He pondered my question for a few moments, scratching at his chin. “Maybe I’ll see if Deganawida knows anything that I don’t. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the shaman and how his powers work. They are so unlike mine.”
“I thought you knew everything,” I grinned, arching an eyebrow at him. Nero told us that all the time—how incredibly wise he was compared to us.
He chuckled, hurling a pebble at my leg. “I haven’t learned necromancy.” I tried to hide my instinctive cringe at thoughts of raising the dead. Nero, on the other hand, was fascinated with the most disturbing studies. Thankfully, he seemed more interested in his own thoughts on the matter rather than having a conversation on necromancy. After a few moments, he looked back up at me excitedly. “Oh! I heard a few snippets of an interesting story about something called a skinwalker.”
I frowned uneasily, scratching at my thick beard. “What is that?”
“It’s not a what, it’s a who,” he said eagerly, leaning closer. “A man who can shift like a werewolf, but he can shift into anything or even anyone.” I turned to him with a dubious and somewhat frightened look, ignoring the prickling sensation at the back of my neck. “But they wouldn’t answer my questions when I asked. They seemed afraid to even admit it,” he muttered in frustration. Nero often complained about such superstitious stances from the uneducated, arguing that everything seemed frightening until someone studied it. “Imagine that. Choosing to be anything you want? Anyone you want!”
I frowned at him uneasily. “Shifting into a wolf is bad enough. It’s not just the physical change but the mental one that is dangerous. It’s a constant battle for control. A wild beast is always lurking beneath the surface, wanting to break free.” Nero nodded with macabre fascination rather than empathy. “A man would die of madness at a young age if he was born with that kind of ability,” I pressed. “Handling that many inner beasts would cause insanity.”
Nero was already shaking his head. “That’s just it. Apparently, skinwalkers are made, not born. Something to do with sacred blades…” He flicked a twig into the fire as he continued, thinking out loud. “I’ll just have to keep digging. Maybe they don’t trust me enough yet.”
I let him ramble on as I gnawed on a strip of dried deer meat we’d brought with us on our hunt, pretending to listen to the warlock. I shook all thoughts of skinwalkers from my mind.
“What do you think Sorin is doing back there?” I asked absently after a few minutes.
“Probably something much more enjoyable than sitting next to a stinking wolf,” Nero muttered. “I’m sure it involves making Bubbling Brook writhe and moan. Lucky bastard.”
I smiled, nodding along. I was happy for him, even though I didn’t quite understand it. Sorin had found a measure of peace with the tribe—something that had been denied him his entire life.
A chance at love.
“I do miss that,” I mused.
Nero scoffed. “You could have your pick of any woman there. I’ve seen how they all stare at you. The looks I get are of an entirely different sort. You would think I’m one of these skinwalkers they’re all so afraid of.”
I grunted, my mood sobering in an instant. Nero’s casual comment brought old pains to the surface of my mind. I forced them down stubbornly. Nero and Sorin were my family now. Period. The past didn’t matter. “No thanks. I’m going to get some sleep. We’ll head back tomorrow to see if Sorin finally taught that stubborn little boy of his to walk.”
Nero winced guiltily. “Sorry, Lucian. I didn’t mean to bring up—”
“It’s fine,” I growled, tossing another log on the fire. Sparks flared up, forcing him to quickly lean away and cover his eyes. “It’s fine,” I repeated, taking control of my temper. “It’s in the past. Where it will stay.”
Nero nodded sympathetically. “Okay.”
He began shifting his pack and blanket, leaning back against his own log. I did the same, using the motions to clear my head of my sudden outburst. I leaned back with a sigh, staring up at the canopy of trees as the fire crackled on.
“I bet you a bottle of rum that Sorin hasn’t taught the boy how to walk yet,” I said after a time.
Nero laughed. “You’re on. That boy is growing up entirely too fast. He’s probably already running, whatever he is. He’s not a vampire, that’s for sure.”
I nodded absently, thinking about the young boy—the miracle boy. That a vampire had conceived a son was an impossibility.
Until Sorin proved otherwise.
Neither of us said it, but a child from a shaman’s daughter and the world’s first vampire was a frightening thing to consider. He would be a target. And potentially dangerous in his own right. “He’s something,” I agreed. “Something dangerous.” Nero murmured his agreement. “But not yet. Today, he is only a carefree young boy without a concern in the world. He hasn’t seen how cruel the world can be.”
Nero chuckled. “That’s why he has uncles. To keep him on the straight and narrow. And to annihilate his foes. To teach him how to annihilate his own foes,” he added with an almost eager glee in his voice.
I burst out laughing. “Our dear brother chose poorly if he thinks we will keep him on the straight and narrow. Get some sleep, warlock. We leave at first light. I miss Sorin. He’s much better company than you.”
“Maybe Sorin finally decided on a name,” Nero said, yawning tiredly. “Anything is better than boy.”
I smiled, nodding. “Unless he chooses Nero.”
Nero had already dozed off, or he was ignoring me.
Before I fell asleep, I made an oath to keep my brother and his miracle son safe.
By any means necessary. The world would hate him and fear him.
“But they will fear me more,” I whispered to myself.
