Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
PRESENT DAY
Wylder
Wylder wasn’t sure what Sigurd was doing, but he’d learned years ago not to question his uncle too much when he was mumbling to himself about magic.
Sigurd moved with purpose around the outside of the circle, making three small marks in the ground.
Then he turned his attention to the trees surrounding them.
Pulling a dagger from his belt, he approached a tree, said something in a language Wylder didn’t know, and cut one of the small, lower branches from the tree.
“What’s he doing?” he whispered to Silva.
Beside him, Silva shook his head. “Probably laying whatever spell work he needs to break the circle.”
“Do you know the language?”
“It’s an ancient form of Fae. Like Latin in your world. It’s not really used anymore except for things like this, apparently.”
Wylder nodded. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sigurd—of course he did—but his mother being right there in front of them and not being able to reach her was torture. He took comfort in the constant rise and fall of her chest. She was alive, which was so much more than he’d had his entire life.
“Alright,” Sig said, turning toward them.
He’d cut the thin branch into three short segments and whittled a pointed end onto each one.
He handed one to Wylder, then Silva, keeping the third for himself.
“We’ll need to bloody the points and at the exact same moment, cut the origin line from each color. I marked them around the circle.”
“That’s it?” Wylder asked, expecting something worse.
“That’s it.” Sigurd looked back over the circle, gaze lingering on Maren before he turned back to them. “It’s a complex spell. Nexus spells usually are, but severing the anchoring lines will break it.”
“Okay.” Wylder lifted the stick Sigurd had given him and braced himself.
He pressed the point of the stick against the cut on his palm and reopened it, making sure to catch the fresh blood with the point.
“Here.” He held his hand toward the others.
Both of them looked like they’d rather slit their own throats than use his blood, but Wylder huffed and pushed his bloodied palm at them again. “I’m already bleeding. Just do it.”
With a grunt, Sigurd stepped forward and held Wylder’s hand still. He pressed his thumb next to the cut, making more blood well up and slide down into Wylder’s cupped palm.
“Sorry, love,” Silva said quietly, dipping the pointed tip of his stick, as well.
“It’s fine. Let’s do this.”
Sigurd moved back to the circle and pointed at the marks he’d made. “Wylder, you take the white line. Silva, the blue. I’ll cut the red. Get in position, and we’ll cut on the count of three. Our movements have to be in sync.”
When they’d all three knelt down in front of their assigned lines, Sigurd glanced at each of them. “Ready?”
They both nodded.
“One, two, three—”
Wylder ran the bloody point of his stick through the white line in front of him.
In his peripheral vision, he could see Sigurd and Silva doing the same.
For a long moment, nothing happened. He was about to stand up and ask what had gone wrong when Maren opened her eyes and took a great gasping breath.
Sigurd moved to her before Wylder could string two thoughts together. He watched his uncle kneel, hands gripping Maren’s shoulders as he helped her sit up. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Sig?” Maren said, sounding confused. “What?” She looked around then, taking in the clearing, lingering a moment on Silva, and finally settling her gaze on Wylder. Her eyes widened, and she sucked in an audible breath. “Wylder. Are you really here?”
“We’re here, Sis. We’re here.”
A smile broke over her face, bright as the sun overhead. She held out a hand, and Wylder scrambled to reach it. He grabbed her hand and let her pull him to her, something slotting into place in his chest as she gripped him tight.
“Oh, my boy,” she said, voice wobbling.
Hot tears streamed down his face. “I’m here, Mom. I’m here.”
She pulled back enough to grip his face between her hands, smile just as wide. “You have your father’s eyes.”
“Maren?” Sigurd asked. She reached for him before he could finish, and they embraced for a long moment. “The new Hunter, who is she?”
Confusion flashed across Maren’s face, and she furrowed her brow. “The woman, Helena, isn’t the Hunter. Selin is.”
Behind them, Silva cursed.
“Who’s Selin?”
She ran her thumb over Wylder’s cheek. “Kerak’s brother.”
“Selin?” Sigurd asked, taking Maren’s other hand.
She nodded. “Yes. My mate tried to befriend Selin when he arrived here several years ago, but Selin…he had his own agenda. He killed the Hunter, took over the Hunt, and has been a thorn in everyone’s side. No one knew what he was trying to accomplish. Although, I guess we do now.”
Wylder cleared his throat. “Is your mate my father?”
Maren smiled. “Yes. He was on a mission for the Queen when Selin came for me. When he realizes what’s happened, he’ll be coming.”
Silva stepped closer. “We need to warn Kerak.”
“Yes. Help me up.” Maren let Sigurd and Wylder pull her up from the ground. Wylder slipped an arm around his mother, and she leaned against him. Together, they walked out of the forest.
Kerak
The Hunt was everywhere. If Kerak was willing to obliterate this realm, this fight would already be over.
He wasn’t, though, so he kept the most destructive parts of his power in check.
A dark-furred minotaur rushed him, battle axe swinging.
He ducked, axe whizzing in an arc over his head, and spun around to sweep the minotaur’s legs out from under him.
Beside him, Bellicent, in full gargoyle form, was locked in a hand-to-hand fight with some type of ghoul.
While the minotaur was regaining his feet, Kerak’s gaze swept the battlefield, looking for any sign that Sigurd, Silva, and Wylder had been successful in locating Maren.
There was no sign of them, and the ache in his chest hadn’t dulled.
Dammit.
He continued across the clearing, towards the path the others had taken. He was confident Silva and Sigurd could handle almost anything that came their way, but if someone got the drop on them and hurt Wylder? They may need assistance.
“Going somewhere, demon?” The changeling woman who’d glamoured herself to look like Maren stepped into his path. If she’d defeated the old Hunter and managed to maintain control over the Hunt, she must be powerful. Or charismatic. Or both.
He tilted his head. “Where’s the witch?”
“Oh, she’s here. I’m sure your minions have already found her.”
Kerak narrowed his eyes. If they weren’t trying to hide Maren, then why the attempted tricks?
“It’s no easy feat to defeat the Hunter. How did you manage it?”
“You wound me,” she said, pressing a hand against her chest. “You don’t think I have what it takes? Tell me, is it because I’m a girl or a Fae?”
They’d started to circle each other now, measured steps keeping them apart. “Neither,” Kerak answered, glancing toward the path opening. “I fought the previous Hunter once. He was quite powerful, and the Hunt themselves are not always easy to wrangle.”
She smirked. “True. Of course…”
The constant tension in Kerak’s chest snapped like a twig. The spell was broken. Reid was free. He gasped, reaching for his chest.
“Oh, good. They figured it out.” She smiled, slow and menacing.
It had always been possible that this was a trap. The look on the changeling’s face confirmed it. “What have you done?”
“Me?” Satisfaction and pure evil glinted in her purple eyes. “Well, I haven’t done anything at all.”
“Kerak!” Wylder’s voice cut through the noise of the fight.
Kerak swung his gaze to the path opening. Sig, Silva, Wylder, and Maren—the real one—stood there.
Maren looked worse for wear, pale and supported between her brother and her son. Even across the distance, he heard her. “It’s not her, Kerak. It’s Selin.”
Within a heartbeat, Kerak had the changeling pinned to the ground. “Where is he?” he snarled in her face, control fraying at the edges.
“Where do you think?” She smirked again, and he lost it. Her eyes widened, and the scream trying to fight its way out of her throat died before it could escape. Kerak stood and watched while her body disintegrated, the spark of demon fire he’d let out destroying her from the inside out.
Around him, the ground burned, remnants of the power he couldn’t quite seem to lock back down.
If Selin wasn’t here, then there was only one place he’d be—Reid.