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The shadow man stared up at the face of the wolf-skin warrior statue.You are a hunter by choice, a Berserker by fate. A remarkable creation.
Jace couldn’t wrap his head around any of this.What do you mean? There’s nothing remarkable about me. I’m a half-breed wolf shifter. I’m not good enough for either side.He remembered what had led up to this. The brawl with his fellow hunters, the fight with Henrik.
Now both sides are against me.
Walking toward him, the shadow man examined him carefully.You are no ordinary wolf. You are a shapeshifter, a Berserker warrior. You have the ability to shift like the wolves you control, but you are set apart. They are wolves at heart, but you are a man, a man with the power of a wolf.He gestured to the statues, before he continued.
We can shape-shift, but we are not limited in our choices. When you come into your full power, you will be capable of channeling any animal you choose, but you will always be drawn to the wolf.He pointed to the statues again, each man covered in a different animal: the pelts of a wolf, a bear, and a wild dog; the mane of a horse, the skin of a serpent, the feathers of an eagle, and finally, the tusks of a boar.
Because Frankie is my mate?Jace shook his head. This was so messed up.
But she was the only part of this he wanted, the only part that made sense.
The creature swept his arm out toward the wolf-man, the head warrior, but didn’t answer his question.It’s time you learned.
Strolling between the statues, the man ran his shadow fingers over the stone surfaces.In the time of the Vikings, the Berserkers were an elite group of Norse warriors, bestowed power by the gods, who devoted themselves to nature. It was their belief that by wearing the pelt of an animal, they could harness the power of the beast they imitated.
As generations passed, their belief became a reality—a gift from the gods. They became shapeshifters, their descendants capable of shifting form. For you, that is the wolf.
Jace glanced at the statue of… his ancestor?
The shadow man continued.Someday you will assume your rightful place in Valhalla, the heaven of the fallen warriors, but until then...His voice trailed off.
But Jace didn’t need him to finish. He knew.
He’d spend the rest of his life fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.
A tool meant to mete out divine justice. He always had been.
But against who? Robert? The terrorists who’d taken over the Execution Underground? Why did these long-dead gods care?
The foundations of everything he knew began to shake and crumble. He thought of Robert, of the women the bastard had murdered. He may not have understood it, the role of fate in all this, but had to find a way to beat him.
What do I have to do?
The shadow man’s expression turned even more serious, almost sad.In exchange for power, a sacrifice must be made.
Jace glanced down at himself. A large hole formed where the shadow of his body had once been. His panic rose, but he had to beat Robert.What kind of sacrifice?he thought.
Blood of your blood must be shed. Then and only then will you know true power.
The man faded into the cerulean shadows, which melted together, blurring until his image disappeared into the twilight. But his voice echoed inside Jace’s head.
This is your fate, Jace McCannon. Embrace who you are and you will conquer your enemies.
Jace was wrenchedbackinto reality with a gasp. He toppled forward, struggling to right himself. A pair of large hands gripped his shoulders, holding him in place.
“Jace, are you okay? Jace?”
Jace’s eyes darted around the room. There were wolves everywhere.
David leaned into Jace’s line of vision and stared him straight in the face. “J, wake up. Jace, listen to me. Damn it.” He mumbled Yiddish curses as he repeatedly shook Jace to rouse him.
Jace clamped his hands onto David’s shoulders, still dazed. “Stop shaking me, David.”
David stopped, but he kept his hold tight. “Jace, are you okay?” he repeated.
Jace tried to steady himself, using David for balance. Swaying, he leaned on his friend. “What happened?”
