Chapter 9
My arrow plinks haplessly against the outer rim of my target.
I’ve never shot this poorly. Then again, my concentration is paltry. I keep scanning the dusk-soaked land, flinching at the twitch of fir needles and the crackle of frozen snow, jolting whenever the torches bracketing the archery field let out a sharp hiss.
I feel exhausted and strung out, as though I’ve drunk six pots of that burnt-seed brew Mor consumes to stay alert when a female goes into labor in the middle of the night. The one time I tried it, it had pitched my heart out of alignment for so many hours I thought my pulse would never quiet.
I probably should’ve had a mug this morning.
I notch a new arrow, close one lid, then let it fly. Not only does it go wide of the bull’s-eye, but it also goes wide of the target. Unfortunately, with the air so stagnant, I have no gelid breeze to blame for my inaccuracy.
Focus, Zas. Focus or you’ll end up inside some wild creature’s belly faster than Nordin can say “I do.”
As I contemplate which creature would devour me first—a dragon or a giant polar bear—a masculine voice makes my erratic pulse misfire. “Your feet are too wide apart.”
How the Hel did I fail to detect Tyron leaning against the silver trunk of the ancient fir beside me?
I lift my long skirt to check my feet, shuffling my boots closer, because he’s right, the gap between them is almost double the distance it should be.
“Your elbow’s sinking,” Tyron points out, half his face painted in gloom, the other half in torchlight.
I purse my lips because, again, he’s right.
I prop it up an inch, then let my arrow fly. I hit the second ring, a stellar improvement.
As I pull another from my quiver, he says, “You should keep your bow arm steady after the shot. You’ve been dropping it.”
Have I? “How long have you been watching me?”
“Long enough to wonder if it was you and not a visiting Fjord.”
“You mean Nika?” Her name tastes like ash on my tongue.
“She arrived with a retinue, so not necessarily.” He stretches his neck, as if trying to work out a kink. “One would think the Fjords were here to seize our valley instead of to offer their services to the Vales in case Havrik loses his shit.”
I pivot toward my packmate, wondering if he could be onto something. Could this union be some twisted power play? Could Nika be working with Havrik?
I drop my voice to a whisper. “Is it possible that she didn’t reject him?”
“No. I was just speaking out of my ass.”
There’s something deeply wrong with me to wish Nika had been a cunning villain instead of a damsel in distress. I’m disgusted with myself. Revolted by the direction of my hurting mind. Leaving won’t only be good for me; it’ll be good for the pack. They deserve better than some inconsiderate brat.
“Mind pointing that thing elsewhere?” Tyron nods to my arrow.
“I haven’t been hitting the bull’s-eye.”
He hikes up a brow. “That supposed to comfort me?”
I tip my head from side to side, a smile sliding over my mouth.
“With my luck, it’ll be the one shot you don’t miss.”
I roll my eyes. “My arrows are tipped in gold, not silver. Even if I landed my shot, you’d live.”
“I didn’t realize how much you disliked me.”
“I don’t dislike you, Ty,” I confess, twisting back toward my target.
“But you don’t like me?” It sounds like both an assertion and a question. One he seems eager for me to answer.
“Depends on the day and what comes out of your mouth.” I park my feet hip-width apart, then align my forearm with my arrow and draw my elbow back. I inhale a steadying breath before relaxing my gloved fingers and letting the arrow fly.
Thwack.
An inch from dead center.
“Am I a great preceptor, or am I a great preceptor?” he coos.
Again, the corners of my mouth tip up. “Great might be overstating things.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his lips kinking. “But I’ll admit, you give good advice.”
He slaps his heart. “If only Saga and Leif could’ve heard you say that.”
I laugh, then take another two shots. Both strike the mark.
“Haven’t seen you at the archery grounds in a while. Or anywhere, really.”
“I was feeling under the weather.” I study the murky forest, shrouded not by nightfall but by the absence of the sun.
Tomorrow, it won’t even skim the horizon, marking the end of one year and the start of another.
“So it doesn’t have to do with a certain pack development?” he asks.
