Soren was the red wolf. He heard the alpha’s command in his brother’s voice. He saw the black wolf deep down in Ivan’s eyes. His whole body went numb from the cold of the calm he forced through sheer willpower alone.
Who had told Ivan about the sword?
The alpha was warning him away from an unacceptable mate. Soren agreed. Hell, Anna agreed. So why was his internal response a long, echoing howl of refusal? He tamped it down. He clenched his teeth. He held himself still, because if he moved a millimeter, it might become a shift to challenge the alpha’s authority. Ivan’s eyes widened. In spite of Soren’s best efforts, his brother was wise beyond his apparent years. He looked like a twenty-five-year-old man. He was, in fact, much older. He must have sensed or seen Soren’s visceral response to his order.
A noise interrupted before the standoff could erupt into violence. They both broke away from the stare to look up. Elena appeared at a window high above them. She’d thrown it open, and several ravens had lifted off from their sentinel perches on its ledge. White curtains billowed outward around her blanket-wrapped form. They were too far away to see her face, but the sound of Ivan’s name drifted with the sound of flapping wings.
“She’s pregnant, Soren. She’s going to have a child. My child. Your niece or nephew. Anna isn’t welcome here. Not anymore,” Ivan said.
The shift that had risen to claim Soren subsided as shock claimed him instead. He took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes. Ivan didn’t know about the emerald sword’s Call. He was protecting his unborn child. Soren opened his eyes again to see his sister-in-law at the window. She’d gone silent, but the wind still fluttered the curtains around her petite figure. She looked small and vulnerable, although Soren knew she was a fierce warrior quite capable of protecting herself. Her silent urgency at the window didn’t negate Ivan’s response. It only backed it up.
A baby at Bronwal.
How could Soren respond to that with anything other than a nod? Anna wasn’t welcome at Bronwal. Ivan was only saying what he already knew to be true: Anna was a danger to the Romanov family. She was a powerful witch being Called by the emerald sword. A connection with that enchanted blade would make her even more powerful. Dangerously powerful considering her lack of control. It would be a mistake to ever trust her again.
* * *
Before dawn, the corridors of Bronwal were as deserted as they’d been the night before. But it was a different type of desertion than she’d grown used to in the past. The floors were swept clean and covered with colorful woven rugs. There was artwork on the walls—from restored tapestries to exquisite paintings. Torches had been replaced with electric lighting and the necessary wiring was discreetly placed behind rich cherry baseboards that softened the edges of the stone walls.
The castle was becoming a home—a large home, but a home nonetheless.
Bronwal was located in the Carpathian Mountains of Romania. There was rich representation of Slav cultures in the tapestry, carpets and paintings. Rich golds, reds and oranges were vivid compared to the dust and decay she remembered. She suddenly wanted to stay long enough to see the people of the castle as well—those she’d lived with for centuries and those who had reappeared from the Ether when the curse was broken.
It wouldn’t be safe.
There were many who saw her the same way Soren did, and their antagonism might cause her abilities to flare up in self-defense. Her only safe option was to move quickly through the silent halls in order to meet Soren before the castle woke up.
The sword knew she was coming.
She’d woken to a strange sensation in every cell in her body. The only explanation for the increased resonance of the sword’s Call was her intention to travel to find it. She was filled with a silent sound that vibrated along every vessel and vein. It wasn’t the energy of the Ether. It was the emerald. And it felt like joy. When she left the tower room, a buoyancy she tried to fight fueled her steps.
She should dread this journey. She shouldn’t want to see Soren again so soon. But her body jeered at her foolish head. She had every intention of rejecting the sword’s Call. She agreed with the red wolf. The emerald sword must be destroyed.
And still her body rushed downstairs.
“The stables have been restored. I assume you remember how to ride,” Soren said. He waited with two giant horses at the courtyard side entrance. He didn’t wait to see if she protested the outmoded form of transportation he’d chosen. For all intents and purposes, she and Soren were outmoded, as well. People who had lived well beyond their natural time on earth.
Or that was what she’d thought before she’d discovered she was a witch. Volkhvy lived much longer than humans. Then again, the legendary shifters had been enchanted to serve the Light Volkhvy queen. They were long-lived as well, even now that the curse was lifted.
Soren was oddly silent as he swung himself up to mount a large-boned black destrier. The horse pranced beneath his weight when he settled in the saddle, as if it was unused to a rider. She’d ridden with the young teen Romanovs many times, but that had been many years ago. Had Soren looked so commanding and unapproachable on horseback then as he looked right now?
He’d tamed the wild waves of his red hair into a thick twist at the nape of his neck. His beard looked trimmed, but she allowed her glance to skim away before she could be sure, because she didn’t want her perusal to linger. His clothes were more modern than she’d seen him wear before. His long muscular legs were encased in jeans. His broad chest and strong arms were covered in a zippered leather jacket. In the stirrups, his low square-toed boots peeked from his jeans.
Her horse whickered, saving her from becoming too distracted by a man her eyes were too hungry to ignore. She reached for the dappled neck of the gray-and-white beast and patted it before she reached to pull herself onto its wide back. They were riding horses that had probably carried knights into battle before they’d been sucked into the nothingness of the Ether because of the curse. They seemed no worse for wear beyond their nervous prancing, as they grew used to having people on their rematerialized backs once more.
