Chapter 18 #2
“Which we hope is happening. We might have a truce with the vampyrs, but ask any wolf whether they’d prefer Isrike free of dragons and bloodsuckers.
The answer will be a resounding yes.” She leans over to whisper, “I also have it on good authority that once they’re gone, the entire North will belong to us.
Can you imagine, Zas? The Wilds…belonging to us!
Not only would all Isam?ris be able to travel out of the five valleys, but we could also settle. ”
“How do you know the valkyries won’t try to shove the wolves off Isrike next?”
“Not many people long for a land of ice and mountains.” Saga makes the North sound inhospitable, yet many live here.
Before I can challenge her opinion, the door of our house creaks open. Hope that the newcomer will be another white-haired wolf makes my heart hold still.
But it’s not Nordin.
It’s Mor. “What are you two whispering about?”
I kid you not, my cousin jumps a whole foot in the air at the sound of Mor’s voice.
“Already done with your rounds?” I ask, peering around her at the air that’s as black as soot even though it’s midday.
How I miss the sun…
“Yes.” She shuts the door, keeping the gelid wind from sneaking in, then descends the short flight of indoor steps, rubbing her palms together.
Werewolf blood might run hot, but not hot enough to make shifters immune to the northern winter.
“So?” Mor asks, that little snake-like vein at her temple bumping.
“Just updating Zas on my mess of a love life,” Saga says, evidently nervous about getting into trouble with my mother for disclosing sensitive information about valkyries.
Even though I intend to interrogate Mor about the Thorn curse at some point, for now, I play along. “Leif called Saga impulsive. Can you believe the gall of him? I mean, she only tried to ride a moose that once…”
“Hey…” Saga launches a piece of gourd peel at my cheek with a laugh.
“His loss, Saga.” I knuckle off the slimy juice. “My gain. I get you back full-time.”
The nervous twitch at Mor’s temple finally smooths.
“You know, I firmly believe that this is why Fenrir gives us mates.” Saga gets to her feet. “So that we can overlook one another’s unbearable flaws.”
“Yes, darling, that must be the reason.” Mor shoots Saga a gentle smile.
“Sorry, Eira. I didn’t mean…” My cousin screws her lips, but then parts them to suggest, with much verve, “Have you ever considered the possibility that your mate hasn’t been born yet?”
A grimace reshapes Mor’s face as she shrugs off her cloak and hangs it next to mine. “That’s a contemplation I’d rather not get in my head.”
Could that be why my mother remains unmated? I like this idea so much more than the theory I once heard Sigrid voice—that my mother’s intended perished.
On her way out, Saga snatches my gloves off my trunk.
“What are you doing?” I exclaim.
She flaps them. “Have you seen the state of these?”
“Yes. I have. They’re perfectly fine.”
“They’re perfectly unfine.”
“Sag—”
“I’ll patch them up and give them back to you at supper.”
I lower my remorse-laden gaze to the inkpot. “I’m not sure I’m ready to dine with the whole pack yet.”
A silent look must pass between Mor and Saga because the air grows stiflingly quiet.
But then my cousin’s boots scratch the stairs. “Glad to hear it, for I really didn’t feel like eating with everyone tonight.”
Saga says this for my benefit, since heart hiccups—as she calls them—have never kept her from socializing in the past.
“They’re all so glum, all convinced the wards will somehow weaken and let dragons through, even though Far and the other Alphas literally just went to refresh their piss around the valleys.
Anyway, cook enough for three. I’ll be back with the mended gloves and a bottle of mead.
” Saga blows us a kiss and whisks off into the gloom.
Mor replaces her on the bench across from me. “How long has it been since we read stories from that book?”
When she reaches for the tome, I sweep it off the table and open it at a random page, my heart trampling my ribs like a pack of hunting wolves.
“How about I read to you for once?” I suggest.
“I’d love that.” Mor rolls up her sleeves, then picks up the peeler and my half-stripped gourd.
“Should I select a tale at random, or do you want to hear one in particular?”
I feel her gaze slide over my hands, over the ink, then see it travel to the inkwell. “Read me your favorite.”
And so I do.
I read her the tale about how, during a long-ago full moon, a giantess with a barren womb breathed human life into her tamed wolf and raised him as her son, thus giving birth to the first shifter.
Fenrir and his giantess mother lived a peaceful life until she fell in love with Loki, the trickster God.
Jealousy made him curse Fenrir back into his beast form.
When the giantess realized what had been done, she threatened to squeeze Loki in her massive fist and pop all his bones unless he made her precious son human again.
Lo and behold, an eclipse fell over Asgard, and Fenrir transformed back into a man without the intervention of either divinity.
From that moment on, he became the master of his duality.
“If only there were truth in these myths, and werewolves could be made during eclipses,” I muse as I close the book and stand, hugging the repository of myths, fairy tales, and, now, intimate confidences to my chest. Though I eye my trunk, stashing it inside would heighten Mor’s suspicion, so I carry it back to its shelf.
“Do you know that Fenrir’s origin story is Ulf’s favorite as well?” she asks.
I’m glad my back is to her, for the annoyance contorting my features would lead to consternation, and consternation would lead to questions.
I’m not ready to reap discord between sister and brother. I’m also not ready for Ulf to hint that something must be done to stop his son and me from violating the law.
As Mor simmers the vegetables and cubed meat she carried home with her, we discuss the new Myrknótt pairings.
Two of the six pairs have decided to marry during the next full moon, and our pack has been invited to attend, along with the Glaciers and Fjords.
Not the Ravines, though. No surprise there.
I think it’s her way of easing my mind about the unrest rocking the clans. After all, if we were truly bracing for an all-out war with the vampyrs, no one would be planning a festive union.
Talk of festive unions nudges my thoughts back to Nordin and ways to be with him without being with him.
Again, if he still wants me.
The need to see him claws at me. Before dawn even breaks the following morning, I gather my courage and slip out of the house that has sheltered me from the hostile world.