Although my gut reaction is to shut down his implication, I wheedle it to my advantage. “You got me. I shut myself away out of sheer jealousy that you all get to attend Myrknótt. Especially since I thought I’d finally get to go this year.”
The deep bend of his eyebrows confirms he was expecting me to say something else.
Before he can suggest that wasn’t what he’d meant, I hold out the bow. “Let’s see you shoot.”
Slowly…slowly, his features smooth before taking on his usual cocky air.
Tyron, like most shifters, enjoys nothing more than a challenge, especially one that can lead to showing off.
I already know how he handles a bow and arrow, because I’ve observed him.
Many have ever since Ulf publicly commended Tyron on his marksmanship last summer and put him in charge of the younglings’ training.
He pushes off the tree and ambles toward me, his worn boots crunching the trampled snow. “Prepare to be floored, Stormsson.”
As he approaches, I notice that his bark-colored locks, which he’s twisted and bound at his nape, are still pricked through with brambles and leaves.
The offer to wash them clings to my lips, but I press it back. I’m leaving tomorrow. Not to mention that Tyron could soon meet his mate. I don’t want to start caring about someone who might become another’s.
He closes his fingers on the longbow so near mine that our hands brush. His nostrils flare, as though to check how my body might react to his touch. It must be to his satisfaction, seeing how lambent his stare becomes.
“Are you excited about Myrknótt?” I ask.
“I’m excited to run and hunt.”
“Not to find a mate?” When I hand him an arrow, I make sure to hold it at one end.
“Only the females find that part exciting. Most of us males dread coming home with a mate.”
I raise a dubious eyebrow. “Are you sure this isn’t a you thing?”
“Ask any hot-blooded male, and I dare him to tell you otherwise. I mean, who wants to fuck the same person until the day they die?”
I snort at his bluntness.
“Nordin’s lucky. What I wouldn’t give to have a wife but not be beholden to her in body and heart.”
I swallow. “Just because he’s not her mate doesn’t mean he won’t uphold the vows of a true mating bond.”
He shrugs. “I guess he is rather dull like that.”
With that comment, I remember why I never fell for this man. Even though he’s not completely horrible, his vision of the world needs improving. May he grow up and out of it. May he never rot from within like his henbane addict of a father.
Fenrir, merely thinking of Askor darkens my already grim mood. Probably because each time I think of him, I think of Bjorn. Of the shrill cry that tore from Mor’s lips when news of Bjorn’s scalped head and lifeless body reached her ears.
Though Askor claimed the henbane had made him see Havrik’s face in place of Bjorn’s, that he’d believed he was saving the Vales from a Ravine takeover, his crime earned the most brutal execution in shifter history.
While my aunt flayed Askor’s scalp, careful not to let him bleed out or lose consciousness, my uncle stripped the skin from his bones. Bones that Nordin later ground to shards.
Once on the brink of death, Bjorn’s executioner was dragged to the sentry ramparts and tossed from the western cliffs into the North Sea for his final voyage to Jotunheimr—the realm where lurked the evilest creatures.
Mor hadn’t let Saga or me watch any of it, of course, sealing us inside the longhouse with the other children, but we’d heard everything—Sigrid’s unhinged screams, Askor’s agonized shrieks, Ulf’s feral growls, Nordin’s savage snarls, and Lenora’s choking wails.
We’d cried along with Lenora. And then harder still when, days later, to rid herself of her immortality, she sheared a strip from her scalp with a silver blade and then stepped into the lake to join Bjorn.
I never asked if Tyron had wept, but I imagine he had, since he and his mother had been forced to witness Askor’s execution. I heard she’d been inconsolable. So much so that she’d joined her mate in death soon after, orphaning their nine-year-old son.
I shake my head to evict the nightmarish reminiscence, but it clings. So I picture it attached to the arrow that Tyron skips off the bowstring and sends sailing into the target, right in the bull’s-eye.
“Impressive.” My knees wobble as I collect the fallen arrows. He isn’t his father, I chant silently. Again and again.
I worry I’ve murmured it out loud, because when I twist around, Tyron’s boastful grin has vanished. But then I catch the direction of his stare and realize the cause.
We’re being watched.