“It will take hours to make it down the mountain on horseback,” Anna said. She gripped the reins in her gloved hands. The power of the Ether was at her fingertips, but the animal beneath her felt safer. Slower but safer, despite the years that had passed since she’d ridden. Her use of power wasn’t reliable. She had yet to gain complete control. That, combined with the Dark chill of the Ether that was imprinted on her nightmares, was enough for her to humor Soren’s choice. She preferred to ride in the forest.
“And I will have my body the entire time. I’ll feel the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. I’ve had my fill of disappearing. I never want to vanish, wondering if I’ll see this world again or not,” Soren said.
He didn’t remind her that he distrusted her as much as he distrusted the Ether. To him, she and the Ether were one and the same. Instead, he nudged his horse into motion with a flick of his reins and a shift of his legs. The black leaped forward but then settled into a steady gait her smaller gray was able to mimic. She gave the dappled gelding its head and allowed the horse to follow the leader. In the long run, Soren would be following her to the sword. For now, she preferred he go first so she wouldn’t have to feel his disapproving gaze on her back as they made their way down the mountain.
The countryside had changed. Nothing was familiar. She trusted Soren because he’d been roaming the forest and mountain for months while she’d been on her mother’s island. Besides, once they had left the pass that led to Bronwal, they came upon trails that zigzagged all over the mountain, indicating the high traffic of sightseers and pleasure seekers. Only Vasilisa’s enchantment had kept the castle mostly hidden whenever it materialized throughout its long cursed existence. Her magic would continue to keep it protected from the outside world if the Romanovs wished it.
They would ne
ver be ordinary citizens.
Whether or not Ivan Romanov shared his brother’s views on Volkhvy magic remained to be seen. In time, he would be the one to decide if Bronwal and its people—including the Romanovs themselves—would still choose to serve the Light Volkhvy queen as champions against the Dark.
* * *
He and his brothers hadn’t solely relied on the shift to fight. They’d been trained to fight with swords as soon as they were strong enough to lift the wooden practice weapons that bloodied and bruised nearly as well as the real things. They were enchanted champions who hadn’t been coddled in any way. Soren had been born to the weight of that responsibility, and he had carried it until the curse came down.
But he had abandoned the emerald sword before Vasilisa cursed them.
He could still remember the cruel day his mother fell in battle. They had been called for far too late, and the race to reach her in time had been the most desperate of his young life. The Dark Volkhvy king had killed her. Even the enchanted sword she carried as Vladimir’s wife hadn’t been able to defend her against him.
The battlefield had been smoking from the blood of the Volkhvy dead when they finally arrived. He remembered weaving between the pools of black blood mingled with red from the Romanov guard that had been traveling with its queen and the Light Volkhvy prince when they were ambushed.
Vasilisa’s consort had been the target. Soren’s mother, Naomi, had died trying to save him. The power in her sword had died with her. Soren remembered the shock of seeing its gem gone as gray as his father’s fur. It had lain inches away from her pale, bloody fingers where it had fallen away from her grasp as she died.
All the power at his disposal—in his ferocious teeth, massive paws and muscled body—had been useless. Even worse than that, his father and brothers had been useless, as well. The battlefield had been filled with death. He’d recognized many of the fallen—his friends, comrades, relatives and allies. The Dark had won that day. He could perfectly recall the sudden notion that the Romanovs weren’t invulnerable. That they could fall and fail. His mother’s face had been untouched. He remembered her still. She’d been a pale beauty in life. In death, her beauty was a horrible shock in the midst of all the ugliness around her. He’d said goodbye with a red wolf’s nose against her cold hand. Naomi’s death had been a deeply personal loss, but it had also been the beginning of losing his belief in his family’s mission and the Light.
He had left the battlefield and traveled back to his horse alone. He’d shifted in the snow without thought to his nakedness immediately going for his own enchanted blade. In his saddle’s scabbard, the emerald blade had waited to choose his future warrior wife.
Or had it already chosen at that point?
He wouldn’t allow himself to think of Bell now. That day, when he’d pulled the sword free, the gem had blazed with green light, as if it was already Calling the woman who would wield it. He had ignored its glow. He’d walked to the edge of a ravine and thrown it over the side.
Soren could still see the blade as its weight and the force of his throw embedded it in the ice far below where he’d stood. The emerald shine of its gem had faded as he’d watched. He’d turned away when it failed to become as dark and gray as his mother’s. He’d had to believe that in time it would die as his mother’s had done. Even before Vasilisa had crafted the curse against them, he had rejected her magical interference in his life. He had rejected the danger he would pose to a woman who might choose to be his mate.
And Soren hadn’t yet understood his father’s part in the ambush. His belief had suffered an unrecoverable setback when he’d learned Vladimir had sacrificed his wife because he hungered for the Volkhvy throne.
Long before he discovered Bell was Vasilisa’s daughter, Soren found out Volkhvy power corrupted. His father. Queen Vasilisa. Even his poor, betrayed mother, Naomi was as undone by the enchanted sword that couldn’t save her as she was by her liege and her lord.
