Wolfsbane

by Andrea Cremer

  “Me and Ren.”

  “How can you say that?” he asked. “And why do you keep fidgeting?”

  My heart froze when his eyes settled on my hand. “What is that?”

  “Nothing.” I tried to shove my hand beneath a pillow, but he grabbed it and stared at the gleaming metal and deep blue sapphire.

  “Calla.” He spoke slowly. “What is this?”

  I cleared my throat, trying to stay calm despite my pounding heart. “It’s a ring.”

  “A ring.” When he touched the braided white gold band, I snatched my hand away.

  “He gave this to you.” I felt his entire body tense against mine and I heard him snarl. “Didn’t he?”

  I nodded. For a moment I thought he would shift forms and bite me.

  “When?” he asked, his eyes still hard.

  “The night of the union.”

  “Take it off.”

  “What?” I pulled a pillow in front of me like a shield.

  “Take it off,” he said again. “Why would you still wear a ring he gave you?”

  “I don’t—” I choked out the words. “If I took it off, I might lose it.”

  “So?”

  I didn’t answer, dropping my gaze.

  “So when you say it’s not over between you and Ren, do you mean you’re still engaged to him? Is that why you’re wearing his ring?” He sounded calm, but I knew he wasn’t. I could smell the torrent of emotions rolling off him. His anger swirled between us thick as wood smoke, and beneath that something else. My chest cramped when I recognized the subtle, bittersweet scent of grief—dust and wilting roses.

  “That’s not what I mean . . . but I can’t be with you. Not like this.” My voice was shaking. “When he’s back there and God knows what is happening to him. To all of them. Shay, we left them behind. How can we think about anything else? I can’t. I just can’t.”

  “But that doesn’t mean—”

  “No.”

  “Screw this.” He rolled off the bed. “Go to sleep, Calla. I won’t bother you any more tonight.”

  My stomach knotted as he walked away. I fought the desire to run after him and instead rolled onto my back, staring at the twinkling stars I could see through the glass ceiling and hoping that at some point sheer exhaustion would drive me to sleep.

  I ran from Vail and that may have changed everything, but I still don’t know where I belong.

  TEN

  MY FANGS CLOSED ON his throat, crushing his windpipe. Hot, coppery blood poured into my mouth, down my throat. His heart slowed. Long, horrible pauses punctuated its beats. His eyes met mine, his lips curved into a smile, and I heard his voice in my mind.

  Welcome, Calla.

  I scrambled back and shifted into human form, suddenly cold, sickened. Dead Stuart kept smiling despite the gaping hole in his neck. A light touch brushed my shoulder. I whirled and faced a woman. She wore a smile like the dead man’s, beneficent, welcoming. Her dark auburn hair tumbled in waves down her back and her charcoal irises were shot through with silver. They sparkled with delight as she gazed at me. Her full lips parted.

  “Calla.” She murmured my name as if intoning a prayer, fervent and hopeful. Her dark eyes flickered down, and I followed her gaze. A child, barely more than an infant, lay slumbering in her arms. The child’s peaceful face drew me forward a step. As I peered down, the child’s eyes fluttered open. Night sky full of twinkling stars. Eyes like his mother’s.

  Ren.

  He gazed at me. An exuberant cascading laugh escaped from his lips and he clapped in recognition and celebration. A warmth like home flared to life within my chest. I looked at Corrine Laroche and the smile died. The shadow loomed behind her, a gathering storm cloud of destruction. My mouth opened, ready to cry out a warning, but my breath wouldn’t come. Translucent ink bands poured over her neck and shoulders. The snaking black vines wrapped around her arms. She began to scream and Ren tumbled from her grasp. He cried out in fear. I lunged forward to catch him, but another pair of sinewy arms snatched the child from the air. Corrine shrieked as the wraith took her, her body bound in undulating black ropes that pulsed and twisted along with the throes of her agony.

