Chapter 43 Thane
Thane
Twelve days till the Hunter’s Moon
Jastorgh arrived in Thane’s office in all his cavalier glory, wings half spread as if he expected applause.
“You have a lot of nerve showing up here,” Thane grated.
“I do. So much!” Jastorgh preened. “It fair oozes from me.”
“You fucked me over and put my mate in jeopardy.” The mate that had refused to see Thane since. But he’d continued to work toward the future, digging in the Skein for leverage.
The rogue witches showed the most promise. They were no friends to Ditch’s coven but seemed to know a lot about it. How to use them without tipping into outright war?
Jastorgh scoffed. “Your mate told me she could handle herself. And unlike you, I took her at her word. Does everyone keep forgetting she’s the high bitchess of some very serious bitches?”
“We got lucky in the Helter, but things could have gone sideways.” Why had the monsters been so quiet? Thane had sensed legions more, lying in wait.
For what? The idea of taking Lykae into that land to hunt filled him with foreboding.
“Water under the bridge, wolf, bygones, second chances, et cetera. I’m on a clock. So”—Jastorgh produced a scroll and two small hex bags—“do you want these or not?”
“Hand them over.” Thane accepted the letter and the two bags. One was red, the other black. Grains of some kind filled them. He opened Ditch’s seal and read:
Wolf,
If you pour one bag around each cage, magic will make Berserker bars truly unbreakable. Use the black one for yours, and your beast won’t know what hit him.
D
He sniffed the black bag, and his Instinct blared: —Be wary of magics!—Lykae hated it. Despite his mate’s scent on these spells, his hackles rose. Thane set the bags away warily. What a risk trusting them would be!
Ditch might double-cross him, then try to attack that very night, knowing he—and his best men guarding him—would be compromised.
He’d get Lowell to call in even more warlairds. Bracing for war yet relying on diplomacy, Thane scratched out a reply:
My gratitude. When I demonstrate trust by using them, mayhap you’ll come to trust me as well. We could build much from such a foundation.
Jastorgh traced away with the letter, then reappeared seconds later bearing her response:
I like foundations. I like to bludgeon them with a sledgehammer and cackle as they crumble into smaller and smaller pieces until there’s no hint of what once was.
Re: the spells—I’ll personally be fueling them. You will feel my presence in every bar, won’t even know which one to hump. What a savage time you’ll have. Hugs and kisses.
He exhaled through his nose and scribbled another message, thrusting it at Jastorgh.
The demon sighed. “You two could simply have a conversation, you know.”
“Just deliver this.”
Meet me that night. Unleash your demon as I unleash my beast. We’ll make the gods seethe with envy.
Moments after Jastorgh teleported away, he returned, out of breath from tracing back and forth.
Can’t. Washing my hair.
Thane wrote:
I haven’t given up on a way for us to be together.
Jastorgh vanished again, then returned, saying, “She told me this is her final message till after the full moon. Which works for me.” He tossed Thane the scroll, then traced away.
Thane opened it and read:
Yet you won’t sacrifice for it.
He sank back in his chair, fingers brushing her decisive handwriting. The reason he’d made the “easy” decision not to use the portal—and completely fuck over his pack—was partly because she wouldn’t accept him anyway.
But was she hinting otherwise now?
Could they leave behind their inherited animosities to forge something different in a new realm?
His thoughts slid, unwelcome, to Straegan. The specter of his brother’s potential rule cast a long shadow over the Skein. If he ever broke free—if he ascended—it would be apocalyptic. And not just for Lykae.
He remembered Straegan as a lad, always at Thane’s heels. Their parents had worked hard to teach each son to control his beast. Thane had easily succeeded. Straegan…had not.
Had his murderous tendencies been there all along? Or had sorcery truly captured him?
Thane couldn’t erase the memory of that night, the last time his brother’s true face had surfaced:
Straegan laughing uncontrollably, drenched in blood.
Throwing his head back and opening his arms.
Surrendering to his beast forever…
Magic had maddened him. It must have done. Yet now Thane was to rely on a witch’s spell?
He wanted to debate pros and cons with Lowell, but his right hand had been scarce, lost in his own witch trouble after a cooling-off period.
The Accession was the season for finding mates. Could it be possible that he and Meera were one pair more?
The thought made Thane pinch the bridge of his nose.
The world was coming undone. But the moon would keep rising.
***
Lowell
Ten days till the Hunter’s Moon
Pacing. Sweating. Drowning in shame.
Lowell had returned to the Witchwood three more times, each visit ending the same way: pleasure sharp enough to boggle the mind, followed by Meera’s tears.
She cried because she believed he was spellbound. Because she believed she was hurting him.
And he was hurting her each time he went to her.
They were destroying each other.
Last time, she’d begged him not to come back, had actually threatened to move into Strix Keep, of all bleak lairs, just to avoid him. She would leave her place of security and comfort—her beloved home with all her pictures and mementos, the cradle in the attic.
Because of him.
Regret swelled in his chest like an internal wound filling with blood. What is wrong with me?
He’d vowed to himself for the thousandth time that he would never seek her out again.
Yet even here in Craigdúr, he felt her. The tug was constant, impossible to ignore. There’s no way I can live without her.
He paced harder, feeling as caged as Thane would soon be. Outside, flickering torches glowed, illuminating the warlairds drilling below.
The kingdom prepared for conflict as the Accession gnawed the Skein like a slow-toothed beast. The moon would devour reason soon enough.
Two dozen of the strongest unmated warriors would guard the royals, but the rest would patrol the villages. The witches might strike them, now that they knew the Lykae king would be caged.
War between their factions crept closer, as if seeping through a buckling blockade—
A realization hit Lowell like a cudgel to the sternum.
He had to tell Meera about the portal. One last chance to be together before battles sparked. One last possibility before the door closed for another fifteen hundred years.
Thane and Ditch would never use it, but maybe Lowell and Meera should. In the mortal realm, they would know nothing of the coming wars. His mate could never exist there. Meera’s warlock mating season wouldn’t reach her.
They could live as if alone on a deserted island.
They could be free.
He would surrender everything. His vocation. His pack. Seeing his beloved parents and many siblings again.
Canna live without her.
Lowell crossed to his desk, sweeping aside official correspondence and reminders of neglected duties.
He dimly noted that the Fey had written from their land of Faeholt, which was always important.
A few words stood out in the flourishing script—force…
calamity…ominous…Skein-wide—but he had other cares. I’ll get to it after.
He wrote Meera a letter straight from his heart, planning to slip it under her doorway.
One final chance.
He sealed the envelope with his official stamp, pressing it into warm wax until the insignia emerged, crisp and unmistakable: twin keys crossed before a full moon, the mark of the seneschal, and one he’d secretly been so proud to bear.
He held the letter in both hands, letting the weight of it settle into his bones. It felt heavier than parchment should, carrying the enormity of what he was asking.
If she accepted it, he’d burn down destiny for her.
If she refused…then fate really had chosen his end.
Lowell exhaled a shuddering breath. “One letter,” he murmured to the empty room. “And then I let you go.”
Even as he said the words, they curled like a lie beneath his tongue.