He’d never regretted his decision.
Even if Bell weren’t Volkhvy, he wouldn’t have wanted to expose her to the risk of wielding a Romanov blade. As her former champion, it tortured him well enough that he couldn’t protect her from the threat she carried within her own blood.
* * *
They rode for hours, until by midday Anna’s body screamed in protest from the unusual position and constant motion. Her training with her mother had been physical at times, but it had never involved horseback riding. And her years spent surviving in the corridors of a cursed castle had been all about ninja stealth on her own two feet.
When they broke from the woods into a small clearing, the open air was a fresh relief on her hot face.
“We’ll stop here for food and water,” Soren said.
Had she moaned? She might have groaned. There was no way the legendary red wolf needed a break. But she was too sore to even care that the stop would mean more time in Soren’s company. Anna swung her leg over the horse’s neck and dropped to the ground. Where she immediately crumpled into an aching pile of failure.
After that, everything happened too fast for her to absorb. One second her knees gave out beneath her. The next, Soren Romanov had jumped from his own horse to land beside hers. His hands were wrapped around her upper arms before she could protest, and he pulled her to her feet.
Unfortunately, she’d fallen for a reason. Her legs, so unused to wrapping around a warhorse for hours, weren’t ready to support her weight. It was as if her knees didn’t remember how to stand. The result was a full-body press with the man who’d automatically come to her rescue even though he hated her.
Anna knew he regretted it. She could feel the hard tension in him from his neck to his ankles. Her gloved hands had come up to grab onto him for support. His leather lapels were crushed in her fingers.
But it was his strong arms that held her up. His hands had dropped from her arms to her waist. He held her in a warm embrace. She could feel every inch of heated muscle in his arms, his chest and his stomach.
It was a mistake to look into his eyes. For the first time, they weren’t hidden by wild hair or a dim hallway. They weren’t hooded by mist or shadows. They glowed amber in the sunlight, fully revealed. He didn’t jerk away. He didn’t avoid her search. He met her gaze as if he, too, was surprised by the sudden ability to really see into her eyes for the first time.
The vibration in her cells suddenly had a name, and its name was Soren.
The Call of the sword only magnified what was already there, worked into her body and soul at creation by some unseen hand.
Soren’s hands reflexively tightened on her. She could feel their power along with the heat through her fleece jacket and thin T-shirt. Her nipples pebbled. Her breath caught. The tingling in her hands increased as the moment became heavy with impossible possibilities.
His eyes didn’t seem cool and guarded. They seemed...warm.
He leaned. Just a little. And the sun glinted off the crown of his head, where his clean red hair had been smoothed down. There were no curls left to catch the light. She blinked against the sudden russet halo and the spell of the chemistry between them was broken. He dropped his hands and stepped back. She swayed but willed herself to stay on her feet by pure determination.
“I guess it’s been a long time,” Anna murmured. She planted her feet more firmly on the ground and stretched her waist this way and that in order to cover her embarrassment.
Soren had fisted his hands as if they’d betrayed him by holding her. She avoided his eyes. She didn’t want to see all the warmth gone and caution returned. She would do well to remember that she couldn’t let the sword’s Call or old feelings cloud her judgment. She needed to stay cautious, as well. She couldn’t afford to respond to the pull she felt from Soren.
It was a lie.
His rejection was the truth.
They were going after the sword
in order to destroy it. The mission was necessary. It was also the ultimate rejection of what they had and what they could ever be.
* * *
He took care of the horses as if centuries hadn’t passed since animal husbandry was a part of his everyday life. He led them to a nearby stream and then hobbled them into a meadow of tall green grass. He didn’t need to rest. It would be better if they completed this mission as soon as possible. He needed to end this.
But the horses needed extra care after being in the Ether, just as humans and wolves did. It was a process to get your legs back under you after you’d had no legs or body at all. He remembered well the days of each Cycle they’d all wasted remembering how to be themselves again. How to think and move and exist. No wonder there were those who disappeared for good with every materialization. The Ether drained more from a man’s soul each and every time it devoured his body. Going and coming from the cold darkness caused a loss of self and over time the diminishment could become complete.
Even as he cared for the horses, he knew he hadn’t stopped out of consideration for the sturdy animals. He’d heard Anna groan. He’d stopped for her. She wasn’t used to horseback riding, and her muscles hadn’t been hardened by centuries of running as a wolf. They’d woken before dawn and pushed on for hours. She hadn’t said a word. She hadn’t argued with him about how much more quickly they would travel by using her witchery. She hadn’t asked why horses instead of a more modern nonmagical form of transportation.
The truth was he hadn’t wanted to discuss their trip with Ivan more than he had to. Asking for one of the new ATVs would have opened up all sorts of other questions and revelations. As the alpha, his brother might feel obligated to stop them from destroying the sword. Although he had forbidden Anna to return to Bronwal, he might envision another mate for the red wolf down the line. He might see the strategic advantage to having another warrior claim the sword. Soren rejected that thought almost before it began. He might be disadvantaged with no warrior to fight by his side, but he wanted no mate.
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