by Black, Tasha
It turned out they were following a hunch Bonnie had after she’d dreamt that the figures contained the trapped souls of Lenni Lenape tribe members from over a hundred years ago.
They’d gone to the amphitheater, laid the figures in a circle with the intention of freeing them.
But an evil demon had come - some sort of echo of the moroi.
And then things had gotten weird.
Cressida had seen things the others couldn’t.
And when they finally took down the demon, she’d witnessed the spirits from each totem float into the heavens, free at last.
Except for the crow, which had circled and then dove into Cressida, filling her with a sense of exhilaration. And the pendulum swing of insight.
Suddenly she had felt the pain the moroi caused these people. Her people. The families torn apart. The loss of their connection with the spirit realm.
She felt how out of balance the world was because of the moroi and the portals.
Even now, the wrongness reverberated in her. Yet she felt she could set it right somehow.
And there was something more - something to do with the crow. But she couldn’t figure it out.
Why hadn’t it gone away? All the others had.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. There was one other spirit animal that had stayed behind.
The fox. Tokala.
Instead of sailing into the sky, the fox spirit had materialized into his human form, drawn by an otherworldly love for Bonnie. Now the two of them lived what appeared to be an ordinary life in Bonnie’s small apartment.
The young man, a Lenni Lenape tribe member from the days of William Penn, was already a favorite of many of the townsfolk. The rumor mill had decided he was some sort of refugee. They treated him like a beloved exchange student, delighting in offering him classic “American” experiences like cartons of water ice, museum trips, and even tickets to see the Phillies.
And he seemed to be getting a kick out of it.
Cressida stepped out of the woods, and onto the stage of the amphitheater.
The light was fading, but it was brighter in the open than it had been in the trees.
She was unsurprised to see Tokala sitting on one of the stones, his head bowed in thought, as if he had been waiting for her.
“Tokala,” she called to him.
He didn’t raise his head, not even when she walked right up to him.
She assumed he was meditating, or communing with nature spirits, or whatever it was that he did. Cressida was almost ready to leave when he turned to her at last and she saw why he hadn’t responded.
He was wearing earbuds.
He took them out and smiled at her.
Good grief he was handsome. He was dressed like any guy in town would be - jeans, wool peacoat over his broad shoulders. His glossy black hair tumbled down his back, but his strong jaw and high cheekbones made him look so masculine. His large dark eyes were crinkled at the corners now because of the friendly smile he was giving her.
“Cressida Crow,” he said. “Have you heard The Beatles?”
He offered her the earbuds and she stared at him for a moment of surprise.
“I’m good,” she told him, taking a seat on the granite bench next to him.
He shrugged and put the music away.
They were silent for a moment. The sounds of the woods waking up for the evening swirled around them.
“I need to talk to you,” she said at length.
“I know.”
“About what happened that night,” she went on.
“You fought bravely,” he said, giving her a respectful nod. “The dark spirit will trouble us no more.”
Cressida felt the pride rising in her chest. But it wasn’t time to wallow in past victories.
“It’s not about that, exactly,” she said. “At the end, all the spirits were freed. Except the crow. It flew into me.”
Tokala nodded without answering.
“Why?” she asked.
“The Crow is your totem,” he told her. “As the Fox is mine.”
“But I’m a Wolf,” she said immediately.
“The wolf is a wolf,” he said. “The crow is a crow. You are Cressida.”
“What the hell does that mean?” she demanded. She’d never been a fan of confusing wordplay.
Tokala laughed.
“I am bound to the fox,” he explained, “because of my wit and skill at diplomacy. There were other shape shifters in my tribe. All drawn to their animals because of the strength of their personality. But there were tales - stories of those truly gifted, who were not bound to a single totem, but to many.”
Impossible.
“But I’m not… like you,” she said. If she was really Native American, her blood tie must be so distant.
Tokala reached out and touched a finger to her hair, then brushed his hand lightly against her cheek.
“Your golden hair and pale skin are only on the surface,” he said. “But they are a mask. They are a defense, like your sharp tongue.”
“Hey,” she said.
“But your blood,” he continued. “Your blood calls to me like a river.”
“You can hear my blood?” she asked, searching his face for sarcasm or trickery and seeing none.
“I can,” he told her. “It speaks to me of all I have lost. But it also speaks of power. It is why the moroi feared you.”
His words echoed in the empty space between them and Cressida chose not to ask him how he had known about that.
“Your bravery and loyalty bind you to the wolf,” he said. “It is who you are. But you are also creative and strong of spirit, like the crow. That is also who you are.”
“Are you saying I can turn into a crow if I want to?” Cressida tried to get her head around the idea.
“I can’t answer that,” he said. “I could never pretend to know what you want. But I can tell you that if you are going to defeat the moroi, you will need to open your mind to the possibility that you are more than you ever dreamed.”
She stood, ran a hand through her hair, then sat again. It might feel like this was an impossible conversation, but it was what she craved.
