The Longing of Lone Wolves

by Lana Pecherczyk

  I’m the only Nightstalk who can protect you, Rush mocked in his mind.

  Thaddeus couldn’t protect his crew from the wind.

  “I refuse to be treated like a prisoner,” she insisted. “We made a deal.”

  “Fine,” he shouted. “Don’t eat. Starve.” He stood up so fast, hot liquid sloshed out of the bowl and landed on her arm.

  She hissed in pain.

  Damn it. This was too much.

  He strode back to the kitchen and tossed the bowl on the bench. More liquid spilled, but he couldn’t care less. With his hands braced on the counter, his knuckles white, he barked over his shoulder, “Well I’d rather not have a filthy Well-damned human in my house, but here we are.”

  “If I’m human, what does that make you?”

  Chapter Six

  The human’s gumption astounded Rush. Could she not see who was in charge here? How could she not know? Maybe she didn’t. Some humans in Crystal City had been ignorant to what went on beyond their walls.

  He faced her with slitted eyes. “I’m fae. Or as you Untouched like to call us, a Changeling.”

  “A fae changeling,” she laughed. “Like when the fairies would swap human babies with a cursed one of their own?”

  “Have your people been locked away in your Crystal City so long that you’ve forgotten?”

  “I’m still not following.” The mirth in her eyes died, and she bit her bottom lip and then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry if this is rude, but okay, here goes. Why do you have pointed ears? Can you do what that other… fae did? Make your face extend like a werewolf and have claws come out of your hand?”

  A werewolf? The wolf in him howled indignantly at the insult. He was a full-blooded shifter, not some mythological creature that only half-turned on a full moon. He was more than that. Before his curse, his mana capacity allowed him to transform five times the size of a normal shifter. That’s what being a Guardian of the Well gave him. Being the alpha heir apparent to the Crescent Hollow pack also gave him a great capacity to hold mana, and an even faster rate of replenishing from the cosmic mana that existed in nature.

  If the curse hadn’t blocked him from refilling his internal mana stores, he’d never have needed to rely on the pack to take Thaddeus down. He would have done it on his own. And none of them would be left standing.

  But Rush was cursed. And he couldn’t replenish his mana stores. His wolf was a part of him, the darker, more primal part, but still him. Even though he didn’t have enough mana to shift, it still howled inside his heart, yearning to be let out.

  “Okay,” she continued. “Untouched by what? Changed by what?”

  Had the humans forgotten their conjoined history?

  “Untouched by the magic of the Well,” he confirmed. “I’m changed from what you puritans called the superior race. All fae descended from both human and animal. I’m fire-fae. I shift into a wolf through the grace of the magic of the Well. Being connected to the animal species gives us a greater appreciation for the land that feeds us. It is why we are blessed with this glorious power. It gives us the means to defend the land from monsters like you.”

  “I take offense to being called a monster.”

  “I don’t care. The magic of the Well doesn’t care.”

  “Magic. Shyeah, right.” She snorted. “And I’m Mrs. Claus.”

  “All right, Mrs. Claus.” At least they were getting somewhere.

  She grimaced. “It was a joke. That’s not my name. My name is Clarke.”

  Clarke. He tested the word in his mind. It rolled off the tongue nicely.

  “This is where you tell me your name,” she prompted. “Or should I call you Wolfie?”

  “I don’t have a name.” Gritting his teeth, he collected the bowl and went back to the bed. The moment they had cursed him, he lost his Guardian name, D’arn Rush. Then the moment he rose from the ceremonial lake to initiate into the Order, he’d lost the name he was born with, Kaden Nightstalk. As far as his loved ones were concerned, he was a ghost.

  A brief image of his proud sister and her long white braid tucked over her shoulder, came to mind.

  “Eat,” he grumbled and shoved a spoonful toward Clarke’s mouth.

  She would either have to part her lips, or deal with a disaster down her front, which was already becoming bare with each movement she made. That damned blanket kept sliding down, giving him a tantalizing peek at her odd, but not entirely unwelcome undergarment.

