Blood and Wolf (The Canath Chronicles Book 1)

by Eva Truesdale

  I feel hands on my shoulders, gripping tight. I manage a deep, almost calm breath. I squeeze my eyes shut and say, “I’m fine.”

  The hands loosen their grip, slightly. When I open my eyes, Liam’s crouched in front of me, watching me with a concerned look. There’s no trace of his playful smirk from before.

  “Maybe that was a bad idea,” he says, softly.

  “Did I…?”

  He keeps his eyes locked on mine, clearly not wanting to answer my unfinished question. But I can answer it just by glancing up.

  A fine, smoke-colored mist is drifting down from the sky.

  Fissure residue.

  I swallow hard. “Did anything…?”

  “I don’t think so. It was just a flicker. It didn’t last long enough for anything to cross over.”

  My throat tightens, though I believe he’s right; aside from the smoky mist, the world looks normal. No gaping holes in it that I can see. And there are no terrifying creatures in sight, unless you include the two of us—and I’m far from terrifying at the moment, the way I’m curling around myself and shaking.

  There cannot be a third time.

  “What are the chances that nobody felt that?” I ask, breathless and unable to hold Liam’s gaze.

  He’s quiet for what seems like an unnecessarily long and dramatic time, and then he says: “Zero.”

  I wince, about to protest his negativity. But then he nods to his right. I follow his gaze, and suddenly I understand what he means—because there’s a silver wolf watching us, perched on the crest of a hill some thirty feet away.

  And even with all the distance between us, I can practically feel the piercing disappointment in my dad’s eyes.

  Chapter Two

  “I can explain.”

  My dad cuts me a sideways glance as we walk through the woods, back toward home. He’s human now. Each of my steps is equal to about half of one of his. His long legs are one of the few things I didn’t inherit from him— in just about every other way, he can’t deny me; we have the same wavy dark hair, the same fair skin, the same light blue eyes. Although his skin is a lot more scarred than mine, and his eyes usually look a lot more tired. Particularly in moments like this.

  “You knew what was coming today, Eleanor,” he says with a sigh. “Our territory is swarming with creatures able to sense the slightest magical disturbance—why would you risk such an intense training session, when you knew the sort of risk it could pose?”

  “I thought it would help me focus. And it wasn’t that intense at first, we were just messing around, we—”

  “This is not a game.”

  I trudge along in silence for a few minutes. My gaze drifts toward the trees around us, to occasional flashes of Liam’s white fur breaking up the greenery. He shifted back to his wolf form basically immediately after catching sight of my dad. Gave some excuse about it being past his scheduled time to sweep part of our pack’s territory in search of possible threats—but I know better. Truth is, my dad can be terrifying when he’s angry.

  And Liam is a coward, and I’m totally going to call him out on it later.

  Assuming I survive until later, which is feeling less likely with every disappointed glare my father gives me.

  “Nothing happened,” I say. “Nothing escaped from anywhere…. I just saw a few images in my mind, and then I managed to make it all stop. I didn’t destroy the world, okay? Just a stupid little scare; it’s not like this hasn’t happened before.”

  “What did you see?” His tone is suddenly mundane, almost; the question is routine, after all. My parents ask about everything I see—whether in nightmares or those visions I sometimes have during the fleeting, loss-of-control moments. In addition to her innate elemental magic—a rarity among shifter kind—my mom also has the gift of Sight, and her visions have been known to predict the future and stuff. So there’s reason to believe my ‘hallucinations’ might be worth paying attention to, as well. But my mom is also an otherwise accomplished magic-user, fully in control of her power and her beastly wolf side.

  Unlike me.

  “The same monsters as always,” I say.

  Nothing from the future, only from my past mistakes.

  My answer sounds as well-rehearsed as his question, but I find myself slowing to a stop as I say it.

  Dad looks back, curious at my sudden hesitation. “Is that all?”