  I dropped to my knees in horror. A snicker pulled my gaze from the tortured woman. Emile Laroche glowered at his mate, his watercolor blue eyes full of scorn. He glanced at the bawling child in his arms. His shoulders twitched and he shook his head; his dirty blond hair fell forward, brushing against his chin, shadowing his features, transforming his pointed face into a mask of devilish cruelty. Ren screamed and Emile’s mouth slashed thin, a knife point of revulsion. He gripped the child more tightly. With a final disdainful glance at Corrine’s convulsing form, he turned his back on her and strode away. Ren’s shrieks of fear rang in my ears; the baby’s cry united with his mother’s screams in a ghastly chorus.

  I couldn’t move. My eyes were locked on Corrine’s torment. A figure loomed beside me; my face turned. Ren stared at the wraith-bound woman. He was no longer a child but a young man, my intended mate. The boy’s charcoal eyes that had sparkled like a galaxy were now flat and hollow. His dark hair was plastered by sweat to his forehead and neck. A mosaic of purple, yellow, green, and black bruises covered his torso. Crimson welts and burn scars created a grotesque pattern on his arms and back. His eyes moved slowly over his mother. He frowned as though the scene of horror that played out before him made no sense. He shook his head and sighed.

  “Oh God, Ren.” I reached for him, but my hand passed through his body.

  He continued to stare at the screaming woman. His gaze didn’t turn to me, but his lips moved slightly.

  “Where are you, Lily?” His wrist jerked. Something caught the light, flashed blue: my ring, looped over the tip of his finger, swinging like a pendulum marking time he didn’t have.

  Slashes appeared on his shoulders, skin opened, blood poured down, washing his body in a crimson flood. Red liquid ribbons slid around his arms, wrists, fingers. He dropped to his knees, head bowed. Corrine and I screamed together.

  I gasped for breath as my eyelids snapped open. The nightmare swirled at the edges of my mind. The screams had become howls echoing in my ears. I struggled not to thrash on the bed, trying to slow my heartbeat. A hollow sadness slowly overtook the fear that dragged me from sleep.

  My heart slowed. The world returned. I was still weary and guessed I’d slept little more than an hour. Only half awake, my fingers clutched at the ring Ren had given me the night of our union. Even in the darkness of my room it gleamed, catching the faintest starlight that trickled through the glass ceiling. I rolled onto my side, closing my eyes, but the moment I did, I could see Ren bleeding again. Sleep wasn’t an option—at least not for a while.

  I slipped from my room, not having a sense of where I’d go. The only thought driving me from my bed was that wandering the halls of the Academy would distract me from the horror of that dream. I glanced at the next door down the hall. Part of me wanted to go to Shay, to apologize and seek comfort in his arms. But I was still too unsettled by this place, by the fight with Emile. Too many things about that battle shook me to the core, filling me with doubt. Not only Lydia’s death but my own choices. I hadn’t killed Sasha. I hadn’t wanted to. Would I be worth anything to the Searchers in battle?

  As I walked, I twisted the ring on my finger, remembering the way it had gleamed in my dream. What did it mean that I’d accepted this sign of Ren’s devotion but still left him at the altar? Did that make me a traitor or just a coward?

  My somber thoughts were interrupted when my nose twitched. A familiar, alluring scent led me to a staircase and down. I took another deep breath, letting the rich, heavy aroma pull me forward. Two flights down I walked into a long, broad room filled with tables. A few lamps glowed, gently illuminating the space.

  I quickly found the source of that delicious scent. Several glass French coffee presses rested atop one of the tables. Steam curled from coffee cups the Searchers sipped while sitting
and talking quietly with one another. Monroe poured coffee into Tess’s cup. She wasn’t crying now, but her face was tight with grief. Adne was with them, a guitar in her lap. Connor was there too, looking a bit haggard. I was surprised to see Silas sitting next to Monroe.

  The mood of the room made it clear the Searchers had gathered to mourn their dead. As much as the coffee’s scent enticed me, I didn’t want to interrupt them. I had started to turn when I heard my name.

  I looked over my shoulder. Monroe was beckoning. I approached the table hesitantly.

  “Do you need something?” the Guide asked.

  “No,” I said, uncomfortable now that all their eyes were on me. “I wasn’t sleeping well and I smelled the coffee.”

