Chapter Fourteen
Lorkan
Lorkan’s breath plumed into the air like some beast emitting smoke.
It was times like these, with gray sprawling above, snow blanketing the land, and cold nipping at his pale, cursed skin, that his inner wolf howled, Set me free.
For Lorkan craved to run and feel his homeland under his paws.
But the Drengr Village sat a mile northbound, the distant puffs of chimney smoke dotting above the tree line. This close, Lorkan couldn’t risk a pack member spotting his shifted form, nor did he have the time to defuse another sighting, a cumbersome headache that affected Fjall Pack.
His pack couldn’t afford another worry. Their dwindling elm tea supply nipped at Lorkan’s heels like a herding dog.
He brushed his hand over his satchel, insuring it hadn’t vanished during his rushed journey.
He had enough elm tea to last two weeks, plenty to visit the Drengr Village, get information from his brother, and return to Vísdómr with more answers about vampyrs.
Snow clung to the pines and evergreens, frosting the branches of oaks and maples. Songbirds pecked at the icy surface, diligently hunting for seeds. The hill sloped to the most northern path leading into the village, and—
Lorkan stilled.
He saw the blood before he scented it. Up ahead, crimson splayed across white, stark against the peaceful forest. Sweet iron traveled on the wind, conjuring his inner beast to the surface.
A growl shuddered through him, and his keen hearing caught the faint thump, thump, thump of the werewolf slumped against a tree.
Lorkan sensed death like it was the absent twin to his darkness.
He quickened his pace but didn’t run, sliding down the slope on his boots.
If he ran, he risked his hunting instincts snapping into place.
He chanted his purpose inside his mind—help them, help them, help them—loud enough to drown out the hissing in his mind.
A dead mule with its throat slit lay on the path, its glassy eyes reflecting the snowcapped canopy.
Winter root vegetables littered the path, and upturned dirt and leaves showed signs of a struggle.
The wounds were fresh, the blood not yet frozen.
Lorkan sniffed the air, a dangerous gamble with so much blood, but he had to be sure the assailants weren’t near.
Thanks to the stars above, he didn’t detect the sharp scent of another vampyr or the anise hint from a demon.
No—it was only the tantalizing clot of blood.
A hunger-filled haze fell over Lorkan. His sights flashed red like he’d replaced his glasses with red-tinted ones.
Each step was a struggle; the temptation to feed was as strong as his need to help the werewolf.
Lorkan had been here before, at the intersection between wanting and losing control. He’d sworn to never let his affliction win again. It was wretched and fierce, but he’d not let it ravage his heart.
He reached the werewolf, thoughts of feeding squashed.
Red trailed down the werewolf’s chin, soaking his wheat-colored beard.
Familiarity hit Lorkan like a cane to the back of his knees.
He couldn’t think straight or remember the werewolf’s name, but he was a Drengr pack member and a farmer on the outskirts of the village.
The man blinked, face far too pale. The Otherworld had its grip on him, life fading from his skin by the second.
Drink. Drink. Drink.
Phantom whispers chanted in Lorkan’s mind. His gums ached, his fangs begging to be released. He shed his cloak, reaching for the wide cut at the male’s neck, only to pause. A gash deep enough to reveal the man’s insides stretched from rib to hip.
No amount of pressure would stop that amount of blood.
“Dr . . . Dren . . . you’re a Drengr son,” the werewolf breathed, each word wet and bubbly.
The truth barreled into Lorkan, knocking him off balance. Who he was—as well as his father and brothers—was a reminder to rein in his bloodthirst.
“You’re alright—”
“Don’t lie to me, boy.”
Lorkan grunted, shifting on his haunches. No one had called him a boy since he’d grown taller than his father and brothers.
The farmer laughed, which only quickened the river of blood seeping from his wounds. “You’re . . . s-s-supposed to be the smart one.”