19
Shimmer.
I snarled, racing through a scene from a nightmare. My paws were soaked with mud and blood. I followed my nose, panicked, terrified, and furious.
Familiar bodies lay everywhere—many in pieces. The tribe that had taken us in had been slaughtered while Nero and I had been off hunting. Vultures and crows circled above, fearing the werewolf below. I’d already shredded three of them too stuffed with remains to escape my swift slaughter. I had spat them out, unable to even eat them as waves of nausea rolled through me.
That I would indirectly be eating the people who had welcomed us into their homes.
I was mad with blood lust. Sorin! I growled furiously. Where are you?
What hurt the most was that I didn’t even have a name to attach to his son. Boy seemed woefully inadequate when trying to save a life.
The smell of old smoke, oil, and charred remains filled my nostrils, masking clear scents from me. Nero strolled through the war-torn camp with a grim frown, his sleeves dripping with blood and filth as he shifted dead bodies, checking every severed limb and head. He’d already vomited three times. I bolted for the trees to clear my nose again. I had to find a scent—something to help us track down the survivors. To track down Sorin or Bubbling Brook or…
Boy.
My best friend’s son. My brother’s son.
Boy. The word hit my ears like an echoing crack of thunder, punishing me mercilessly.
I had sworn to protect the boy before falling asleep last night.
If I couldn’t find the survivors, I would settle for the scent of the attackers. The things I had already considered doing to them frightened even me. Those thoughts raced through the back of my mind, threatening to take over all else.
But I found nothing. I did pick up occasional scents of stale magic and werewolves in the air, but it was too distant and faint to do me any good. And it only served to ignite my concerns further—to an almost manic degree. Because there were no werewolves here. I was the world’s first werewolf, and I hadn’t turned anyone since coming here.
I continued to race through the woods around the camp, lost in my own fears as I forced myself to run faster, harder, to ignore the b
urning ache of my muscles.
Boy was out there somewhere. Nero hadn’t found his body. Boy was alive! He had to be!
I whined frantically, feeling tears streaming down my furred cheeks.
I had promised to protect him. Please, Boy. PLEASE!
I skidded to an abrupt halt, almost crashing into a log in my haste. I sniffed at the air excitedly, tracking left and right. Then I found a familiar scent.
Deganawida.
He had survived! Along with many others. I hadn’t been able to smell them through the death below and smoke of the camp. I spun back to the grim graveyard. Our old home.
Sorin had been down there. Bubbling Brook had been down there.
Boy had been down there.
I held onto my small hope—that I would find them safe and sound with Deganawida.
Even though I hadn’t noticed their scent alongside the shaman and his escape party.
I lifted my head and howled, trying to put my every emotion into it, convincing myself that if I could, Boy would hear it. That I could save him for my brother, Sorin.
My howl sent the carrion scattering and flapping with raucous caws.
It was a lullaby of lament.
A wail of war.
Nero looked up sharply, spotting me. He held a severed limb in each hand—both of them belonging to children. I howled again, letting him pick up on my urgency. He dropped the limbs and ran towards me. Black smoke suddenly gathered around him, oozing from his feet so that he looked to be wearing clouds for boots. Magic to help him run as fast as me—some dark magic.
I was pacing back and forth, whining frantically as Nero finally caught up with me.
His cheeks were hollow, and his eyes were sunken. “I didn’t find their bodies,” he rasped.
I snarled, clamping my jaws down over a dead branch, shattering it in my rage.
And my hope. He hadn’t found them.
Then I froze as another scent hit my nose. A faint tickle to the air that I almost missed. My world shook and an agonizing whine was torn out of my throat.
Sorin. My brother.
But something was wrong with the scent. So, so wrong…
I didn’t even wait for Nero before bolting after the scent, not even caring as branches whipped into my snout or stones cut into my paws, tearing into my flesh.
We’re coming, Sorin. Your brothers are coming!
Shimmer.
I stared down at Deganawida. The man was bloodied and beaten, horror dancing in the depths of his eyes. Old horrors, but I was eager to fuel them to greater heights.
Nero stood beside me, his chest heaving as a ball of flame hovered in his palm. “Easy, Lucian,” he murmured to me. “Answers before violence is always best.”
I nodded jerkily, even though I was seriously considering ripping Deganawida to shreds with my bare hands. The women and children huddling behind a nearby stand of trees and a hastily gathered pile of supplies was the only shield the man had against my fury.
And it was only barely enough to hold me—the world’s first werewolf—back.
Because Boy was not here.
Bubbling Brook was not here.
A film of red fell over my vision, casting everything in a bloody hue as my rage threatened to overtake me. “You will show us my brother’s body, shaman, or I will personally finish what Dracula started,” I snarled, clenching my fists tight enough for my knuckles to crack.
My inner wolf snarled to break free, only able to focus on the fact that our pack of three was now a pack of two. This shaman stood between me and my fallen brother.
The fang of our trinity. The brains and heart of our brotherhood. The man I would have challenged the world for, even though he had found a new family.
But they had also been slaughtered. Or taken. I wasn’t sure which.