  She opened her mouth, took the spoon inside and seemed to melt from the pleasure of it. A little husky moan of appreciation escaped her lips.

  “Crimson, woman. When was the last time you ate?”

  She made an incomprehensible sound and then begged for more, eyes bright and glued to the bowl. He gave her another mouthful, which she devoured with equal relish. Rush’s mouth dried and he couldn’t take his eyes from the wetness as she licked every morsel from her lips.

  “Mm,” she moaned. “Goddamn, the fae can cook. Could use a touch more salt.”

  He raised a brow. “Any more demands, princess?”

  She mashed her lips to hold a smile.

  It took him a long, pained minute before he could ladle another spoonful of stew and feed her again. This time, she took it silently, watching him watching her. Something primal reared up inside him at the action of feeding her. It was the wolf’s longing. Its nature. Provide. Feed. Protect.

  Or maybe it was his own.

  Seeing her devour something he’d hunted, made, and now hand fed… it wound everything tight.

  This was torture.

  This was a sacred act reserved for loved ones.

  By the time he scraped the bowl clean, and she gave her last feminine moan of appreciation, a very uncomfortable stiffness grew between his legs. He went back to the kitchen bench and ladled himself some stew. With his back to her, he ate it until the evidence of his inconvenient arousal was gone.

  Crimson.

  She didn’t know how she sounded. How she looked. That blanket had fallen too far down her front, and he’d ignored it knowing that it was there. Maybe he had spent too much time watching humans. His body responded as if it didn’t care. Heat flushed up his neck, hitting his ears.

  Time to get out of this house. He cleared his throat and collected his cape from the hook on the door. He tossed it on the bed, along with a linen tunic he’d pulled from his clothing trunk.

  “You’ll put those on,” he demanded, then found a pair of boots and added them to the heap. “Those too.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll perish out there in the cold if you wear improper clothing. You’re worth more to me alive than dead.”

  He untied her and waited for an attack or an attempt at escape, but nothing. She only stood tall and proud, chest and chin out. Not a care in the world for the state of her underclothes. None that she let him see, anyway. She made no move for the tunic splayed on the bed, so Rush picked it up and tugged it over her head. A frustrated sound came from beneath the linen, and she wrested it out of his hands.

  “You’ll pull all my hair out if you continue doing that,” she huffed, and stuck her head through the neck hole. “Plus my old shirt needs to go first.”

  Not wanting to seem indecent, he averted his gaze and folded his arms. He stared out the window as if it were about to move.

  “They’re too big,” she announced. “Whatever your name is.”

  Too big?

  Unsure of the state he’d find her, Rush gingerly looked over his shoulder and relaxed. The tunic was on, and she held a big boot in her hand.

  “Then you can walk barefoot,” he replied. “Through the snow.”

  Her jaw flexed, but after darting a look outside, she fitted them on.

  He gathered the rope to retie around her wrists. His bargain would control her movements, but his curse could keep her invisible, like him—only if he touched her, or her by extension.

  Rush took Clarke’s wrists. The heat of her
touch sparked. Her eyes clashed with his, as though she’d felt the jolt too. A moment of blissful connection coursed through his starved emotions, bringing to life urges he’d long since denied. For a long forgotten minute, she wasn’t the enemy. She was just a female with startling blue eyes. Touching him.

  He reached into his pocket to grasp the strange object he’d found on the lake shore while she’d slept in his bed. Made of two strips of plastic, and one square piece of glass, he’d sensed that it belonged to her. That it might be important. But like the metal jewelry he’d removed from her body, it was just more proof of her blasphemy. And it helped him to stamp down the wicked hope flaring in his chest. He bared his teeth in distaste at the realization a human was the first person to see him in decades.

  It could have been a pix, an orc, or even a royal. Hell, he’d take a manticore. But a human?