  “From upstairs?” Connor asked.

  I nodded, shifting on my feet.

  “Neat trick.” He smiled, taking a flask from his belt and adding its contents to his coffee. Whiskey, I guessed, from the sharp, peatlike scent of the amber liquid.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said.

  “You aren’t.” Tess gestured for me to sit, pouring a fresh cup of coffee and pushing it in front of the empty chair beside her. “Please join us.”

  “We’re just sharing stories,” Adne said. She idly strummed the guitar strings. “About Lydia and Grant.”

  “You could offer a story if you’d like,” Monroe said. “It’s how we honor the dead and keep them with us.”

  “Me?” I frowned, though I took the seat and wrapped my hands around the warm coffee cup.

  “You saw Grant more than we did.” Silas had a notebook open in front of him, but he looked up from his writing. “You must have a story you could share.”

  I thought about Mr. Selby. What could I say? He’d been a good teacher. But somehow “Big Ideas was my favorite class” only sounded lame.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I really don’t think I can.”

  “No worries,” Connor said, taking a swig of his spiked coffee. “I don’t think I can take any more tales of woe tonight.”

  “Don’t be a boor.” Silas had put pen back to page. “Show some respect.”

  “Lydia was a fighter,” Connor said. “She’d think we were fools to mope over her.”

  “Connor,” Monroe chided, looking at Tess. But she shook her head.

  “He’s right.” Tess smiled. “We’re all terribly disappointing to her right now, I’d guess.”

  “You could never disappoint her.” Adne reached out and touched Tess’s cheek.

  Tess’s eyes glistened, but she kept smiling.

  Adne smiled too, but she wasn’t looking at Tess. “Hey, sleepyhead, ever hear of a comb?”

  I turned to see Shay hastily running his fingers through his hair, though it didn’t do much to fix the mess of soft curls. He’d pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, but other than that, it was clear he’d just rolled out of bed.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I had some bad dreams and couldn’t get back to sleep. Then I smelled coffee. . . .”

  “Like peas in a pod,” Connor said.

  I glanced at Shay, wondering if he was still angry. He dropped into the chair between me and Adne. When he offered a sheepish smile, I knew he was sorry we’d fought. So was I. I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

  “I couldn’t sleep either.”

  He put his arm around my shoulders.

  Silas was eyeing us.

  “What?” I asked, not caring for his scrutiny.

  “I’ve been weighing competing theories about the Scion,” he said. “I can’t decide if it’s more likely that your turning him enhanced his skills or sapped them.”

  “What skills?” Shay asked.

  “You have innate power,” Silas continued. “Because of your heritage.”

  “My heritage?” Shay was frowning. “You mean all that knights and demons stuff you were talking about before?”

  “I mean your father, of course.” Silas tilted his head, squinting at Shay’s face before he turned back to his notebook, scribbling furiously.

  I sat up. “Are you taking notes on him?”

  “Of course.” Silas didn’t raise his head.

  “Knock it off!” I slapped the pen out of his hand.

  Silas gaped at me.

  “You know.” Connor grinned at me. “I think I kind of love you.”

  “I was merely recording my observations.” Silas went after his pen. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “I’m not an opportunity,” Shay sputtered. “I’m a person.”

  “You’re the Scion,” Silas countered. “It’s imperative that we have a full grasp of your potential before we make our next move. Anika has put me in charge of gauging your ability to carry out the necessary tasks.”

  Monroe sighed. “I don’t think she meant for you to notate all your interactions with Shay, Silas.”

  “Yeah.” Connor slugged back more coffee and refilled his cup. “Why are you always such a freak?”

  “You’re a knuckle dragger.” Silas sat down, glaring at Connor. “I like me more.”

  “I still don’t understand what you mean about my heritage,” Shay said, pouring his own cup of coffee. “I don’t even remember my father. He died when I was three.”

  Silas looked at him, brow furrowed.

  “I’ve been toted around the world by Bosque Mar for the past sixteen years,” Shay said. “You called him the Harbinger earlier today. He’s obviously not my uncle. What’s the big deal about my father?”