“Look at me, Cressida,” Tokala said with a self-deprecating smile. “In my tribe, I was called ‘he who walks in two worlds’. I thought it was because I could turn into a fox. But now I see there was a world waiting for me beyond my wildest imagination.”
Cressida thought about it, torn.
She had always been a wolf - it was her joy. She could not imagine shifting into anything but the silvery pelt of her wolf, into those clever paws and the familiar thought patterns.
She considered the crow. And then she thought of all of the other animal totems. The world of loved ones whose spirits Tokala had set free that night.
“Do you miss them?” she asked, knowing she didn’t need to segue, that they were at the top of his mind too.
“Very much,” he told her. “But I love Bonnie, and I am happy. I saved them - helped them on their way to the spirit world and found my place in this one. That was my purpose. Because of all this, I know who I am.”
She nodded slowly. Yes, that sounded exactly right.
“Who are you, Cressida Crow?” he asked.
That was a good question.
Chapter 7
Grace was dreaming.
She knew it because of the lightness in her heart, a warmth so bright it was nearly blinding, blocking out the cold resolve of her mission.
As a matter of fact, she was having trouble remembering what her mission was. But that was okay.
Julian walked beside her, his hand brushing hers, sending a shiver of awareness through her with each touch. He wore a pensive look on his familiar features. He took in the canopy of trees and the worn path before them as if he were trying to memorize them.
Grace laughed and the sound echoed slightly.
He turned and smiled at her, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and all the old clichés resulted - firewo
rks, church bells ringing in her ears, a melting sensation in her chest…
“Here, love,” he gestured.
She looked down to where he was pointing.
A tartan picnic blanket was laid under a weeping willow. A beautiful lunch was spread out on it, as if they were posing in a high-end casual clothing catalogue.
How had he done it?
She turned back to him, but he only smiled and gestured again for her to sit.
Behind him, the hillside sank into a valley, where a small village followed the curve of a creek. At a distance, the homes looked like dollhouses - the whole thing was almost like looking at a miniature train set. The tiny streets serpentined up and down the hillside between them.
Grace sat. The picnic blanket was smooth to the touch and there was no trace of roughness in the ground beneath it, as if it were laid on a bed rather than at the roots of the large tree.
Julian sat across from her, the hanging branches of the tree enveloping them like a tent.
He reached for a strawberry that glistened like blood. He stretched his hand out to her and she opened her mouth to take a bite.
Sweetness blossomed in her mouth, the ripe fruit tasted like summer. She couldn’t remember ever having tasted something in a dream before. She closed her eyes to luxuriate.
Then Julian’s warm mouth was on hers and he was kissing her, slow and sweet.
Grace melted into him, drinking in his masculine scent.
He stroked his hand down her side, and her nerve endings came alive with pleasure at his touch. An orchestra that craved its conductor.
She reached up to cup his cheek gently, her hand delirious with the slight roughness of the stubble at his jaw. She had almost forgotten.
Forgotten…
Forgotten.
Something was wrong.
The sensation of ice water infiltrated her pores, something very, very bad was happening.
What had she forgotten?
She pulled back from him slightly.
“We have to go,” she whispered.
He pulled her back in, pressed his lips to hers.
“Julian,” she begged. “We have to go now.”
The earth shook beneath them as if in agreement. The leaves of the weeping willow shivered upon a deep rumbling groan that seemed to be coming from the earth itself.
She looked up to see a huge mass of water thundering toward them from higher up the mountain. It looked like a tidal wave in a movie. Where could it have come from?
“We need to get away,” she told him. “We need to warn the people in the town. Look behind you.”
But Julian smiled lazily and didn’t turn around.
She leapt up, grabbing his hand.
“Stay with me,” he said lightly.
“We have to go,” she yelled. “Come on.”
She tugged him to his feet, ran down the hillside, sending dirt and gravel skittering.
She squeezed his hand, but felt her nails dig into her own palm.
She didn’t have him. He wasn’t with her anymore.
She turned and raced back up the hill. The water was crashing toward her now, only twenty feet away.
She tripped over a rock and sailed to her knees.
“No,” she tried to scream, but the sound wouldn’t come out. She threw her hands over her head in a feeble gesture of protection and closed her eyes, waiting for the water to take her.
But she felt nothing.
She opened her eyes.
The wall of water had stopped, just inches away from her.
She stood and reached out. A barrier met her hand, like glass, as tall as her eye could see, holding the water back.
Julian.
Beyond the barrier, the submerged fronds of the willow and the grass beneath swayed in a surreal way. The tartan blanket floated by like a ghost, followed by a basket with strawberries tumbling out of it in slow motion.
No sign of Julian.
Had she lost him lower on the hillside?
She looked down the hill. Maybe he had kept going without her.
At the foot of the path a young girl with dark ponytails pulled a blue wagon behind a man who walked a small dog. They were oblivious to the danger above them.
No Julian.
She turned back and gasped.
He was right in front of her, just on the other side of the barrier. His hair drifted around his face. Bubbles floated upward as he exhaled.