  He looked to the lake through the window. There were two ways a fae could replenish his personal stores of mana. One was to let it seep back into his body from the cosmic mana present in the world around him. Depending on the strength of the fae, this replenishment could take a night, or a week... or a few hours for a Guardian. The other option was to find a source of power, like the hot springs in his lake. It was rife with rejuvenating mana. When he’d built the cabin, he’d liked the idea that if he could break his curse, he’d be able to simply walk into the warm waters and replenish his stores fast. Then he could shift and run in the woods with the pack.

  If he had a red coin for every fantasy he’d had while cursed, he’d be a rich man.

  He tugged the rope tight, ignoring Clarke’s wince. Leaving a long length so he could use it as a lead, he pulled until she staggered out the door and onto the porch where he secured her to a patio pole. Like an obedient soldier, Gray watched her while he went back into the cabin.

  The morning air was still cold, but the temperature further down the mountain would be warmer. Rush had given his only cape to Clarke, and he couldn’t shift to keep warm because he saved the last of his mana for emergencies. He had no other option than to use his old Guardian uniform.

  An errant thrill tripped in his stomach.

  With trembling fingers, he lifted the Kingfisher blue and black garment from the hook and shook it out. Blooms of dust clouded the air, and somehow the blue seemed brighter. He slipped it on, flexing his fists as they emerged, as though coming alive for the first time in decades. Perhaps he was. The jacket fit him like a painful embrace. The last time he’d worn it, they had stripped him of his ability to replenish from the Well. He’d not run on four paws since.

  That was half a century ago.

  As if sensing his yearning, Gray whined from outside.

  Rush smoothed his touch down the front bone buttons as he did them up. Next was his sword, Starcleaver. He collected it from beneath his bed and inched the beast from its sheath. Spanning four feet, the steel blade was always clean, as was the edge sharp. No other fae in the realm could use metal and still access their mana. No other fae, but Guardians. The Well had blessed him through a life-threatening initiation. But having this dual ability—to use the very item the rest were forbidden to touch—it was priceless, especially when eradicating magic born monsters. Metal nullified magic.

  Two thousand years ago, the humans destroyed the planet. The fae rebuilt it, but at a cost. Magic had an inky side, just like the darkest depths of the ocean, it harbored things and creatures no one had predicted. Every so often, one of these things emerged, ravenous for anything that held mana in its body. Born out of necessity, a Guardian’s job was to protect the realm from such creatures, and to preserve the integrity of the Well. Without magic, fae would become mortal like the humans, and they wouldn’t be able to foster the frigid land back to life.

  Tempted to draw Starcleaver and get reacquainted, he gritted his teeth and resisted, settling for admiring the Elven glyphs on the exposed pommel. He shoved it back into the scabbard and strapped it to rest between his shoulder blades as though it had never left. The sword would provide an additional level of protection through the Whispering Woods.

  After he packed, he strode to the hearth and kicked ash over the flames until nothing was left but the two sprites.

  “Light this while I’m gone,” he warned, “and you’ll have nowhere to live when I get back. Understood?”

  The female sat on the smoldering log and rested her head in her hands. Her male partner flared blue with rage, but a stern squeak from his female set him straight. He joined her on the log and lifted his glowing hands in surrender.

  Good.

  Rush slung the rucksack over a shoulder, locked up and joined Clarke on the porch.

  He waited for her to comment, to tremble in fear from the sight of the blue, to piss her pants or faint in a swoon. It was often said in omen, if you happened across the flight of the Kingfisher, it would be the last thing you’d see. But the woman watched him with curious eyes, taking in everything from the pommel peeking over his shoulders, to the logo stamped on his breast pocket—a set of scales with a drop of water on each side. No sour scent of fear bloomed in the air, only her infallible sweetness that had confounded him from the moment he’d captured her.

  He exhaled sharply through his nose to get her scent out.