  I frown. “Actually…No, I guess it wasn’t. I saw a weird figure in a cloak, too. Weird green eyes.” He watches me closely for a moment, like he’s trying to decide if I’m just messing with him—and honestly I’m a bit skeptical of myself, too. Because for some reason I’d almost forgotten about that cloaked figure until now.

  Am I making it up?

  I give my head a little shake, annoyed that I can’t even seem to control my own thoughts, on top of everything else.

  Yeah, I wouldn’t say I’m feeling super confident about the council’s upcoming test.

  “Probably nothing to worry about,” Dad finally says, as if he can sense that uncertainty. Actually, he probably can; fear has very distinct scent markers that even a werewolf in human form can pick up on. And even if it didn’t, we’re close enough that he’d probably know, anyway. He circles back, lightly takes hold of my arm and urges me forward. “Let’s focus on getting through this meeting and its test, how about?”

  I’m quick to agree, because it means we don’t have to talk about my most recent screw-up anymore.

  We cross the rest of the forest in silence, slowing at the edge of our yard as the comforting scent of food wraps around us. The crisp, bubbly skin of fried chicken. The buttery scent of fresh bread. Chocolate. There’s definitely chocolate of some kind involved. I’m really hoping it’s in the form of a giant cake.

  “Your Aunt Vanessa’s doing,” Dad says.

  “I figured.” Vanessa is Liam’s mom. She isn’t technically my aunt by blood, but I’ve grown up referring to her by the familial title, same as I do most of the elders that live with us. It’s a pack thing.

  And Aunt Vanessa insists that everyone, regardless of species, gets along better if she fattens them up first. And she’s exceptionally good at fattening people up. Even some of the more…wild ones in our pack—the ones who have no problem chasing down fresh meat in the forest—rarely turn down a dish made by her.

  My mouth is watering by the time we reach the door, but Dad reminds me that I’m not exactly presentable at the moment, and he insists I go change into clothes that don’t smell like the creek and everything that’s ever died in it.

  “Hurry up,” he says. “Your mother is looking for you; I’ll distract her for as long as I can.”

  We share a slight conspiratorial smile. It’s short lived, though, because as soon as I duck into the hall that leads to my room, I just about collide with the very person we were trying to avoid.

  “Distract me from what, exactly?” my mother asks.

  Damn supernatural hearing.

  “And do I smell blood?”

  My fingers clench on the hilt of my weapon, which I thought I’d scrubbed thoroughly enough, but apparently not.

  Damn supernatural senses of smell.

  My father catches up and attempts to sway her in our favor by way of a sheepish smile, but her frown doesn’t budge. “What were you doing?” she presses. “I sensed fissure movements, and now I smell blood, and Elle, look at you—you didn’t forget what today was, did you?”

  As she talks, she’s pushing my dirty hair from my face, inspecting for new cuts and bruises; it’s an anxious habit she’s had for as long as I can remember, the way she almost always greets me like this. And it makes me feel like a toddler who she accidently let out of her sight, but I usually just endure it. Because I understand why she does it. Or I try to understand, at least. I try to remember that her own skin is covered in scars that each carry a painful memory; that she’s blind in her left eye for reasons she’s never wanted to talk about with me.

  There’s
a lot my parents don’t talk about with me, really; about wars and magic that came before I was born. I just know that they’ve faced death enough to become intimately familiar with it. Enough that they’re convinced it might show up and snatch me away if they don’t watch me closely enough.

  Mom is worse than Dad.

  It’s funny, because Alexandra Aurick-McClelland is unshakable around other people—like when she’s donning her metaphorical crown as leader of canine shifting kind, whether at council meetings or otherwise; but whenever it’s just the three of us like this, it flips some sort of anxiety switch that can usually only be switched off by Dad.

  “She’s fine, Alex,” he says, intercepting her hand as she reaches to pick a wet leaf from my hair. “And we already talked. Just a minor slip-up while training.” I’m thankful when he doesn’t elaborate past that. He just holds her hand and insists I get moving, and there’s no mention of my curse, or of my visions of weird cloaked figures or anything else.