Lorkan swallowed, a laugh so far out of reach, all he could muster was to say nothing—there was no sense in arguing the truth; the man was dying. He draped his cloak over the farmer’s body, a measly comfort against the cold.
“How many scáths?” he asked, searching the path for signs. But aside from the bite on the farmer’s neck, his other wound and the mule’s neck were a singular cut, a swipe not made by talons but a blade.
“Not scáths . . . but the k-king.” The farmer’s eyes searched above, growing distant.
“What?” Lorkan hated how he hissed, how he leaned too close into the dying man’s space. Yet, it wasn’t the red haze filling his sights but images of his village destroyed. Eldrick, his father, the Gray Fenris . . . His fears flashed before his eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. “Are you sure?”
“It is true . . . he told me he is t-t-the vampyr king . . .” The man slacked against the tree, and the last bit of light extinguished from his gaze.
Lorkan reared back. He’d witnessed death before, far too much for his twenty-eight-year-old heart, but the king had killed this close to the Drengr Village on the path leading to his home.
He rushed to his feet, searching the trees again for any sign of vampyrs. No sharp scent. No crunch of ice under their boots. Stars above. He glanced back at the dead werewolf. All the signs were there—he was minutes behind the vampyr king.
Shift, Lorkan’s wolf roared inside him, but with the blood behind him, he worried shifting might flip the switch for his hunger.
There was too much risk. He’d drank the elm tea in the last day at least, but all his jumbled emotions—fear, anger, and desperation—heightened the curse.
He was alone. If he lost control, Alvin and his pack wouldn’t be there to help.
Hide what you are.
Lorkan’s long-standing rule rippled through him. He couldn’t stomach the possibility of his brothers discovering what he was. That truth tasted of salt and shame. Lorkan feared rejection above all else.
But did that matter if Lorkan lost them to the vampyr king? His pack needed him. Even without shifting, he was the fastest werewolf in the Vadon Mountains.
He couldn’t explain his shifted form, but he could outwit discussions regarding his speed. He was no warrior like Kade nor a leader like Eldrick, but he knew these forests, trees, hills, and the best way to the village.
Lorkan ran southeast instead of southwest, where the path ventured. The world blurred around him. Distinct brown and navy became clear up ahead.
The palisade walls of his home, the Drengr flags high and proud.
He growled, he grunted.
Because he couldn’t howl. Not like the other werewolves of his pack. To them, he was latent, unable to conjure the call of his people.
Fuck.
Lorkan cursed just as his satchel caught the branch of a dormant rosebush.
The cold, stiff material ripped, and half of his elm tea spilled into the snow.
Wind picked up the bags, pulling them out of reach.
The land was toying with him, fate pulling the strings like he was a puppet for entertainment.
Laughter yanked him back to the present. He hurried behind a tree and stilled his breath.
NO!
Ahead, a tall, lithe man clad in silver and gold marched down the path Lorkan had abandoned. Four others flanked his sides. Magic bristled the air, anise thick on the winter wind. A witch, with hands flared and magic twisting around her feet, led them. Lorkan stepped left and—
Moons, they disappeared from sight. The witch created a mirage, hiding them with magic; no werewolf manning the wall would spot them.
Lorkan whirled his attention back to Drengr Village. He was closer. But barely. If he shifted, he’d be there first, plenty of time to warn his pack. But his werewolf was different, darker. He risked getting killed before he had time to declare who he was, but even then, he’d reveal his darkness.
But they need you!
A thousand voices shouted in Lorkan’s whirling mind. What, in the stars above, was he going to do?
Think, Lorkan, think.
Ahead, a cluster of evergreens grew together, their intertwining branches creating a wall of needles and snow. A plan clicked into place. Hide. Like he had been for the last decade.
With one backward glance towards the king, certain they didn’t see him, Lorkan dashed over to the trees and hunkered out of sight.
NOW!
Lorkan shifted and let out a ground-shaking howl.