  “Let’s go,” he growled and untied her from the pole, then tugged her down the steps and through the shallow snow. She’d better pick up the pace. He wanted to be down the mountain before dark, and it was at least a four day walk to Crescent Hollow.

  To his surprise, after a few minutes, she trotted up and overtook him until she walked as far ahead as the lead allowed. Suddenly, she became the one dragging him.

  He almost smiled at her tenacity.

  Once again, the oddness of her behavior struck him. If she truly knew what he was, she’d never have let him walk behind her. In all his time as a Guardian, he’d never come across a prisoner who’d run headfirst into their doom.

  Fear of Guardians kept the humans locked behind their crystal wall.

  Not knowing what else to do, Rush examined her from behind as they walked. Scratching his beard, he looked first to the round shell of her ear. He’d have to cover that before they got to Crescent Hollow. The law said a fae must either have their ears visible or be prepared to show them on request on pain of incarceration. With his mana stores so low, and without access to the Well, he couldn’t cast a glamor to make her ears look pointed. He’d have to keep the hood of the cape up and hope no one stopped her.

  As if she felt his gaze, she tossed a glance over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and that jolt of awareness speared him again. Growling and yanking on the lead, he glared until she remembered her place and returned her attention to the front. The set of her narrow shoulders tensed. She kept walking, but slowed down.

  “Tell me more about this place,” she said. “I mean, if I’m to help you, I need to know about it.”

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Vegas.”

  He gave a sound of acknowledgment, as though he knew where this human city was, but he didn’t. There was only one human city. One.

  “It’s been a long time since any human ventured this far from the Crystal City fortress,” he added.

  “Oh? How long?”

  “Since… you don’t know?”

  She gave an exasperated sigh. “Let’s just assume that I know nothing about this world. Remind me of everything.”

  “Since the fae killed your queen and the brief trade routes were closed.”

  “Oh. Yeah, that sounds like that would do it.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  She skipped a rock. “Tell me more.”

  “You next. Where is Vegas?” He didn’t expect her to answer.

  “In Nevada. America.”

  He halted, jerking her to a stop. Gray yipped behind him.

  America.

  He’d not heard that word since he was a pup. History told of the ancient custodians of this world. No matter t
he continent they lived, they’d pillaged it for minerals and treated every living thing with disrespect, infecting its surface with metal and plastic, ensuring magic from the earth could not flourish. And then they destroyed it all with their war machines. It was a story all fae children learned from the moment they understood speech. Of course, like cockroaches, some ancient humans had survived. They’d hidden themselves underground, quarantined from the change that blended human DNA with animal until centuries later, they emerged and took their place in the new world.

  Greedy humans were never happily contained on their insignificant piece of desecrated land. No. They wanted more. They wanted to harvest the abundant life growing anew—the life the fae had fostered in harmony with the Well. These humans—the Untouched—they were long past reasoning with. Their queen had ordered the invasion of Elphyne, but the fae wouldn’t stand for it. After the fae executed their queen, humans used reviled steel, iron and filthy metals to slaughter thousands of fae in retaliation. Decimation continued on both sides until the humans had run out of weapons and retreated behind the high walls of their city like the filthy sacrilegious cowards they were.

  The queen’s death was centuries ago, before Rush was cursed, before he was exiled from the Order, before… he forced the painful thought from his mind and focused on the human and what she represented.

  The Order of the Well would pay dearly to have one such as her in their grasp. Maybe even enough to lift his curse, maybe even enough to reinstate him as a Guardian. And if they didn’t, then he had her as his voice. Yes, he could use the woman.

  Chapter Seven

  The trek down the mountain had taken hours. Clarke’s captor only allowed her to stop for a quick toilet break behind a bush, still linked to the lead. She’d tried cajoling him into removing the shackles, but no dice. The fae was rock solid with his decree to keep her tied.

  His wolf trotted behind Clarke’s heels, yipping when she slowed too much. Her initial drive to lead the way had waned with each passing mile they walked. It would have been laughable if she weren’t feeling a little afraid. And tired.