13
The First Rite—the Drowning .
I scream. Water fills my mouth, my nose, my lungs. But I can’t fight. I can’t swim . My limbs are too sore; they burn as I flail and sink. Lower, deeper. I’m too frail. Too weak. I can only drown.
Still, I scramble, clawing at the icy depths. Desperate to find a foothold. There is nothing. Only darkness, wet, and a horrible metallic taste on my tongue as though this water… It’s not natural.
These waters are magic.
And I am going to die. The thought strikes through me like lightning as I choke on salt water. I am going to die in this damned pool in an antechamber of a castle that no one knows exists. I am going to die a monster without my father even knowing that he sealed my fate.
No.
I turn my thoughts to Celeste. I think of her car sitting in that parking lot. I think of our seats abandoned at the movies. My chest aches, open and bleeding for her. For her , I can’t give up. For her , I have to try.
Fight it. Fight it. Fight—
My entire set of right claws breaks free in a simultaneous explosion of rupturing followed by another searing split down my spine.
Anger—sheer rage at being trapped here, at Celeste being killed—shakes me to my very core.
I will not die. I will become a monster if it means saving what remains of Celeste’s memory. If it means vengeance .
One by one, my bones break. Then reform. My lungs implode, and with it, all the water I’ve drunk spills from my lips—my jaws. My skin splits, and the fur that emerges is thick enough to have some sort of grip on the pool. I swipe claws at it. Kick wolfish legs up, up. I am stronger now.
I am a wolf.
The scent that envelopes me isn’t metallic at all; it’s sweet. Cherries, coconut, a hint of earthen grass. So much like home that I almost see the tiny two-bedroom duplex rise in the distance of my mind. I focus on it as I swim. Farther. Harder.
I must get out.
I must keep going.
Cutting through the water, I push up, up , and—finally I hit the surface.
As a wolf, I burst out of it with the grace of a dolphin cresting a wave.
I splash onto the bank beside the pool, soaking wet and snarling.
A torrent of water pours from my mouth, but it’s nothing compared to what would have happened if I hadn’t shifted.
“Excellent,” the queen purrs. She steps out from the masses, crown glinting on her raven-colored hair.
Light pours down onto her now, a waning gibbous moon visible through the carved hole and surrounded by pinpricks of starlight.
“The First Rite is almost complete. You have shown the universe the truths of your soul.”
The… what?
As though she can read the question in my wolfish gaze, she continues, “The moon pool is blessed with the remnants of the very first meteor to crash into the Realm of Superiority. This castle is enchanted by the strongest of magics. Therefore, our wolves are enchanted by the strongest of magics during their First Rite. Your destiny shall now be read.” She turns around with a wave of her hand, discussing my near drowning with the ease of discussing flower arrangements.
I snarl again, but she snaps her fingers. “Silence, Miss Hart.”
Like all her compulsions, I am forced to obey.
Thanks to Calix’s reminder, at least I understand that this comes down to order.
She controls everyone. Alphas control those beneath them.
Betas control those still beneath them, and so forth.
Somewhere in that hierarchy, I fall between the Alphas and Betas.
Untested potential. The thought—the reminder—makes me feel uneasy. I don’t know what I am. No one does.
“Lyra?” the queen says.
“Yes, Queen Sybil.” A young lady moves beside the queen.
White fabric hangs from her body in sheer strips of chiffon, and constellations are tattooed in silver ink along her brow, small enough to look like iridescent freckles.
She nods her head once, straight black hair falling over her pale shoulders, as her crystal-blue eyes find mine.
“Vanessa Hart, do you accept my reading of your destiny as it is so told by the universe?” Her voice is a lilting whistle, too childish to match her womanly curves. “Please nod if so.”
I nod.
She kneels before me, head bowed, and whispers, “I am sorry for what is to come. Some wounds do not heal as easily as others. There is a price to pay for sins and blessings alike.”
Before I can question the strange words, she retrieves a dagger embedded with sapphires from the folds of the gown.
“Let her destiny be known,” Queen Sybil orders.
Lyra holds my wrist in her hand, gentle and delicate, and slices through my fur with the sting of a scorpion. I choke around a howl that can’t escape while writhing on the floor. The sting only worsens by the second, nestling into my veins. My bones.
“ Shhh ,” she whispers soothingly. “We will bandage you soon.”
She holds her dagger over the pool, tipping the blade toward the surface until three droplets ripple onto the silver waters.
Then she runs a hand through it and swirls her bare fingers in the bloody liquid until they’re coated.
I swallow a gasp as she brings those fingers to her wide eyes.
She bathes her cerulean gaze in the morbid brew of blood and magical sea.
Her eyes roll back into her head, showing only whites, and her mouth opens on a prayer.
“Of the stars that burn and suns that fade, all will be foretold. Canes Venatici. Andromeda. Hydra. Hercules. Norma. Monoceros. Scutum. Pyxis. Volans. Vulpecula. The power lies not in their names, but in their unity. As one, they lead us, guide us. Divine universe, bless us with understanding. Lend me your sight.” Lyra’s head falls at a sickening angle, as though her neck has snapped, and she collapses in a heap.
I want to move forward—to help her—but no one else has twitched a single muscle, and Lyra…
Her fingers dance along the stone. Her eyelids flutter.
After a few seconds, she blinks. Her gaze rights itself.
Her eyes flare—bluer, brighter. “Vanessa Hart, first of her name, Bitten not Born, is blessed beneath a Virgo sun and Scorpio moon, beneath the Orion stars, as”—Lyra hesitates for a moment, and her gaze flicks to mine as her brows furrow.
My heart thuds between my ribs, and I suck in a harsh breath, waiting for a condemnation, but—“a Truthseer,” she finishes.
“Vanessa Hart is a Truthseer.” Lyra’s voice then lowers into a depth not of this world as she says, “ The push and pull of the heart will entangle itself in a web so deep, one might not emerge, but once untangled, legacies will rise. Kingdoms will unite. Greatness beckons. ”
I push up onto my legs as the rest of the court transforms into wolves.
All except Queen Sybil. She watches me with a wicked grin, a cold gleam in her eyes.
I shiver under her gaze. And the howls of three dozen wolves pour through the hole in the ceiling, carrying straight up to the stars.
The sound is met with more howling outside, beyond the castle.
So loud, it threatens to shatter my ears.
The Wolf Queen approaches. She places a crown of scarlet starflowers atop my head. Then she herself transforms. A wolf made of ebony and smoke, so huge she dwarfs even the moon itself, Queen Sybil howls next, and Lyra’s words echo around us, burrowing into my soul.
Legacies will rise. Kingdoms will unite.
Greatness beckons.
It sounds like a funeral toll. And as I glance at the surrounding wolves, hatred pounds hard and fast against my ribs.
A soft growl works past my lips. With one look from the Wolf Queen, however, I have no choice but to join the others and howl.
Only, I don’t howl for my birth. I howl for their deaths.