by Zoë Archer
Nathan’s beast would not relinquish its hold on him, too lashed to aggression and animal demand, so, denied words, he gave a soft bark. Astrid understood, and edged forward, until she stood in front of the submissive wolf. She started to reach toward its open maw, but cast a quick, questioning glance at Nathan. He ducked his head briefly in assent. The ice wolf wouldn’t dare hurt her, the alpha’s mate.
Astrid stretched her hand out and wrapped it around the totem. The moment she touched the enormous tooth, the ice wolf dissolved into cold vapor, swirling around her and Nathan. When the mists disappeared, she was left holding the totem, the thong dangling down as if waiting to be looped around someone’s neck.
They were alone in the crevasse, with only the broken, frozen human body for company.
Without the threat of the ice wolf, the shift came over Nathan at once. He pulled himself up from the ground to stand on two feet, heart pounding, power surging through him. He felt immense, the size of planets, utterly without fear.
Astrid gazed down at the totem in her hands, her expression reflective. “This is the first,” she breathed. She glanced up at him. “The first Source I have seen or touched in five years. And we recovered it, together.” Her mouth curled into a smile, then, with a last, almost wistful look, she handed him the totem.
Gravity and strength in his hands, the history of generations of wolves, the nocturnal forests and joy of the hunt. Pups whelped, wolves challenged, mates taken, birth and death. Millennia racing like clouds over the moon. The new threat of man, the subjugation of wolves into dogs, servants. The wolf of the woods remained free as Nathan was free. But here, cupped between his human hands, was the means to preside over all Earth Spirit wolves. Their strength and ferocity and communion—his. If that was what he desired.
All wolf Earth Spirits his to dominate, so long as he held the totem. To be in command, no longer the outsider. A fierce temptation.
“Nathan?”
Astrid’s voice, her hand on his arm, concern in her storm-colored eyes.
He forced himself to breathe calmly. “Keep this,” he said, his hoarse voice more animal than human. He held the totem out to her. “It tantalizes me.”
Astrid closed his fingers over the totem. “It belongs to you, and the Earth Spirits.”
“I want to—it makes me—”
“I know,” she said gently. “And that’s why you must be the one to carry it.”
He looked down at the totem, running his thumbs over the grooves in its smooth surface, the leather cord threading through his fingers. He drew in a breath, then straightened his shoulders and nodded.
“You held such power many times when you were a Blade,” he said. “You held it just now, and didn’t yield to its pull.”
“I’m not immune,” she answered. “But the feel of a Source’s magical power in my hands is something I am familiar with. Familiar enough to let it go.”
“And this,” he held the totem up, and the crystalline light within the chasm limned it with silver radiance. “This is my challenge. My temptation.” He gazed at the totem, the emblem and control of shape-changing wolves, saw its potential and his own. “I can face it. You’ve shown me things about myself—that I’m a better man than I had realized.”
She stared at him for a long while, as if caught between one breath and the next. Something shifted in her face, the further reveal of the woman beneath the cool warrior. Then she leaned close and kissed him. “The strength of you,” she whispered against his lips. “You make me feel things. I thought myself incapable of feeling anything again. I did not want to. Yet you…”
“Anything,” he said, low and sure. He kissed her hungrily. “For you, I’ll do anything.”
It did not seem strange to him that he should make such a vow here, in this white, enchanted place. Speaking his heart to Astrid within the frozen, glittering cup of the earth’s magic, he was himself spellbound. And found no sweeter sorcery than what he tasted in her lips and saw in her eyes. They would face the next challenge, and all the challenges to follow, together.
Chapter 12
Alliances and Reunions
After Nathan dressed and everything was secured, they climbed out of the crevasse, bringing themselves up, blinking, into the sunlight like newborns. Their shadows cast blue monoliths upon the ice field as the sun moved across the sky.
