My phone buzzes.
Sanderson: Unusual energy signatures detected near your mother's former home. Team Echo monitoring but not engaging yet.
The electrical sensation intensifies under my skin as I read his message, almost painful in its urgency. I press my palm against my chest, trying to ease the strange pressure.
He thinks he's backed me into a corner with his ultimatum. But he's forgotten one critical thing about me—I've been living a double life since I was born. Pretending to be one thing while being another is what I do best.
I'll give him what he wants. I'll take the crap cases, follow the rules, play the good little agent. Hopefully more people won’t die. In the meantime, I'll follow both trails quietly wherever they lead, official sanctions or not.
I'll deal with the consequences when they come. There are monsters to hunt. The ones with claws, and the ones pulling their strings.
Episode 6
CHAPTER 16
I Can’t Drink Enough
* * *
Fenrir Thorsson
The ache in my chest hasn't eased since I left Earth—since I left her.
Every galaxy between us is another weight pressing against my lungs, making it harder to breathe, harder to maintain control. I didn't expect this, this physical pain of separation. I didn't expect that being near Astrid would calm the wolf, would make the beast inside me settle when nothing else has worked for years.
Even when she pointed that gun at my chest, even with the scent of gunpowder sharp in my nostrils, my wolf had been calmer in her presence than it is now, surrounded by the familiar magick of Avalon.
I down another mouthful of ambrosia from my flask, letting the honey-thick liquid burn down my throat. It helps, but barely. The relief is fleeting, less effective with each passing day, and completely inadequate compared to the strange peace I felt in the presence of a woman who hunts my kind.
"That's your third flask since we left Vandimoor," Wraith says, his usually golden eyes now glamoured to a human brown. The glamor concealing his pointed ears is holding strong, but the shadows beneath his eyes don’t hide his exhaustion. None of us are sleeping well, but he doesn’t look like he’s slept in weeks.
"Unless you’d rather ride with my wolf chomping at your horse’s heels, fuck off," I growl, tucking the nearly empty flask back into my jacket.
Wraith's jaw tightens and he turns away, focusing on the path ahead.
I'm slightly disappointed. I recognize that part of me was actually hoping for a fight. Something to burn off this restless energy coiled tight inside me. Without Ares around to match my mood, Wraith had been the closest target.
Hawke rides at the front of our small procession. The weight of eight realms rests on his shoulders now, half of them threatening war against his throne for marrying Melinda, a human with magick unlike anything we’ve ever seen. Also for daring to change the way things have been for centuries and breaking free of the vise-grip the self-appointed High Council had on our worlds. But now even his own people are on the brink of civil war.
"How is Melinda faring?" I ask, breaking the uncomfortable silence that's fallen between us. My attempt at conversation might help distract from the tension with Wraith.
Hawke's expression softens at the mention of his wife. "The pregnancy sickness has gotten worse. She wanted to come despite it, but I finally convinced her that being on horseback for hours would only make things harder on her."
"I don’t know how women manage it, I certainly would struggle," Boaz speaks up, his grey stone-like hands poorly camouflaged by thick leather gloves. The petrification is lasting longer now—the greying color refusing to be banished at all anymore. "Though I'd take just about anything over turning into a gargoyle."
My chest tightens with familiar dread as I study my friend's condition. The stone has crept further up his arms since I saw him last, the veins of granite now extending past his wrists. Every time we meet, the darkness has claimed more of him.
He takes a long pull from his own flask. Boaz drinks more ambrosia than any of us, and it looks to be barely keeping the stone at bay. I've heard the old elven fairy tales, warning children about turning to stone if they offended Yggdrasil, but the five of us, we saved the world, all eight of them. Why would the World Tree punish him for that?
We crest the final hill, leaving the forest road behind, and Camelot rises before us—ancient and imposing against the bright afternoon sky. Its towers pierce the white clouds like accusing fingers pointed at the heavens. I've seen it countless times over the centuries, but something feels different today. Tiny cracks spider through stonework that once seemed impervious to time. A chunk of battlement is missing from the eastern tower.
The castle looks... wounded.
My wolf stirs yet again, restless beneath my skin, responding to the wrongness ahead. I grit my teeth, fighting back another surge of longing for Astrid's calming presence. How twisted is fate, that the one person who soothes my curse is the very woman trained to hunt creatures like me?
"They've increased the guard," Hawke notes, nodding toward the walls where armored figures patrol in greater numbers than normal. "Jarlath's not taking chances."
Wraith shifts in his saddle. "The Upir have always understood the value of vigilance. It was fortuitous that my people are the wards this year."