  I escape to my room and place my blade in the smaller of my two weapon cabinets, making a mental note to finish cleaning it later. My eyes keep drifting back to those cabinets as I gather my things for a shower. It started as a hobby, the weapon collecting, and I realize it would probably strike most people as strange. Maybe a bit creepy—because what seventeen-year-old girl collects deadly weapons for fun, really?

  It’s more than that, though.

  I’ve made it a point to familiarize myself with every single one of those blades, those bows, those guns, because it helps me feel a little less powerless in my life full of dangerous and supernatural things. I can’t use magic, or my beast form, but at least I can make a weapon out of just about anything else.

  I sense more bodies approaching, crossing the yard toward our house. I don’t have to look out my window to recognize them. And, really, I smell god-awful, and I should be hurrying up with the shower thing. But something pulls me toward the window instead. Something makes me feel like studying all of the pseudo-humans below, even though I’ve seen them dozens of times: The familiar pale face of Myran Greenguard, the only member of the Seelie Court who regularly attends these meetings; the cluster of Head witches from the New England collected territories, who are all decidedly friendlier than Myran, and who are dressed in their usual flowy white dresses; the members of different vampire covens who all wear similar cloaks to protect against the light of the setting sun…and the list goes on. A colorful parade of supernatural, freakish things. Liam once joked that we could sell tickets to humans for this spectacle. The council would put us to death for it, yeah, but we’d be millionaires for a while, at least.

  I smile at the memory of that conversation, and I start to turn away.

  But that’s when I notice it: Someone I don’t recognize, trailing behind the group of Blackwood sorcerers that’s just emerged from the trees.

  He doesn’t look much older than me, and he’s wearing the same pendant as all those other sorcerers from the Blackwood lineage—the one with a golden chain and a tiny, clear diamond filled with blood that catches the setting sun’s light. He walks with an easy, unconcerned stride. Lifts his head with the same sort of nonchalant effort and glances straight at my window.

  Straight at me.

  And his eyes are the same, unmistakable green that I saw in my vision.

  Chapter Three

  “Elle? Eleanor? Elleeeee?”

  “What?”

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  I blink several times, forcing myself to meet the golden eyes staring at me through oversized, retro black glasses. “Sorry, Carys,” I say with an apologetic sigh.

  The third part of the trio completed by myself and Liam mirrors my sigh, twisting her long, black hair around her fingers. The ‘troublemaking trio’. That’s what her father, Eli, calls us.

  We very probably deserve it.

  Or at least Liam and I do. Carys is the youngest, but admittedly the most straight-laced of the three of us. The last time we tried to talk her into sneaking out in the middle of the night— off to check out a waterfall pool that isn’t technically located within our pack’s territory— she responded by lecturing us for thirty minutes about the sort of disease-causing microbes that can be found in rivers, offering us a book on the subject, and then rolling over and going back to sleep. We left the book, and caught no diseases (that I know of). But it hasn’t stopped her from trying to ‘educate’ us on a regular basis. Like right now—she’s got another huge book unfolded, taking up her entire lap, and its pages are marked with post-it flags and slips of paper with messy notes scribbled on them.

  She’s been trying to help me with last minute preparations for my council test. And I appreciate it. I really do. I feel bad for letting my attention drift, but all her notes about the history of the Blackwood sorcerers, and their common ancestor and his magic, were starting to make my head spin. They’re the ones responsible for conceiving and conducting my test this time, which further explains why Mom was so uptight earlier.

  My parents’ dislike of the Blackwoods isn’t exactly a secret.

  That’s not the only thing that’s making it hard to focus, though.

  I tried to find that green-eyed boy again. But there’s been no sign of him since I left my room, and the few people I asked brushed me off like they had no idea who I was talking about. Like I might be crazy or something.

  “I give up,” Carys declares, snapping the book shut and making me jump. “You’re not listening, obviously.”

  “I’m a lost cause.”

  She nods. “Well, I only have two simple pieces of advice for you, then.”

