"Boaz is right, Ares. There isn’t time. You'll each have a guide," Nimue says, glaring coldly at Ares. "Someone who knows the modern world, who can help you blend in. You’ll also be given siren rings, so you can call for one of us a moment’s notice. We have dozens of sirens working shifts to listen for a call around the clock."
My wolf paces beneath my skin, agitated by the thought of splitting up. But somewhere out there is a woman carrying a piece of my soul, probably unaware of the forces closing in around her. And there’s no time to waste. We’ll blend into the shadows better in smaller groups anyway.
"How long?" I ask, studying the map points that mark my search area. "How long before we need to check back in?"
"You have official check-ins scheduled every fortnight," Maven answers. "But if you need ambrosia between that, you can come in more. Like the Queen said, we have more than enough to keep all four of you well stocked.”
"We leave tonight," Wraith says quietly. "The longer we wait..."
The longer we wait, the more likely someone else finds them first. The women carrying our soul shards. Our mates. The key to saving not just ourselves, but the world as we know it.
“You leave tomorrow. There’s still a lot to do,” Maven says. “You need IDs, clothes, and money. I’ll walk each of you through the research I have.”
“Your guides will arrive tonight,” Nimue adds. “So get some rest if you can.”
"I'm going to need some of that ambrosia now, if possible." The admission burns like acid in my throat. Ares gave me some less than an hour ago, yet here I am, wolf clawing at my control again. It wasn’t enough.
Each time it takes more to subdue him, and less time before he rises again. I roll my neck and suck in a quick breath, trying to hide how badly I need it. My fangs ache and the sensory overload from the wolf trying to break through sends spikes of pain through my skull. At this rate, how long before even ambrosia can't hold him back?
Isabella scurries to a closet in the kitchen and returns with a large glass jar full of the precious olympian liquid. She turns the metal top and hands me the open jar.
I sip slowly. Then take a large swallow, letting the honey-flavored syrup coat my mouth and throat. The healing properties soothe the pain away almost instantaneously.
I breathe deeply and then hand the jar back.
“Thank you.”
She nods. “I’ll leave it right here on the counter. And if you need more or,” she glances around the room, “if anyone does. There’s plenty in that pantry.”
I eye the jar on the counter. I’m not leaving this room without it in my hand.
CHAPTER 3
Scent of Destiny
* * *
Fenrir Thorsson
The wolf's rage jolts me awake, fangs already descended, claws piercing the mattress beneath me. My bones feel like they're trying to shift, to break and reform. Fire races through my veins. The change is coming on too fast, too strong. Strange scents—wrong territory—too many heartbeats nearby.
I slam my head back against the pillow, fighting for control.
One breath. Two.
I reach blindly for the jar of ambrosia I set on the table by the bed, but my claws are still out, and I knock it over. Golden liquid seeps into the carpet, the precious olympian nectar wasted. The sweet scent fills my nose, mocking me. Stupid. Careless. We can't afford to waste a single drop.
I roll off the bed and snatch up the jar, tilting it upright before more can spill. Maybe a quarter of the jar is left now. My hands shake as I bring it to my lips. The honey-sweet liquid burns going down, but the wolf's rage ebbs enough that I can think past the red haze of predatory instinct.
The others' beds are empty—sheets rumpled from sleep. Wraith was moved to a specially warded room last night to keep his dream-walking contained, but the others... I don’t like the thought of sleeping through their departure. They should have woken me.
Voices drift up from downstairs, along with the rich scent of coffee and something sweet that makes my stomach growl. But there's another smell underneath it all—the sharp tang of magick. Fresh magick. My wolf surges forward again, hackles rising, before I ruthlessly shove him back.
The floorboards creak under my bare feet as I make my way down the hallway. I’m still wearing the pants and shirt from yesterday that I was informed were called “sweat-pants and a t-shirt”. I pause at the top of the stairs, listening to voices and heartbeats, taking slow breaths until my fangs recede slightly.
One day at a time. One moment at a time. I can do this. I will do this.
The kitchen is a battlefield of sensory assault when I enter—too many heartbeats, too many scents, too many potential threats for my wolf to track. A familiar scent catches my attention—night air, smoke, and earth—Wraith. But the man at the long wooden table barely looks like him. The glamour magick has transformed his appearance dramatically, softening the edges of his features, rounding his long pointed ears to human curves, and muting his brilliant gold eyes to a warm brown.
