"It means you get to be charming instead of creepy," Cormac says, his smile widening. "Ask questions about local folklore, chat up bartenders about town history, that sort of thing. The friendlier you are, the less likely anyone is to remember you with suspicion."
"I'm not creepy," I growl, then realize I'm proving his point as my fangs try to descend. I take another bite of eggs instead of responding further, but my mind races. Travel writer. Acting friendly. Chatting with strangers.
My wolf scoffs at the very idea—we're warriors, hunters, not some wandering storyteller. But we also can't afford to fail. The image of my mate in chains, being "studied" by GUIDE scientists, makes my fangs ache. I force them back. If playing charming tourist is what it takes to find her, I'll learn. I've mastered sword and shield, learned to navigate the politics of the eight worlds.
I can learn this too. I have to.
"Actually, your look is perfect for it," Maven chimes in, gesturing at me with her fork. "Put some braids in that long blonde hair, and you'll be an instant SocialSquare hit. People love the whole Viking warrior aesthetic these days."
I don't know what a 'SocialSquare' is, but the patronizing edge in her tone sends my wolf prowling against the cage of my ribs, affronted by what sounds like mockery.. "I am a Viking. I’m from Asgard."
"Exactly," Cormac says, amusement brightening his tone. "We don't have to manufacture an image for you—just lean into what you already are. Travel writer exploring his Norse heritage, collecting local legends. It's perfect."
My fork scrapes against the plate as the words hit home. Collecting local legends. The irony tastes bitter—I'm not here to gather stories, I'm here to find a piece of my soul. To find her. I don’t like reducing her to a tale tourists talk about.
We're the legend here, aren't we? The monsters from Norse mythology made flesh, walking among humans who think we're nothing but stories. And somewhere out there, my mate is a living piece of that legend, carrying a fragment of a magickal soul without even knowing it. Or perhaps she does…
"And the Enclave has people everywhere," Bracken adds, steering us back to more serious matters. He appears younger than the others, but his eyes hold the same ancient weight. "Anyone from lowly hotel clerks all the way up to governing politicians could be one of them or an ally. They're especially thick in places with old money or old power."
Maven sets a stack of what look like small books on the table. "These are your passports and other identification documents. Memorize everything in them. If you get questioned by authorities, the information needs to roll off your tongue like you were born with it."
I pick up the dark blue booklet with the name closest to mine. Fenrick Thorsson. But the photograph inside shows a man who looks nothing like me—darker hair, different jaw structure, thinner face.
Cormac leans over my shoulder. "Ah, yes. Let me fix that." He waves his hand over the passport, and I feel the subtle ripple of Fae magick. The photograph shimmers, then settles into a perfect image of my face. Not only can Fae create temporary glamours, they can alter reality itself, make permanent changes that no amount of magickal detection can unveil.
"Nice," I mutter, studying the new image. It captures everything about my appearance perfectly, down to the small scar above my eyebrow.
"We've also got phones for each of you," Nari says, placing four more of those black rectangles on the table. "They're encrypted and untraceable. You'll need to learn to use them—everyone has one here, and it would look suspicious if you didn't."
I reach for the nearest one, testing its weight in my palm. The screen lights up at my touch, and my wolf startles at the sudden glow. Another thing to master, another tool that stands between me and finding my mate. I've seen the others constantly touching these devices, their fingers dancing across the surface like they're speaking some secret language.
"And what happens when one of us loses control?" Boaz asks the question we're all thinking. "What's the protocol then?"
The four guides exchange glances—the kind I've seen warriors share before a dangerous battle. Toran's voice carries the same grave tone when he speaks. "We have safe houses set up along your planned routes. Properties far from populations where you can... ride out any difficulties. But the goal is to keep you stable enough that we don't need them."
My inner predator bares its teeth at their assumption that we lack self-control, pride wounded despite the evidence sitting in near-empty jars across the table. Every one of us here knows what "difficulties" means. Losing control or giving in to the darkness that burns in our blood.
I press my thumb against my thigh until it aches, grounding myself in the pain.
I thumb through the rest of my passport, studying the strange markings and colored patches that fill its pages. Some look like elaborate drawings, others like official seals, but their meaning escapes me. Whatever these marks mean, they're building me a new identity one careful detail at a time.
"What happens if we run out of ambrosia?" I ask, unable to keep the edge of worry from my voice.
"You won't," Maven says firmly. "We've cached supplies here to make sure of it. So, no trying to tough it out, no waiting until the last minute to come back to the ranch or Avalon to refill. We do this safely and as methodically as possible. It’s not going to be easy."
No, it’s not, but they seem like they have things well ordered. That gives me hope.
Her gaze sweeps over each of us. We all nod. We can't afford pride, not with so much at stake.
"Now," Cormac says, pulling out a map covered in marked locations, "let's talk about your search areas. Fen, you'll be starting in the Atlantic Northeast here in America and then down through the Appalachians toward Missouri. There are some good pockets of your bloodlines all through there. If we don’t find her, then we cross the pond to Europe and try the next most-likely group."
Her. For once, my wolf's attention shifts from rage to keen interest, like a predator catching a promising scent. Somewhere in those marked territories, my mate is waiting. And I need her.
I force myself to focus on the map, on the red circles marking possible locations. "How many people are we talking about?"
"About thirty family groups,” Cormac says.
My mate. Thirty possibilities. Thirty chances to find her—or fail her. The wolf’s urgency bleeds into my own thoughts.