Astrid watched Nathan wrap the totem in cloth before carefully packing it away. And if his fingers lingered on the Source for a brief moment, absorbing its power, she could not fault him. Such magic tempted many, even Blades. Especially Heirs.
As though reading her thoughts, he said, “The Heirs of Albion couldn’t have taken the totem. The ice wolf would have protected it.”
“Nothing is out of their grasp,” she replied. She checked her rifle and pistol to ensure they were both loaded and ready. “One blast of Zhu Rong’s Fist would have melted that wolf like so much slush.”
Nathan stood, shouldering the pack. “Zhu Rong?”
“Chinese fire god. The Heirs have a cadre of mages whose only task is the conquering of dark magic spells.”
“While the Blades of the Rose have only magic that is theirs by right or gift.” He shook his head, but smiled. “A bunch of madmen.”
“Do not forget madwomen,” she added, smiling back. Seeing him, standing straight and potent upon the frozen field, warmth flooded her. What a force he was, a force she could not long withstand.
“There’s only one madwoman I won’t forget.” He stepped close, enveloping her with his heat, and kissed her. She felt yet another barrier around herself fall softly away.
The screech of a bird ripped them apart to glower at the sky. Circling high above them was the Heirs’ falcon, reminding her and Nathan that they were hotly pursued.
“If only that damn thing flew lower,” Astrid muttered, gripping the strap of her rifle.
“We’ll have our hunt later.” Nathan took her hand. “But we won’t stay here to become prey.”
The avalanche had sealed the most accessible route in or out of the ice field, so they had no choice but to make the arduous climb up the northernmost peak with no aid from trail or pass. Clinging to icy rocks, they scaled the mountain. The valley gathered cold winds to scour at their hands and faces, and even Nathan, warmed by the fires of magic within him, felt their bite. Alone, it would have been impossible. Working together, they pushed, pulled, cajoled, threatened, encouraged. When one slipped, the other was there to grab hold. When one could not muster enough energy to clamber over yet one more boulder, the other helped call forth untapped reserves of strength.
As they took a moment to catch their breath, clutching the side of the mountain, she felt the blood coursing through her exhausted body with a joyous wonderment. “This is what I missed for so long,” she gasped. “Scraped hands, steep odds, steeper mountain.” She glanced over at Nathan, who wore an expression of battered glee that matched her own. “Someone beside me for the ascent.”
“The descent, too,” he added.
They could not linger. In painful, slow increments, they took the mountain. No sooner did they reach the top, both her and Nathan panting and spent, then he whirled around to look back into the ice-filled basin. A growl sounded in his chest.
“The Heirs?” Astrid asked, leaning down so she braced her forearms on her thighs.
“They’ve breached the valley.”
Straightening, she followed his gaze. She squinted and was only just able to make out several dark forms at the farther edge of the ice field. She reached for her spyglass, then cursed when she realized it was lost with her pack.
“They still have to cross the ice field,” Nathan said. “Gives us time to move on.”
Further words were not wasted. Without her pack, descent was easier, but she stayed close to Nathan as they wended down the mountain. Soon, snow gave way and trees appeared, the icy heights giving way to warmer Chinook winds blowing from the west. The warmth made her hands ache as they
came back to life. By silent agreement, they pressed on, keeping conversation to a minimum.
Rocky spurs at the base of the mountain sloped into foothills, dotted with stands of aspen. White tree trunks, spotted with dark markings, rose around them as they pushed forward on legs shaking with weariness. The foothills rolled on ahead, and, as she and Nathan took another rise, she saw that a wide swath of verdant late-summer meadowland lay just beyond the hills. And past that, a range of austere mountains stretching up as if toward redemption. In the late afternoon light, golden and rich, the land became a wondrous, unforgiving heaven.
“I feel I’ve dreamt this place,” Nathan murmured as they rested a moment. “Or seen it before.”
“Perhaps in dreams, before you came here,” suggested Astrid. “The buried part of yourself struggling to the surface.”