  The room abruptly seemed colder, and even Silas blanched as Shay spoke the Keeper’s name.

  “Yes, that’s true. Bosque Mar is not your uncle,” Monroe said. “But your father was one of the Keepers.”

  Shay’s face grew pale. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “That’s not what matters, Shay,” Monroe said. “What matters is you’re the Scion.”

  “Does that mean I’m not human?” The cup in Shay’s hand began to shake as he looked at me, eyes pleading.

  “You are human . . . or at least you were until I turned you.” I rushed to reassure him, and then I glared at Monroe. “I can tell the difference between mortals and our kind. Shay isn’t a Keeper.”

  “You’re suddenly an expert on Scion lore?” Silas spat.

  “Gently, Silas,” Monroe said quietly. “The Keepers would have needed Shay to remain ignorant of his heritage.” He focused on me. “And they would have kept such knowledge from the Guardians as well. And, Calla, it’s important that you understand that the Keepers themselves are human. Just as we are.”

  The breath caught in my lungs and a sickening twist coiled through me.

  “So they were lying,” Shay said. “They aren’t some mystical Old Ones.”

  “Lying is what they do best,” Tess said.

  I managed to choke out a question. “But how can they be human? They don’t smell human, and neither do you, for that matter. And what about all their powers?”

  “It’s the use of magic you can sense, Calla, the lingering scent of that power. Searchers and Keepers are tapped into something outside themselves, but we are all still human. There was a time when humans were closer to the earth and its inherent powers,” Monroe said. “Those with the strongest connection to elemental magics and the ability to wield them were set apart from their communities. They were healers, wise men and women.”

  “But they can’t be human,” I protested. “They’re immortal.”

  “No, they aren’t,” Monroe said. “They wanted you to believe they are because of the way they will use their powers and we won’t, as Tess just said.”

  “What do you mean?” Shay asked.

  “Reverence for the earth, the natural power inherent in creation, and its cycles,” Connor replied with a mocking smile.

  “Searchers believe that mortality is a good thing rather than something to avoid.” Silas ignored Connor, diving into a lecture. “We grow old and die. Death is a part of the natural cycle. Keepers use
their power to extend their lives to preternatural lengths. Mixing with the Nether changes the essence of who they are, but they still started out as human and remain human at the core. They extend the life span of their Guardians as well. That’s why there are rarely new packs. Only when it’s deemed necessary are they asked to bear offspring. Our records show that there hadn’t been new wolf pups affiliated with Haldis until about two generations ago. Then the Keepers seemed to take a new interest in establishing stronger family ties between their packs again.”

  Shay glanced at me; a fresh look of horror had overtaken his face, and I nodded to confirm Silas’s words.

  “But the Keepers have children,” he protested. “I mean, there were Keeper children at our school. And Logan inherited your pack.”

  Silas smirked. “The Keepers are incredibly vain, and they guard their powers jealously. Too many Keepers would inevitably lead to struggles within their own ranks, which they won’t risk. Only the most powerful among them are allowed to have children to continue their legacy in this world. Some of them reside in Vail, as you’ve seen. The rest are scattered across the globe, concentrated near the sites of power. And we have Searcher outposts to track their activities in those same locations. But their numbers, though greater than ours, still don’t rival the human population. So the Keepers have taken to using humans as pawns in their own game of life. Politics, global markets, all of it.”

  “But how did they get the advantage?” My mind was reeling from the deluge of new information. Lies, all lies.

  “Yeah,” Shay said. “I get that they use their power to be quasiimmortal now, but didn’t you have even numbers at the beginning?”

  “More or less.” Silas scowled, looking put out that his speech hadn’t rendered us silent and awestruck at his erudition.

  “This would be the part where they gained their advantage over us.” Connor leaned back in his chair, shoulders slumping.

  “I don’t understand,” Shay said.

  “Maybe it would be better to start with who Shay is and let the history fall into place,” Monroe said.

  “But—” Silas began.

  “Keep it simple,” Monroe said. “Start with Shay’s lineage.”