Chapter 38
Roderick Bryson
Roderick had intended to sweep Anya off her feet and carry her to the perfect romantic camping spot, but his aching bones had other ideas. He set her down with an apology and a sheepish grin.
“If I didn’t just see you get the daylights kicked out of you, I would be offended,” Anya teased, strolling beside him.
They made their way east, filtering through a crowd almost entirely of Weres, until they came to a clearing where the market had been earlier, still bustling with merchants, including the bookseller.
Anya spotted it in an instant. Her eyes lit up.
Roderick could tell she wanted to sprint over, slam their gold down and perhaps even smack the merchant across the face with the book, but she stayed in step with him, her fingers pulsing with eager energy.
Normally, he would have told her to go on ahead. But tonight, he wanted to savor every moment he had with her by his side, before he told her everything on his heart. Tonight, everything would change.
“I told you lot, five silver! No holds!” the bookseller barked as he saw them approach.
Anya slapped a palm down, shaking the whole table, then slowly revealed a gold piece. The merchant’s eyes widened.
“I’ll be needing change.”
A safe distance from the bewildered bookseller, they sat on the edge of a babbling stone fountain, with a looming sculpture of a muscular Were clad in battle armor and holding a sword. An inscription was engraved in the ancient tongue and Common on a bronze plaque at the foot:
Airson Prionnsa a’ Gheamhraidh, a chumas ar rìoghachd làidir.
For the Winter Prince, who keeps our kingdom strong.
Winter Prince was right. Roderick got chills the moment he realized the sword was pointing south, toward the glacial wall. Was the Winter Prince its creator? Or his father, or his father’s father? How long did Weres and Elves live?
And what exactly would the Winter Prince do when he learned Valerians were wandering past his borders right this very minute?
Roderick forced his attention to Anya, who was flipping feverishly through the symptom index, then slammed a chunk of pages to one side. She ran her finger along the lines as she read aloud:
“Holler mushroom: a rare poisonous fungi that grows on exposed sycamore roots. Ingestion causes fever, chills, cough, and black phlegm. Fatal within…six to twelve hours?”
Roderick shook his head. “That can’t be it then. By the time we saw the children, some of them had already been sick for weeks.”
Anya plopped the book beside her. “‘Mage tower quality’ my ass. I got you beaten up for a hokey folk remedy tome.”
“I beg your pardon, but I won, in case you weren’t there. And we still have plenty of coin to spare. I can think of a few things I’d like to buy you tonight.”
With new swords and supplies in hand, their slow walk to the woods east of Traansa took them past a shop boasting “Wares for Weres” as the shopkeeper called the array—including a gold shifter band.
The look on Anya’s face as they stepped back out into the cool night air made it worth every coin.
“All right, she said to just put it on, and shift like normal,” Anya said, slipping the band from the decorative box.
Roderick chuckled. “And where exactly do your clothes go?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she purred, running a claw up his chest. “Let’s find out.” As she slid the band on, he fought the urge to kiss the pulse point of her wrist. The thought of feeling her beat of life beneath his lips made him melt.
“Here we go!” she chimed.
With a golden flash, she was on four furry paws, and for once, not tangled up in the remnants of a dress.
Wow, she barked, circling to look at her whole body. They’re gone! Gone gone!
Roderick jogged to keep up with her as she darted over the eastern bridge, paws thumping on the knotty wood.
She paused at the crest, propping herself up on her hind paws to look over the edge at the gentle flow of water beneath them.
He leaned beside her, admiring the happy glow in the reflection of her eyes.
She licked his cheek, then took off toward the woods, howling and yipping, shifting back and forth, turning around every few bounds to look at him.
She was every bit a shooting star, popping and glowing under the moonlight as she sped through the grassy field among the fireflies—and slowly disappearing from his sight.
“Hoo…” Roderick slowed to a steady trudge, holding his side. His legs were tight, arms heavy, head rushing. “Ah…” He gripped his head and sat on a rock. Head trauma and readjusting to the Rhodias was not a good mix.
During the fight with Henrik, he’d imagined the towering Were being the embodiment of all the voices in his head, strangling them out of his mind once and for all.
But it just wasn’t that easy. It had seemed that way, in the moment. Decisive, final, storybook closed. But now, under the cool sky and with his confession to Anya on the brink, he knew it was a battle he would have to fight and win every day—including right now.