“But I didn’t dream that,” he said, voice hardening as he turned back. They both gazed toward the vale that ran along the base of the mountain ridge surrounding the ice field. From the green depths, something flashed. Then flashed again in a rhythmic pattern. Astrid’s throat constricted as her heart attempted to leap out. She knew that pattern.
“More Heirs of Albion?” Nathan growled.
Her mouth oddly numb, she forced words out. “No. It’s a signal. From other Blades of the Rose. They’re here.”
Her first instinct: Run. Hide. Take Nathan by the hand and flee with him, deep into the wilderness where they could not be found.
It was one thing to acknowledge that she was still a Blade, to take up their work again. Alone. Nathan fought at her side, and fought well, but of the two of them, only she was a Blade. Something altogether more weighty and momentous to join forces with other Blades on a mission. It made her return more concrete.
Four years. She had left them four years ago. And suddenly, time folded like paper so that those four years disappeared.
“How did they find us?” Nathan asked.
From her coat, Astrid pulled out her Compass and opened its lid. Its face stared back at her, the four cardinal points a small star in her hand. Each directional point was a different blade—pugio, rapier, scimitar, and kris—representing the many corners of the world and the many nations that composed the Blades of the Rose. “This. Blades can track each other with their Compasses. When I took it from my cabin, I never thought…” Ambivalence roiled within her. She both longed for the company of other Blades and feared it.
“Stay or go, Astrid.”
Her gaze snapped up to him. He watched her, expression carefully neutral, but she could see within the gleaming blackness of his eyes that he knew precisely what she felt. The idea settled warmly low in her back, like a steadying hand.
“The choice is yours,” he said.
The signal flashed again.
She gave her head a shake. He had shown her so much, not only revealing himself, but uncovering her, too. She drew a breath, taking strength from the resilience of her body. “What I fear, I must face,” she said. “And,” she added, wry, “it never hurts to have a little help managing the Heirs.”
She turned the face of her Compass toward the light, creating her own responding signal. “I’ve answered,” she said, lowering the Compass.
Nathan’s mouth at the back of her neck sent heat through her, as his arms came around her waist. The lean potency of his body behind her. His sultry kiss, full of promise. She recalled vividly the night before, when he gripped her with his teeth as he plunged into her eager depths, and she shivered with need.
“You awe me, huntress,” he murmured against her skin.
She drew in his praise, felt it nurture the blossom within her, the seedling of her heart. Yet she could not let herself grow too distracted. She signaled again to the waiting Blades, whoever they might be, and read their response. Wait there. They would join her soon.
“Who are you?” she signaled. Then lost her breath at the response.
Catullus. Catullus was coming.
Astrid slipped the Compass back into her coat with hands she fought to keep steady. She leaned back, using Nathan’s strength to bolster her own—just this once. She had run and hidden, but now it was time to face her past.
“I’ll be. She’s answering.” Quinn said this as if Astrid’s response had been in doubt. In truth, it had been. Catullus half believed she would ignore his signal and slip away into the wilds, leaving her Compass behind and any means of tracking her.
No. She stayed. Her signal indicated she would wait for him and the rest of the party to catch up.
Catullus responded with the affirmative, his heart an ache in the confines of his chest. In a few hours, he would see her again, speak with her. And whomever she traveled with, since Jourdain had seen two sets of tracks—a man who walked beside Astrid. Questions elbowed against each other in Catullus’s mind. He would soon have answers. He wondered whether he would want to hear them, after all this time.
“She’s waiting,” Catullus said to Quinn and the guide. He clicked to his horse to urge the animal forward, then pulled on the reins when he saw Jourdain was not moving.
The Métis didn’t bother trying to hide his fear. A whitened hand on the pommel of his saddle, eyes wide. “I won’t take you there,” he said, voice strained.
Catullus and Quinn shared concerned glances. “Why not?” asked Quinn.
