escaped, the only reason you never returned was because you forgot where you came from.”

  The sudden stiffness in their conversation left Viktor with an awkward feeling. Conversation had once flown easily between the two of them. Jett had spoken openly of his days with Norrix and Grace, his admiration for the pack’s leader evident in his voice. Now, the mention of Viktor’s parents seemed to cause the words to choke in Jett’s throat. His confession had shifted their relationship, and Viktor didn’t know if things would ever go back to the way they were before.

  Viktor brought a hand to the back of his neck. “I wish I remembered more about this place. About them.”

  “Your parents?”

  “It would be much easier to emulate my father if I had more memories of him.”

  Jett shook his head. He stepped closer to Viktor and placed a hand on his shoulder, the weight and warmth of his palm comforting. “Norrix Kinzhal was a great man, and a great leader. But you do not need to emulate him to earn your people’s respect. You are a great man, and I’m confident a great leader, in your own way. That is what you need to show them.”

  The words sounded nice enough, and with the ambrosia still in his body Viktor wanted to believe him. “How?”

  “Not sure.” Jett stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “I suppose we’ll figure that part out in the morning.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Message from the Damned

  Zanox’s motivations and movements have always defied logic or reason. Many suspect his primary motivation in all things is a desire for confusion and chaos.

  -The Sacred Texts, 20:24

  Morning came too soon. I woke to an orchestra of clanking metal downstairs loud enough to drag the dead from their eternal slumber. Sunlight poured in through the bamboo blinds of my borrowed bedchamber. Pots and pans banged in the kitchen, and a chorus of laughter drifted up the stairs like music. I groaned and tried to roll over, but sleep’s spell had already loosened its grip. I pushed myself up from the bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  “What the Fey is Aster doing?” I grumbled. She and I still had much to discuss about her time away, but I had hoped to avoid the lecture about my poor decision-making skills for as long as possible. I cracked my neck and wondered if I had the energy to face Aster’s disappointment.

  Physically, my body had never felt stronger. Seth and I had spent the night in a tavern surrounded by Feyfolk. It took time for me to notice the slow trickle of power flooding into me, and a few hours more for me to learn to focus the drain and control how much I took. Seth’s eyes darted between me and my victims, careful to nudge me to stop before I hurt anyone. One scrawny woman with a pointed nose fainted to the ground, but Seth assured me the alcohol must have had an effect. A faint fruitiness flooded my mouth with each feed. A bitter aftertaste coated my tongue when I stopped.

  “Fascinating,” Seth had murmured as he’d watched me feed from a spirit mage on the other side of the long mahogany bar. He popped his elbows on the sleek surface and cupped his head in his hands. “I have met Fey who sustain life on many strange things, but never magiya.” When he noticed my blank expression, he smirked and continued, “Right, you have no idea what magiya is. Think of it like magical essence. It’s the energy that separates the Fey from passives.”

  I swallowed and glanced down at my hands, afraid he might realize I had never stopped to ponder what separated the passives from the Feyfolk. “Does it work on…does it work on your kind?”

  “Shadowfey?” His lips had tugged into a gentle smirk. “It must. Aster and I are not exactly children of the light, but you fed off our presence in that village and healed your injuries.”

  Sliding towards the edge of the bed, I flexed my hands and waited for the tingles of energy flooding them to fade. Seth had promised our adventure would leave me with a little boost, but I left the tavern
bursting with more power than I had ever felt inside of me. But as much as the feed had strengthened my body, it had done nothing to heal my broken heart.

  Viktor’s face flooded my mind, disregarding my attempts to keep him out. I could picture him as if he stood a few feet away, every familiar twitch of his mouth and line on his face unchanged from the night we first met. A dull ache settled into the center of my chest. Tears threatened my eyes, but I pushed them back and sucked in a sharp breath. I had to trust Viktor knew what he was doing. Aster and I had both begged him not to fall for Queen Moara’s tricks, but he insisted he had to save Remiel. I didn’t blame him. I’d have done the same for Aster in a heartbeat.

  But Viktor was gone, and Aster and I still had work to do. The tension in the air grew thicker every day. War lingered over our heads like rain clouds threatening to burst. I’d run out of time to waste missing Viktor or wishing he’d return to Carramar. We had no choice but to trust that when the time came, he would find his way back to our side.

  His face stayed in my mind as I dressed myself and wandered downstairs to join the others, my feet bare despite the slippers Aster had tucked next to the door after I’d fallen asleep. He had said little about why Moara wanted him to assemble a pack of wolves in Starbright. Seth had pointed out the advantage the additional soldiers might offer, but I didn’t trust the devious queen any more than I trusted my mother. No matter how harmless Moara’s request seemed on the surface, a woman like her did nothing without an ulterior motive.

  “There’s our sleeping angel!” Aster called as I stumbled into the kitchen. An apron hugged her waist and neck, the cloth covered in dust. The early hour didn’t seem to bother Aster. She had already dressed for the day in a pair of tight dark trousers and a simple white blouse. Her skin appeared dewy and fresh. She’d pinned her hair to the top of her head in a sloppy bun. Her face split into a toothy grin when her eyes caught mine. “Hungry?”