Chapter 32
Hurry back, Fen
Fenrir Thorsson
The scent of fear lingers in the air—stale sweat, blood, and the acrid tang of terror clings to each rescued prisoner. I watch from the edge of the ranch's southern pasture as Maven's people sort them into groups, murmuring quiet reassurances.
My fingers twitch, claws threatening to emerge without my permission. I flex my hand, forcing them back. Only hours since I've seen Astrid, and already my control slips like water through fingers.
I uncap my flask, downing a mouthful of ambrosia. The thick, honey-sweet liquid burns down my throat, momentarily silencing the wolf's persistent growl. It dampens the rage, but leaves a hollow ache where satisfaction should be. Nothing but Astrid's presence would truly quiet the beast now.
"Twenty-three survivors," Cormac says, coming to stand beside me. His eyes flick to the flask, concern evident. "From three different planets, though technically the Valkyrie was grabbed while she was on Earth."
My jaw tightens. "And how many didn't make it?"
"Tharin said there were nearly double those numbers a week ago." His voice is carefully controlled, but I catch the undertone of rage.
My jaw clenches tight enough to ache. A cold anger settles in my gut, different from the wolf's hot rage but no less deadly. "So many lost," I mutter, flexing my fingers to keep the claws at bay. "We need to find who's behind this. All of them."
“We will,” Cormac says.
Arik approaches from the main house, his usual swagger subdued. "They’ll have them all home before the end of the night."
“Good. That’s good.” I glance at Arik. “How were they stealing their magick?”
Arik growls and his fangs show. “Regeant crystals from Vanir. Several of the victims all described the same thing.”
“Wait. Regeant crystals. The stones we use to–”
“Yes.” He says the word like it’s filthy. “The Fae use them to make lights, which are traded and used through all the worlds, except Earth. We use them for all types of mundane things. They store energy. They’re everywhere.”
"Fuck." So they’re not hard to obtain.
"Fuck is exactly right. We'd have better luck trying to empty the siren oceans with a teacup."
The wolf claws at my insides, howling for its mate. My canines lengthen in my mouth, and I taste blood where they've cut into my lip.
I reach for the flask again, but it's empty. Fuck. This is not going to be an easy trip.
The Sirens take us close, but not inside the Fae capital.
We step out of a creek in the forest just outside the walls of Vandimoor.
The moonlight filters through pine branches overhead.
The earthy scent of decomposing leaves and pine sap fills my nostrils, almost—but not quite—masking scents that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Cat. Goat. And reptile. Chimera.
I stop abruptly, hand raised to halt Cormac and Arik. "The Chimera are here."
I scan the tree line, eyes picking up movement where there shouldn't be any. A flash of tawny fur. The glint of multiple eyes through the foliage. A row of three on each.
"There," I point and growl, the words barely human as my own vocal cords begin to shift.
I feel the change trying to take me. Bones cracking beneath my skin, muscles burning as they attempt to rearrange.
With a snarl of pain, I wrestle it back, hands trembling with the effort.
I don’t think I could control my wolf if I changed right now.
My vision pulses between human clarity and the wolf's heightened perception, the world alternating between normal colors and the predator's less varied hues.
Cormac's hand moves to the knife at his belt, his other reaching toward me uncertainly. "You're certain? Fen, your eyes..."
"I know what I saw." I fumble for another flask, finding only empty containers. My control slips further with each passing second.
I move toward the tree line, following the scent, but the shapes withdraw deeper into the forest. I catch another brief glimpse.
A strange blend of lion, goat, and serpent in a single body.
The curved ram's horns glint in a stray beam of moonlight.
One turns its head, and all three pairs of its eyes lock onto me with predatory intelligence.
My wolf strains against its bonds, urging me to give chase.
"Fen." Arik's warning cuts through my focus, sharp as a blade. "We can't."
I ignore him, pushing into the underbrush. Branches scrape against my arms, leaving scratches that heal almost instantly. Their scent grows stronger.
"Fenrir." Cormac steps directly into my path, hand pressed against my chest. "If the chimeras are here, we need to report it to Hawke, not chase them unprepared."
Logic battles instinct. The strategic part of my brain knows he's right, but the predator in me wants to hunt. "Very well," I say and turn back to them both.