He wasn’t a praying man, or very spiritual for that matter. But sailing under the stars for months, being welcomed into the Lupus Star pack—it made it seem, for the first time, like an all-knowing, loving deity might be real after all. More than just a casual expression or a myth.
So he offered up a silent prayer.
Give me the strength to do what I must…to make her happy.
Anya bounded up to him, dressed and laden with their supply pack. “I found a great”—her brows creased with worry—“are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he mustered. “Don’t stop running on my account.”
“Liar.” She pulled him to his feet. He groaned and stifled a wince as she slid a strong, supportive arm under his. “I don’t expect you to be invincible. Let me take care of you.”
She was referring to his scrapes and bruises, of course. But when he pressed a hand over the jar of Rhodias in his still-buttoned pocket, a little anxiety tightened his chest. Had Anya noticed the jar when she held his shirt? Or when it cracked while they danced?
If she had, she seemed to pay it no mind. If she even knew what it was.
Cicadas buzzed as they ventured a few yards into the forest, coming upon an intimate clearing. The loon’s hauntingly beautiful tremolo echoed in the distance. The surroundings were thick and private, while the bare, branching canopy overhead gave way to the starry sky.
It was perfect.
While Anya pitched the tent, he gathered kindling and started a small fire, listening to her adorably frustrated huffs as the tent collapsed. He instinctively wanted to help, but he’d learned by now that she liked to work things out on her own. If she wanted help, she would ask.
He poked the fire with a stick, settling into the blanket of nature around him. His thoughts went from Henrik’s words to the Lupus Star, wondering about the fate of their crew until Anya dragged a log over for them to sit on.
She sat astride it to face him, in an alluringly brash way most women of court would not be caught dead doing, then sat their supply pack beside her. His eyes wandered to the softness of her belly, then the round curves of her thighs draped with the fabric of her dress.
Add a log to the list of inanimate objects he envied.
“What are you doing?” he asked. Heat spread up his neck to his jawline, pulsing there in increasingly feverish waves until both his cheeks were engulfed in the delicious warmth.
Anya touched two fingers to his cheek. “A princess has to tend to your wounds, remember?”
Closing his eyes, he leaned into her touch. He felt better already.
“Thank you.”
His thoughts reeled as Anya made quick work cleaning his scrapes, eyes reflecting their golden glow in the firelight. Was now the time?
She leaned down, pulling out a jar of numbing salve. She scooped a bit onto two claws, then grasped his bicep with her other hand.
“I’ll try not to scratch you,” she mumbled. “Claws aren’t good with creams.”
“Trust me, I don’t mind.”
He shivered as Anya pressed her claws hard against his bicep, scraping the salve onto his skin. If that weren’t enough to make every intelligent thought flee from his mind, she began to massage it into his muscles in long, slow strokes.
“Ngh,” he groaned, half from pain, half pleasure. After a minute of the exhilarating combination, he was finally able to form words again. “I’m sorry about this. I had intended to make it a more romantic evening.”
She moved her way up his arm, working the camphoraceous salve into his shoulder. Every undulation of her fingers brought him a little closer to heaven.
Then she kissed his cheek, so lightly he feared it was an accident until she spoke, every word a gentle breath against his skin.
“You got bruised and bloodied to buy me a book. I don’t think it gets more romantic than that.”
They reflected on the tavern fight, theorizing wildly about the Elves, the Weres, and the culture of Aquillas as Anya finished applying the salve.
It had to be torturous to her, to not be able to ask questions of folk plainly.
There were probably a hundred fizzling on the tip of her tongue at every moment.
Awooooo…
Anya’s pupils dilated. Her head whipped to the north.
A raucous chorus of yips and howls dominated the soft hoots and chirps of nighttime fauna. Anya’s fingers pulsed against his bruised wrist.
There was a ghost of words behind each howl.
Brother, sister, friend.
Run with us—under moonlight, under stars, under Mother’s watchful eye.
Anya stood, releasing his arm. “Do you hear that?”
The cacophony grew louder, more wild. Snapping branches and rustling leaves made his nerves prickle. Anya as a wolf was one thing. Being surrounded by strange Weres in wolf form was another. And were all wolves Weres? How would he tell?
“Anya, we shouldn’t get closer. They could—”
“I just want to see them. Please,” she begged. “A real pack.”
Those three words made his heart splinter.
A real pack.
Full of real Weres.
“All right.” He sighed. “Lead the way.”