Grace pounded on the glass.
Julian didn’t react.
“Julian,” she cried.
But it was as if he couldn’t see or hear her.
Desperately, she tried to climb the barrier, but it was slick and her feet could find no purchase.
She looked to the left and right, but there was no end in sight to the cross section of unexpected ocean.
She looked back to Julian.
His handsome face was pale - no bubbles emerged from his mouth.
Frantic, she grabbed the rock she had just tripped over, and hit the glass with it as hard as she could.
A spiderweb crack slowly appeared.
She hauled back with the rock again.
But before she could strike, she heard the tinkling laughter of the girl on the bicycle.
An awful thought occurred to Grace. If she broke this glass, the whole town would be destroyed. Everyone would drown.
Hell, Grace herself would probably drown.
Behind the glass, Julian’s face was turning blue.
Without another thought, Grace brought the rock down again with all of her strength.
The glass didn’t crack. It exploded.
Cold water rushed over her, mercilessly.
Something stung her hand. A piece of the glass must have been cutting into the flesh of her palm. The pain of it was more immediate than the agony in her bursting lungs. Her hand pounded and pulsed.
She opened her mouth, expecting to drag in water.
Instead she tasted cold air.
Grace opened her eyes to find herself tangled in the sheets of her own bed, drenched in sweat.
Her hand clenched the crystal pendant.
She let it go and fell back against the pillow, panting.
After a few deep breaths, she leaned up and pulled aside the curtain next to the bed, needing a comforting glance at the real world.
Outside, snow was falling. A young girl with dark ponytails pulled a blue sled behind a man who walked a small dog.
Inside, she was alone.
Chapter 8
Ainsley walked slowly through town on Christmas Eve with her best friend in the world.
The shops were all closed, but the windows were aglow with holiday decorations. Lazy snowflakes fell to join the drifts that covered the sidewalk.
The snow was already a few inches deep - the weatherman hadn’t called for that.
You would have thought he had though, based on the way Grace was dressed. The smaller woman was bundled up within an inch of her life from the tip of her fleece-lined boots to the woolen hat on her head.
Ainsley, on the other hand, wore an unbuttoned jacket. Being a wolf, she had always run hot. And now that she was pregnant, she was a furnace. The cool air felt fantastic against her heated skin.
She figured she was lucky Grace had agreed to go for a walk. Ainsley had been feeling cooped up in the house, restless, knowing that Yusef wanted to break the packs up. And the fact that he wouldn’t say so explicitly allowed her no avenue to defend herself against his interference.
It was good to have her friend home to strategize with. She was hoping Grace could talk out the problem with her. The two of them had known each other since childhood. They shared values and a common love for the town and its small segment of unusual residents.
“So how long will you be home?” Ainsley asked casually, pretending to admire a handmade apron in a window.
“We’ll be leaving again soon,” Grace said, without a hint of wistfulness. “I have a better idea of how
to find the thing now.”
Grace was so single-minded about capturing the moroi. Ainsley was grateful but worried for her friend. If Grace wanted to find it, she would find it. But were Grace and Cressida strong enough on their own to take it down?
“I wish I could come with you,” Ainsley worried out loud.
“No you don’t,” Grace said. “Your place is here, with your pack. They need you with them, not sleeping in cars and cheap motels, living on fast food while you go on some crazy monster hunt.”
“You make it sound so glamorous,” Ainsley teased.
Grace laughed, the clear high note of her bell-like voice landing pleasantly in Ainsley’s ears as it always had.
Grace was right, of course. The untenable idea of abandoning her pack aside, Ainsley found the thought of cheap hotels and fast food pretty revolting. She had never been one for “road trips”.
But her nagging worry for Grace increased as it always did when she thought of the last time they’d faced the moroi. Grace had almost died under the field house that night. Ainsley still had nightmares about trying to drag her friend to the surface of that chilling subterranean water, and Grace, so tiny, fighting like a wildcat to stay below and drown in the place where they’d just lost Julian.
“I’ll be okay, Ainsley,” Grace said softly, as if she had heard Ainsley’s thoughts.
And for all Ainsley knew, she had. They had been friends that long; they shared a point of view.
“So how’s it going with Cressida?” Ainsley changed the subject.
“It’s good,” Grace said slowly, a smile turning up the corners of her lips.
“Yeah.” Ainsley nodded. Cressida was clever and loyal. It made perfect sense that Grace liked her.
“I’m not a fan of her… appetite,” Grace added with a light laugh.
“Oh wow,” Ainsley exclaimed. “Where have you been that she would even meet someone?” Cressida had a pretty amped up libido, but Ainsley had been under the impression that Grace and Cressida had stuck to rural areas, like Copper Creek, on their journey so far.
“No,” Grace laughed. “I meant her actual appetite, for food. The woman lives on Sprite and salt and vinegar potato chips. It’s like being on a vacation with a fourteen year old. I had to draw the line at cheese balls. Nothing with orange powder on it will be eaten in my car.”