CHAPTER 2
Between Worlds And Wolves
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Fenrir Thorsson
The wolf wants out.
It always wants out these days, scratching and clawing beneath my skin like a caged beast, challenging my control with every heartbeat. I check the flask of ambrosia in my pocket for the hundredth time today—three swallows left, maybe four if I'm careful. Not nearly enough to last me through the day.
My hands haven't stopped trembling since yesterday, and every quick movement from my companions sends a jolt of predatory awareness through my body, my teeth aching to lengthen into fangs. The wolf's hunger bleeds into my thoughts more with each passing hour.
A young siren I don’t recognize stands up in the fountain in front of me where we’re all waiting to leave the Stormblood Palace for Earth. She reaches out and I take her hand. We descend into the water without me moving again. The bottom of the fountain just disappears.
Traveling with a siren is strange. You're in the water, but not wet. You're moving, but not swimming. The sensation reminds me too much of being trapped, and the wolf doesn't like it. Each second underwater feels like a battle for control. By the time we break the surface on Earth, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth to keep them from sharpening into fangs.
The water pours away from my body and clothes, leaving no trace behind as I walk out of the lake onto the shore where Wraith and Arik wait. Heavy humid air clings to my skin, thick with moisture that does nothing to soothe the burning of my wolf beneath my flesh. The massive oaks dotting the shoreline creak in a hot wind that carries the scent of livestock, freshly cut grass, and bread. The food smell distracts me from my wolf momentarily, making my stomach growl.
I don't like this place and I don't like working with the sirens, but we have to find the missing shards of our souls. We're out of time. If we don't we'll suffer and we'll hurt the people we care about. I can feel my control slipping. A little more each day. I know the others are the same, but we suffer mostly in silence.
My fingers curl into fists, claws threatening to emerge. One breath. Two. I taste blood as my lengthening fangs pierce my own lip. Wraith's hand lands on my shoulder—meant to steady, but the touch sends sparks of aggression through my muscles.
"Fen?"
I shake my head once. Sharp. Warning.
A monstrous sound splits the air–sharp and blaring, unlike anything I've ever heard. My eyes snap to a massive metal beast rolling along the road to my left, its surface gleaming painfully bright in the sunlight. My heart rate spikes as the thing lets out another ear-splitting bellow. The wolf surges forward in my mind, every instinct screaming danger. Enemy.
No. Not here. Not now. But it's too late. I can't pull him back.
I sink to my knees in the sand and groan. This isn't just losing control—this is the wolf seizing control.
"Fen!" Wraith's voice shouts ahead of me. "Keep it together, brother!"
I can't. "Run," I grind out the warning between my teeth. My bones begin to crack and shift before I can respond to my friend.
"Back off!" Wraith shouts. "He's turning!"
My consciousness fractures next, human thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm. And then I'm gone.
The world explodes into scent-sound-movement. Metal-beast-enemy stands too close, too loud, too wrong. Teeth find hard shell, rip-tear-destroy until submission-sounds screech from its wounded body. Victory-surge pounds through blood, but more threats circle-move-approach.
Pack-scent (Wraith-friend-brother) cuts through rage-haze, but too many stranger-scents crowd the air. Too many bodies. Too much movement. Hackles rise. Muscles bunch. Ready to fight-flee-attack.
I hear Wraith curse, smell sharp tang of fear—not of me, but for me. The wolf doesn't understand the difference. A low growl builds in my chest as I back away from him, betrayal mixing with rage. Pack shouldn't fear pack.
The sound of shattering glass cuts through the air as someone drops something. The wolf's head snaps toward the noise, and I feel muscles bunch, preparing to attack. No. Not them. Not pack. But I can't stop it. Can't control it.
Forest-dark-safe calls with shadow-promise and earth-scent ahead. Trees mean shelter-den-territory. Paws dig deep, driving forward with power-speed-need. Open ground falls away. Lake-water-scent fades. Pack-scents fade.
New scents assault–leather-sweat-human. More intruders. Rage burns hot, drives legs to turn-face-challenge. A snarl rips free. My ground now. My trees. MINE.
Prey-things scatter, filling air with fear-sounds. They run all-ways-at-once. Confusing. Which threat first? Where to attack? Too many choices.
Movement draws eye-ear-nose. Power-scent rises (magick-wrong-danger). The one called Boaz raises hands. Voice-sounds blur together, sharp with fear-anger-warning. Magick-scent fades. Run-escape-flee pulses through blood, but pain strikes flank. Pain. Slow.
Must run. Must... world tilts-spins-blurs. Paws tangle. Ground rushes up. Try to rise-fight-flee. Body is heavy. Legs refuse. Nothing works right.