We continue through the forest toward the city of Vandimoor, my senses hyperalert for any sign of movement. The Chimera's don't show themselves again, but I can't shake the feeling we're being watched. Why would the Chimera's be here… in Avalon?
My fingernails have darkened into claws that won't fully retract. The muscles in my back spasm and crack as they fight to reshape themselves. Stop.
My legs buckle beneath me as another wave of transformation surges through my body. I drop to one knee, digging those traitorous claws into the forest floor, anchoring myself to something solid as my bones threaten to shatter and reform.
Hunt. Track. Find them.
The wolf's thoughts crash against mine, not in words but in primal urges and images. The scent of Chimera still lingers, pulling deep at my wolf’s instincts.
No, I growl internally. Not here. Not now.
"Fen." Arik's voice comes from what seems like miles away. "You need this. Now.”
He presses a jar into my hands. Not another small flask, but one of the large jars from the ranch pantry. I open it and swallow desperately, letting the sweet liquid flow through me. Half a jar later the urge to shift finally subsides.
Relief floods through me like cool water on burned skin.
My bones settle back into place, the fire in my veins subsiding to embers.
I draw a full breath without pain for the first time in hours, savoring the momentary peace.
Each dose buys less time than the one before.
Without Astrid, I'm just postponing the inevitable.
“Better?”
“Much. Thank you. Where did you get this?” I ask.
"Have a few tucked away for emergencies." Arik's usual bravado is absent. "You look like shit."
"Feel worse," I admit. Every cell in my body screams to return to Earth. To return to Astrid. The distance between us is physically painful now, a constant burning ache.
"The ambrosia's losing effectiveness," Cormac observes quietly.
"You think I don't know that?" I snarl, fighting another wave of unwanted transformation. My canines remain extended, making speech uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I’m just… the wolf is so close. And he’s angry.”
“We’re almost there,” he says, pointing through the trees.
The polished stone walls of Vandimoor gleam in the evening light, deceptively peaceful. But my enhanced vision picks out the doubled guard presence, the new defensive positions along the ramparts. Hawke is preparing for war.
Irritation prickles under my skin. More obstacles. More delays. Every unnecessary checkpoint and paranoid guard is another barrier between me and quickly returning to Astrid.
Cormac's jaw tightens as he surveys the fortifications, his usual diplomatic patience fraying visibly. Even Arik mutters something vulgar under his breath, his casual swagger hardening into something more aggressive.
"All this theater," I growl, gesturing at the ramparts where archers pace in tight formation.
The guards at the gates eye us with open suspicion, spears gripped tight in white-knuckled hands. Their anxiety perfumes the air, sharp and acrid, aggravating my already frayed senses. I keep my mouth firmly closed, very aware of the fangs that refuse to fully retract.
"Who are you and state your business," the guard demands, stepping forward.
"Fenrir Thorsson," I say, my voice steady and clear. I draw myself to my full height, which puts me a head taller than the soldier. "Knight of the Round Table. King Stormblood is expecting us."
The captain's eyes linger on my face a moment too long, taking in the lingering traces of wildness the ambrosia hasn't fully masked. I meet his gaze evenly, no longer fighting for control but still carrying the wolf's presence beneath my skin.
Cormac steps slightly forward. "We have urgent news for the king."
Another guard comes running toward the gate. "Let them through, you idiot. That's one of the Knights." He shoves the first guard out of the way and opens the gate all the way. "Please forgive his mistake, sir. King Stormblood is expecting you. Do you need a guide to the palace?"
Cormac shakes his head.
The shield surrounding the city tingles against my skin as we walk through the gate—a mild discomfort, nothing more. The ambrosia has done its work well, at least for now.
We hurry through the empty mostly dark streets. The front of the palace is well lit, though, and as we cross the outer courtyard, a familiar figure catches my eye. Wraith stands beneath a large oak, deep in conversation with someone. A smile lifts the corners of my mouth.
"Go ahead," I tell Cormac and Arik. "I'll catch up."
He follows my gaze to Wraith and nods. "We'll meet you in the great hall."
I break away, crossing the courtyard with long strides.
Wraith sees me and dismisses the warrior with a curt nod before turning to face me. His glamor is down here in Avalon, revealing his true appearance—golden eyes like liquid fire and very pointed ears.
His eyebrows raise slightly as he takes me in. "You look like seven different kinds of shit," he greets me, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. His gaze tracks to my hands where claws have extended from my fingertips.