All because of this shaman’s incompetence. And because I’d taken Nero, my other brother, out on a hunt to get away from the tribe for a time. No matter how hard the members of the tribe had tried to include me in their family, I’d stubbornly refused. I hadn’t wanted a new family. I already had one.
And their family had failed to protect Sorin.
I wanted nothing more than to see Sorin’s body before I continued my hunt for his wife and son. They needed my protection. Not just from Dracula’s army—as the shaman had informed us—but from this shaman as well. Because I didn’t trust Deganawida. He smelled…wrong. I wouldn’t believe him until I saw the bodies.
“I can take you to Sorin,” the man rasped tiredly. “But please don’t hurt me. I’m all they have left,” he whispered, discreetly indicating the frightened faces peering at us from behind the pile of supplies. “We don’t have any fighting men left. I have to get my people to safety.”
I could smell the fear and the blood and the tears. He wasn’t wrong. And as much as I distrusted him, I knew he was not afraid for his own life. His words rang true. I knew he had nothing to do with Dracula, but he was hiding something from us.
The fact that I hadn’t determined if it was the typical secrets a man held close to his heart, or something meaningful to me, was the only reason he still lived.
One of the children cried, staring at me from behind a woodpile. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she was shaking. I took a step back, realizing that her terror was…caused by me. I took another step back, disgusted with myself. Had I resorted to scaring little girls now? I took a deep, calming breath as Nero resumed the conversation behind me.
Deganawida had already told us about the attack. We were a day’s ride from the camp where it had all happened. Tracking the fleeing survivors down hadn’t been difficult, which was also suspicious. Why hadn’t the attackers finished the job? The only logical answer was that it really had been aimed at Sorin.
If it had also been aimed at Nero and me, they would still be around. But other than the faint scents at the scene of the attack, I’d found nothing sinister following the tribe. The attackers had fled far, far away. Too far away for me to track.
“You will give us his body,” Nero demanded in an icy tone.
“No!” Deganawida pleaded desperately. “I cannot. Sorin requested that I take care of his remains. Made me swear on it. He wanted to be buried beside his wife and son,” he rasped. “My daughter.”
“Then where are their bodies?” Nero snapped. “We will take all of them.”
Deganawida let out a sob. “I have some of the boys searching, but they haven’t found them yet. Or, they haven’t been able to confirm whether some of the remains were in fact them.”
I grimaced disgustedly. That was a fair point. The old camp had been strewn with so many limbs and carcasses that even I’d had a hard time placing them all—even with the use of my supernatural senses. There had been so much blood, offal, oil, and charred limbs that it was impossible to pick out anything specific.
But Nero and I had tried. Wading through a swamp of hell to find any shred of evidence. And we had found nothing.
“We will find them. They are out there. I know it,” Deganawida whispered with false hope.
I had found no trail, so I knew the shaman was wasting his time. He was in denial over his own daughter’s death, and he was going to drag his tribe down with him. You couldn’t rebuild a home on a broken foundation or heal a broken bone without setting it back into place.
Permitting him to continue indulging his denial would get them all killed.
Death by kindness as they nurtured his madness.
Nurture was for the weak.
Deganawida’s weakness at not training enough warriors had taken my best friend from me.
I would never be weak again.
“Then show us Sorin,” I said, my back still towards them. “I have a hard time believing he is truly dead. He’s tricky like that.”
I felt the madness creeping over my mind like tendrils of ivy as I imagined Sorin’s son dead. The boy I had sworn to protect.
The boy I had failed to protect.
I wou
ld never be weak again.
Shimmer.
Blood was all I wanted in life. It was all I was good for. Killing. Anything to keep the guilt at bay. That sharp bite of hot blood striking my tongue as my fangs shredded my prey was my only link to sanity.
Man. Bear. Wolf.
I didn’t care.
“Come on, Lucian. You’re not alone,” a man’s voice begged, snapping me out of my thoughts. “We have to accept the facts. They’re dead. They are all dead. If Dracula had taken Bubbling Brook and the boy, we would have found a scent.”
I snarled, snapping my teeth at the man with the ball of fire floating in his palms. But something was holding me back. Restraints. Chains.
I bit at them, not caring if I chipped my fangs in the process.
The man stared at me sadly, tears streaming down the dried blood and dirt covering his cheeks. “It’s been three months, Lucian. I need you to snap out of it. I can’t keep you chained up like this forever. You are a man, not a beast. Please…”
With a sudden start, I realized that I recognized him. Nero. And with that recognition, painful memories slammed into me like a pack of wolves—biting, tearing, howling, snarling, clawing…
“Deganawida is gone,” Nero said. “He’s hidden Sorin’s body…”
I fought back against my pack of inner demons—my pack of memories. Nero’s words pulled me back ever so slowly, and I realized that he’d been speaking to me for quite some time.
“You have to find a purpose, brother. I can’t do this without you.”
Purpose…
I growled. My only purpose was death. Vengeance. Protection. I’d failed at protecting everyone. I’d failed to protect Boy. Sorin was gone. We’d waited beside his body for three days. Waited for him to rise back to life. Nero had tried everything to bring him back, but all to no effect.
Devil’s Blood: Shade of Devil Book 3 Page 13