“I took you into the Earth Spirits’ territory, and that’s bad enough,” Jourdain said. “But those foothills ahead, and the mountains, they’re dangerous big medicine.” He shook his head to dispel evil spirits. “If I took you there, I’d be sending you straight to hell, and me along for the ride.”
“We can handle big medicine,” Catullus said.
“Maybe so, but I sure can’t.” Jourdain walked his horse close to Catullus. “I know you’re a smart feller, Graves. So I’m telling you now, best thing for you to do is turn back. Your friend’s already lost.”
“No,” said Catullus. He fought down a tide of anger, knowing that the guide was only trying to be helpful, but Catullus could no more abandon Astrid than he could stop his mind from churning out new inventions. Both were necessary and unstoppable.
“Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?” Jourdain pressed.
“No,” Catullus said again. “I’m moving forward. Quinn?”
“Right behind you,” the Bostonian answered without hesitation.
Jourdain’s shoulders slumped. “That’s too bad. I liked you folks.” He brought his horse around so that he faced the direction from which they’d come. “I’ll wait for you at the camp just beyond the big river. If you don’t come back in a week, I’m moving on.”
“I still have to pay you the rest of your fee,” Catullus said.
But the guide held up a hand. “Keep it. It wouldn’t be right, taking money from a dead man.” Then he kicked his horse into a canter and rode off into the woods, not sparing a glance behind him in his haste to flee.
That left just Catullus and Quinn. And Astrid. The woman who had once been his dearest friend, now separated by a handful of miles and many years.
No need to bother with the ice field. Crossing it would take far too long, and, by then, the Bramfield woman would be far ahead. The Heirs struggled back up the pass and convened at the base of the mountains.
So close. They were so damned close, Staunton could taste the metallic flavor of success, gleaming like a knife against the tongue.
“Bracebridge,” Staunton said, turning to the mage, “can Duchess slow them down?”
“Not yet,” was Bracebridge’s answer. “There’s more work to be done there. But,” he added with a growing grin, “I’ve got something else in mind to pin them down.”
“Do it,” Staunton commanded.
While the mage dismounted and rummaged through his saddlebags for the necessary materials, Staunton, the other Heirs, and the mountain men all impatiently waited. Each moment was precious time lost into the yawning maw of failure, which he would not abide. He’
d worked too hard for this. Staunton refused any possibility other than success.
He heard something rustling in the scrub just a few yards from him. Something that sounded human.
He drew his gun. “Enough of this skulking,” he shouted. He cocked the gun. “Out.”
An Indian woman slipped out from behind the cover of the bushes. She seemed of indeterminate age, neither a girl nor a crone, with the tough bones of a hard life. No fear marked her posture or her face as she stared back at him, eyes dark and defiant. From her belt hung a well-used knife.
Everyone but preoccupied Bracebridge drew closer to see this wonder. Even the looks of pure, brutal lust from the mountain men did not dim the insolence of the woman’s expression or stance.
“Put your gun away, white man,” she sneered. Her English was remarkably clear. “Or do you fear one woman so much you must hide behind bullets?”
Muttering curses, Staunton holstered his gun. Like hell would he let some squaw shame him. “You have been following us. Why?”
“I seek a mutually beneficial arrangement.” When one of the mountain men approached her on horseback, the chilling glance she sent him caused the guide to pull up short. Dispassionate anger clung to her like frost.
“What on earth could you have to offer us?” Richard Halling snorted.
“Quiet, fat swine,” the woman said. “I will speak only with the chief of this war party.”
Staunton almost laughed to see Halling turn purple with indignation, but was gratified that whoever this squaw was, she knew leadership when she saw it. And Staunton was the leader here.
The woman addressed him, though there was little deference in her tone. “You follow the path of the Earth Spirits’ totems. So does your quarry. I know the legends. I can lead you to where they will go next, so you do not chase them like litter runts.”
“We have means of slowing them down,” Staunton said, nodding toward where Bracebridge labored over a spell.