Chapter 2 #3
"That's depressing," Boaz says, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "And here I thought all I needed to worry about was not turning into a garden statue before I have a chance to woo the woman carrying around the missing piece of my soul."
Ares chuckles first. Then Boaz joins him. I shake my head and laugh too. Wraith is the only one who doesn't, but I see the slightest curve at the edge of his mouth and a spark in his bright golden eyes.
The rest of the table just stares at us in disbelief.
"You're turning into a garden statue?" Nari asks, leaning forward with a mix of concern and fascination in her expression.
"Not if he drinks his ambrosia like a good boy," Ares says, his smile taking the sting from his words. "It's the only thing keeping all of us sane right now."
Isabella's eyes widen. "Is that why you're all so—" She gestures vaguely at our group.
"Tense? On edge? Angry? Radiating barely contained violence?" Maven supplies helpfully, taking a big bite of her bread.
"You don't need to worry about ambrosia," Nimue cuts in, her tone gentling. "Ares has been helping us build up a stockpile here at the ranch. You can get more any time you check in here."
The relief that floods through me is almost dizzying.
Or maybe that's just the wolf settling slightly at the news.
I'm not the only one affected—Wraith's shoulders drop a fraction, that barely-there tell speaking volumes about his own fears.
Boaz actually slumps back in his chair, running a hand through his hair.
Even Ares, who never complains, closes his eyes briefly.
The constant fear of losing control has worn us ragged.
"Speaking of checking in," Nari says, rising from her seat to retrieve a stack of folders. "We've been doing some digging. When we discovered Queen Melinda's connection to the Stormblood family’s very distant bloodline, it gave us a foundation to work from."
"Descendants… here? All of us?" Wraith asks.
"Yes. You’d be surprised how many stayed behind," Nari says. "We've identified clusters of families that are more likely to have inherited your shards."
Nari stands, gesturing for everyone to follow her into the adjoining room. "Let me show you what we've found." She approaches a massive black rectangle mounted on the wall and touches something that makes it spring to life with light and color.
"By the gods," Boaz breathes out. "What manner of scrying mirror is that?"
"Television," Isabella says with a laugh. "Think of it as a window into information."
"A window anyone can look through?" Wraith asks sharply. "Who else can see us through this magick window?"
"It doesn't work that way," Nari assures us quickly, though the question makes me realize how vulnerable we are in this new world. We don't even know enough to know what dangers to watch for.
Images appear on the screen—maps, photographs, family trees. Faces that share features with people I knew centuries ago. Places are marked in red that span across continents. My wolf stirs with each new image, searching.
She's there, somewhere in that sea of faces and locations.
A woman carrying a piece of my soul, maybe sensing the same hollowness I feel, the same growing darkness.
Does she wake in the night, haunted by dreams she doesn't understand?
Does some part of her feel the pull of a bond she never asked for?
My claws threaten to emerge at the thought of her alone and unprotected while these groups are potentially hunting her down, too.
"We've identified several promising locations," Nari continues, manipulating the images with small movements of her hands. "But we're running out of time. The Enclave's getting closer to figuring out what we’re doing, and if they are then the Inquisitors won’t be far behind."
"We stay together," I say immediately, but Wraith shakes his head.
"We can't." His golden eyes are hard as he turns to face me. "You know we can't. The ambrosia is working for now, but we're all feeling it—the deterioration is accelerating. We don't know how long even increased doses will hold back our darkness."
I hate it, but he's right.
"Boaz comes with me," Ares says. "At least initially."
“Absolutely not,” Boaz growls angrily. “We all have our own shard to find. You’re not wasting your time following me around worrying.”
"Boaz is right, Ares. There isn’t time. You'll each have a guide," Nimue says, glaring coldly at Ares. "Someone who knows the modern world, who can help you blend in. You’ll also be given siren rings, so you can call for one of us a moment’s notice.
We have dozens of sirens working shifts to listen for a call around the clock. "
My wolf paces beneath my skin, agitated by the thought of splitting up. But somewhere out there is a woman carrying a piece of my soul, probably unaware of the forces closing in around her. And there’s no time to waste. We’ll blend into the shadows better in smaller groups anyway.
"How long?" I ask, studying the map points that mark my search area. "How long before we need to check back in?"
"You have official check-ins scheduled every fortnight," Maven answers. "But if you need ambrosia between that, you can come in more. Like the Queen said, we have more than enough to keep all four of you well stocked.”
"We leave tonight," Wraith says quietly. "The longer we wait..."
The longer we wait, the more likely someone else finds them first. The women carrying our soul shards. Our mates. The key to saving not just ourselves, but the world as we know it.
“You leave tomorrow. There’s still a lot to do,” Maven says. “You need IDs, clothes, and money. I’ll walk each of you through the research I have.”
“Your guides will arrive tonight,” Nimue adds. “So get some rest if you can.”
"I'm going to need some of that ambrosia now, if possible." The admission burns like acid in my throat. Ares gave me some less than an hour ago, yet here I am, wolf clawing at my control again. It wasn’t enough.
Each time it takes more to subdue him, and less time before he rises again.
I roll my neck and suck in a quick breath, trying to hide how badly I need it.
My fangs ache and the sensory overload from the wolf trying to break through sends spikes of pain through my skull.
At this rate, how long before even ambrosia can't hold him back?
Isabella scurries to a closet in the kitchen and returns with a large glass jar full of the precious olympian liquid. She turns the metal top and hands me the open jar.
I sip slowly. Then take a large swallow, letting the honey-flavored syrup coat my mouth and throat. The healing properties soothe the pain away almost instantaneously.
I breathe deeply and then hand the jar back.
“Thank you.”
She nods. “I’ll leave it right here on the counter. And if you need more or,” she glances around the room, “if anyone does. There’s plenty in that pantry.”
I eye the jar on the counter. I’m not leaving this room without it in my hand.