  “Which are…?”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, and don’t die.”

  “In that order of importance?” I mime writing her notes on my hand, because it makes her laugh even as she’s rolling her eyes at me. “And can you elaborate on what you mean by stupid, maybe? I think I need a powerpoint presentation on the subject, if you happen to have one?”

  “I would have made one if I’d thought you could have stayed awake through it,” she says drily.

  “She’ll be fine, Carys,” Liam says. “Stop worrying so much. You’re making me nervous.” He sinks down on the couch next to me, plate of chocolate cake in hand. I attempt to swipe a corner of it. He jabs at my hand and shoos me away with his fork. “Not a chance, Shorty.”

  “This could be my last meal,” I insist. “I might be marching to my doom in a few minutes, and you’re going to deny me cake?”

  “Yes, I am. Especially since I know for a fact you already ate a piece.”

  “She had two pieces,” Carys corrects.

  Typical.

  Always insisting on sharing all the facts.

  “Also: I wish you would take this more seriously, Elle,” she laments.

  I settle back, disgruntled and cakeless. After a moment of enduring Carys’s frown, I say, “Random question: Does Maric have a son?” Maric is the leader of the Blackwood sorcerers—their blood king, as they refer to him. The blood part is because he’s a direct descendant of Orion Blackwood. Or at least I think that’s what Carys said his ancestor’s name was… She showed me this crazy family tree thing too, and she threatened to quiz me on it. So I do know that all of the sorcerers in this group refer to themselves as part of the Blackwood Clan, but only a few—like Maric—are actually descendants of the original, most powerful bloodline.

  Carys looks cautiously optimistic that I’m at least focusing on something other than cake. “He had a daughter, I think. I don’t remember the details; but I’m pretty sure she died a long time ago.”

  Well there goes that theory.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw this guy earlier…” I hesitate, suppressing a shiver at the thought of those striking eyes. “I didn’t recognize him, but I could have sworn he looked exactly like a younger version of Maric. I thought maybe it was bring-your-kid-to-work day or something. But if he’s dead…”

&nb
sp; “You’re seeing ghosts now, too?” Liam teases, shoveling another bite of cake in his mouth. “Weirdo.”

  “No one said you had to be friends with me,” I point out. “Also, I may be weird, but at least I’m not a slob. Seriously—where did you learn how to use a fork?”

  “I’m self-taught.”

  “It shows.”

  “Aaand we’ve derailed again,” Carys sighs.

  The derailment doesn’t last, though, because a minute later the double doors to the sitting room open. All three of us fall silent and solemn as my mom steps inside.

  Gone are her fidgeting hands, her nervous glances; she’s in Empress of Wolves mode now as she gently smiles at me and beckons me to her side.

  “Good luck,” Carys and Liam say together.

  I give them a little salute and hop to my feet, my movements full of a confidence that melts away as soon as I leave the room. I shut the door quickly, leaving just me and Mom and a long walk to the courtyard, where the council’s meeting has been taking place. She doesn’t say anything for several minutes.

  I can feel the strain of our relationship in moments like this; our quiet is always different than the comfortable silence I share with Dad. It isn’t bad, but it’s… heavier. She would never admit it, but sometimes I think she regrets having me. Or, more like, she feels guilty for having me, because she feels responsible for giving birth to someone who could, you know, possibly destroy this world or whatever.

  And I never asked her for an apology—don’t need one, thanks—but sometimes I catch her looking at me as if she wants to say sorry.

  “You know the Blackwood clan is fond of illusion magic,” my mom finally says.

  “Yeah. Carys reminded me. I know more about the origin of their magic than any person could possibly ever need to, thanks to her.”

  The corner of her lip quirks, but the almost-smile fades as she grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. “So hold on to what you know,” she says, her gaze locking on mine. “Remember that however they try to test you, it likely isn’t even real. And even if it is real, you’re strong enough to focus through it. You’re stronger than all of these people who insist on testing you. You understand that, right, Eleanor?”