CHAPTER FOUR #2
Vahyn's wolf was more comfortable here than in any city. The wild magic sang through these woods, calling to his berserker blood.
Behind him, Orlaith sat stiffly, maintaining as much distance as the claiming bond would allow. But as the hours passed, exhaustion won out over stubbornness. He felt the moment she gave in, her body relaxing against his back, her arms settling more comfortably around his waist.
The contact sent warmth through the claiming mark. Not the draining cold of her curse, but actual warmth. Comfort. Rightness.
"Tell me about Dun Greymaw," she said quietly. "Your stronghold."
Vahyn considered his words carefully. "It was built three thousand years ago, carved into the mountain itself. Big enough to house two hundred wolves at its height. My ancestors chose the location because the veil is thin there—easy access to the spirit realm, to ancestral magic."
"Is it defendable?"
Always the tactician. "It was. The main gate still stands, and the boundary stones still function—barely. The great hall is mostly intact, though the roof collapsed in places. The alpha's chambers are untouched."
"Why?"
"Greymaw ghosts," he said simply. "The massacre left the place haunted. Most supernatural beings won't go near it. The dead are... protective of their territory."
"But not of you."
"I'm the last of their blood. They welcome me." He paused. "They might welcome you too. Through the bond, you're pack now. Or close enough."
"I'm not pack."
"Tell that to the ghosts."
He felt her uncertainty through the bond, layered over curiosity and something that might have been longing. She'd never had pack, never had family beyond the Conclave's rigid hierarchy. The idea of belonging somewhere, even among ghosts, appealed to her more than she wanted to admit.
The horse picked its way around a fallen log, and Vahyn's hand automatically went to Orlaith's knee to steady her. The claiming mark flared at the contact.
She didn't pull away.
Progress.
"When we reach the stronghold," she said, "we'll need to fortify. Your wards won't hold against a concentrated attack."
"Can you strengthen them?"
"Yes. My blood magic is suited for defensive work—binding, protecting, sealing. I can layer wards over your ancestral magic. It won't make the place impregnable, but it'll slow down anyone trying to breach it."
"How long will that take?"
"A day, maybe two. Depending on how much territory we're warding." She paused. "And how much blood I'm willing to spend."
Vahyn glanced back at her. "Don't drain yourself. We still have to reach the Oracle, and you'll need your strength."
"Worried about me, Greymaw?"
"Yes," he said simply.
The honesty seemed to startle her. Through the bond, he felt her surprise, followed by a warm flutter that might have been pleasure.
"Well," she said after a moment. "That's... unexpected."
"Is it?"
"Yes. I tried to kill you thirty-six hours ago."
"And I'm dying of a demon curse you're accidentally draining faster." He smiled grimly. "We're well past conventional relationship dynamics, Blackbriar."
"Relationship," she repeated. "That's an interesting word for 'mutually assured destruction.'"
"Greymaw specialty."
She huffed something that might have been a laugh. Then, quieter: "Why aren't you angry with me? I claimed you without consent. Bound you to a death sentence. You should hate me."
Vahyn was quiet for a long moment, considering.
"My uncle damned our entire clan because he was greedy.
Bael'qur slaughtered forty-three wolves for entertainment.
The Conclave has hunted me for territorial violations when I was only trying to save myself.
" He felt the claiming mark pulse in rhythm with his heart.
"You? You were following orders. And when the claiming happened, you didn't run.
Didn't abandon me to the demons. You stayed. "
"I couldn't leave. The bond—"
"Would have let you get a mile away," he interrupted. "Far enough to survive while I died. You didn't take that option."
Silence.
Then: "I should have."
"But you didn't." He covered her gloved hand with his. "That means something, Orlaith."
"It means I'm an idiot."
"It means you're kind. Under all the death magic and walls, you're kind."
He felt her recoil through the bond—not from him, but from the description. She didn't see herself as kind. Saw herself as weapon, as monster, as curse made flesh.
"I'm not," she said flatly. "I've killed forty-seven people, Vahyn. Forty-seven contracts, all successful. I'm good at one thing: dealing death."
"Were any of them innocent?"
A pause. "What?"
"Your contracts. Were any of them innocent people?"
"I—no. The Conclave doesn't hire us for innocents. Only rogues. Oath-breakers. Criminals who endanger the supernatural community."
"Then you weren't just killing. You were protecting." Vahyn kept his voice gentle. "Every rogue you eliminated was one less threat to innocents. That's not monstrous. That's duty."
"You're twisting—"
"I'm telling the truth. Something you're not used to hearing about yourself."
The claiming bond vibrated with her emotional turmoil: anger, confusion, the faint desperate hope that maybe, possibly, he was right.
Before she could respond, Vahyn's wolf surged to alertness.
He pulled the horse to a stop, every sense suddenly focused.
"What is it?" Orlaith whispered.
"We're being followed."
He felt her tense behind him, one hand going to the blade at her hip. "Demons?"
"No. Too clever, too patient." He scanned the forest, but the follower stayed hidden. "Human? Or close enough to pass."
"Conclave?"
"Possibly."
The claiming bond pulsed as Orlaith's death-sight activated. He felt her magic sweep the area, searching for the signature of dying things.
"There," she breathed. "Northwest, half a mile back. Staying just outside my range, but I can sense—" She went rigid. "It's her. Morrigan."
Vahyn's wolf snarled. "Your aunt."
"She's alone, which means this is reconnaissance. She'll have a team converging on our position, but she's scouting first." Orlaith's voice was tight with controlled fear. "We need to move. Now."
"Can she track the claiming bond?"
"Like a bloodhound. The mark is a magical beacon—anyone with the right sensitivity can feel it." Her hands tightened on his waist. "We won't lose her by running. We need to hide the bond somehow, or fight."
"Can you hide it?"
"No. But I can... muffle it. Temporarily. It'll hurt like hell and won't last more than a few hours, but it might buy us time."
Vahyn urged the horse forward, picking up speed. "Do it."
Orlaith's hand went to the claiming mark on her wrist. He felt her magic gather, dark and focused.
Then pain exploded through the bond.
Vahyn gasped, nearly losing his seat. It felt like someone was driving hot iron through his chest, searing the claiming mark from inside. He heard Orlaith cry out behind him, her body going rigid.
The claiming bond screamed in protest—
And then went silent.
Not gone. But muffled, wrapped in layers of Orlaith's blood magic like burial shrouds. The connection was still there, but dampened. Harder to sense from outside.
Hopefully hard enough.
"How long?" Vahyn gritted out.
"Two hours. Maybe three." Orlaith's voice was strained. "Then it'll break through, and the backlash will make it burn twice as bright."
"Then we make those hours count."
He kicked the horse into a gallop.
Behind them, he felt Morrigan's presence pause—losing the trail, confused by the bond's sudden disappearance.
They had a head start.
Now they just had to use it.