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A small figure caught Hel’s attention, and her gaze tracked a child-like wolf as he darted among the combatants, his claws slicing the overly muscled calves of the werewolves. The ones he attacked seemed to be running on fury, their eyes glowing a brilliant red with a thin ring of blue. Their physique was also extreme.
These new creatures were almost a head taller than the others and their muscles were bulging and odd looking. She couldn’t even say they were healthy since their fur was matted and patchy in areas. The boy stopped and, with a smirking glance in her direction, continued to cutthrough the battlefield toward them.
“Morrigan, why aren’t we being attacked?” She sidestepped as two creatures crashed together, the force enough for them to stagger apart, almost falling into her.
“I placed a shield around each of us so that only we can see or hear one another.”
“I guess you forgot the shield against injury part.”
“It’s not like I had a lot of time. We transported here and found ourselves in the middle of a fight.”
Hel pointed to the tiny wolf, her worry about Émilien ever present. There had been too much blood for her liking, and where were those two wolves taking him? “Well, I think that youngster can see us too,” she said, trying to refocus to keep from falling apart.
Morrigan’s blue gaze speared the boy’s, who halted in mid-movement. He backed up and turned toward them, stiffly walking in their direction as if he fought each step. The closer he got, Hel saw the anger in his eyes as he wholly focused on Morrigan.
Stepping forward, the goddess once more planted her sword in front of her, her gaze thoughtful as she studied the young wolf. “What is your name?”
“Why should I tell you? I don’t know who you are or if you’re friend or foe. Most friends don’t force their control over others.”
Morrigan’s lips twitched, her amused expression fleeting. “Well, I don’t think a foe would ask for your name either.”
The youth thought for a moment before nodding. “You’re right. My name is Marcel Allard. What’s your name?”
“I am Morrigan.” She motioned to her sister. “This is Macha, my sister, and on my right is Hel.”
The boy’s pale blue eyes widened. “TheMorrigan? The Celtic goddess of war?” She nodded. “Are you here to help us win against the bad werewolves? My grand-mère told me stories about you before she died. They’re monsters—quite mean and, I’m afraid, winning. Most of those helping Émilien aren’t at full strength, starving actually, so the battle isn’t going well.”
“Yes, my child, we are here to help, but my sister and I don’t want to injure the good soldiers, so how do we tell them apart?”
“We’re the thinner, weak ones. Papa said there are a few mean wolves who aren’t really bad. They fought the Nazi commander who did this to us, but magic was added and took away their...their...” He scrunched his face before shrugging. “I forget the word, but they didn’t fight him anymore.”
Hel smiled, remembering Shalendra doing the same thing before leaving Helheimr. “Is the word you’re looking for resistance?”
He nodded. “The man with the magic was tall and very thin. He had long hair, which was weird, and his ears were kind of pointed.”
“The magical man was an elf?” Hel shook her head. “Why would an elf be behind this, and hate Émilien?” She glanced at Morrigan. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“There are others who are magical with pointed ears. One familial race comes to mind. They are more devious than the elves and have a huge grudge that grows with the centuries.”
Hel thought a moment then closed her eyes. “The dwarves. That’s who is behind this—probably behind the disappearing dead in my realm as well.”
Morrigan nodded. “It makes the most sense, but until you can ask Émilien whom he may have offended, we will never know.”
Hel exhaled. “Whom doesn’t he offend?” Needing relief from her emotional overload, she drew on the one emotion she could always count on, letting loose the familiar ice as it rushed through her veins. The relief was immediate, and she was able to tamp down the escalating fear for her mate.
A mate she could no longer deny.
She turned back to Marcel. “How old are you?”
The young wolf puffed out his chest. “I’m ten years old. Papa says I’m special. He tells me I’m an old soul, whatever that means.” Two black werewolves rolled near him, their claws slicing anything they encountered as they landed close to the pup’s leg. Instead of panicking, Marcel reached out and sliced an arm and foot, then calmly stepped away with a smirk.
Hel chuckled, impressed at the youth’s calmness. “It means you act older than your age. It is a nice compliment.” Her gaze scanned the battle before dropping back to Marcel. “Where is your father?”
“He took Émilien into the forest with Bastien. He’s like our doctor.”
Hel’s stomach clenched, her sharp gaze snapping to the last place she had seen him. The puddle of blood was almost invisible among the churned dirt and grass as the battle grew in the confined space. A clap of thunder shattered around them, making her jump.
With a quick glance to the dark sky, she was surprised to see a storm had rolled in. Only moments ago, the sky had been clear and a welcoming blue. Now, though, heavy rain clouds roiled over one another, and large drops splattered around her. The eerie green coloring everything unsettled her, and an uneasy feeling churned in her gut.
