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Go to sleep, he ordered, and felt like the fool Ragnar had called him.
But hedidfall asleep. One moment hay was pricking him through his wool trousers, and the next he knew the sensation of falling. A drop, and swoop, and when he opened his eyes, the shed had been replaced by a stretch of hushed, snowy forest.
He recognized it, now, wonderingly. There was the forked tree with a perfect seat in one of its trunks; there was the cluster of boulders that looked like hunched old men in their cloaks of snow. He felt the cold between his toe pads – and, yes, there were four sets of toes. A glance revealed paws instead of feet, and an inhale carried with it the scents of deer, and squirrel, and snow, and pine sap, and the remnants of a recent kill, tang of blood on the breeze that rustled the boughs together overhead. The sky, glimpsed between tall, stately trunks, glowed turquoise, the night illuminated with moonglow. He could see the wink of stars through the branches; heard the stirring of an owl taking flight.
He smelled wolves, also, and, like always, he trotted toward them, high-stepping in the deep snow that had gathered in drifts between the tree trunks.
The breeze changed direction, and brought with it a new scent: that of a familiar wolf. He halted, and turned, and saw the glowing blue gaze of a great, shaggy pale wolf. It peeked around a tree, head held low, shoulders tucked. Questioning, submissive. It didn’t offer a challenge, but whined quietly, asking to approach.
It was Ragnar.
Pack. Beta. Mine.
There was nothing complicated about his thoughts or feelings now, in his wolf shape. Only truth, and simple acknowledgement. Simple happiness: his tail wagged, and his tongue lolled when he opened his mouth to taste the air.
Ragnar whined again, and edged out from behind the tree, head bobbing up, and then back down.
Leif sneezed a greeting, and wagged his tail harder.
Friend. Pack. Come.
Ragnar crept closer, and closer still…and closed the last distance in a crawl, so he wound up belly-down in the snow at Leif’s feet. He smelled eager to please, and giving, and when Leif dropped his head, he rolled over onto his back to show his belly, whining in earnest now.
Mine. Mine, mine, mine, Leif thought, and touched their noses, snuffled at his throat, obediently exposed.
Ragnar licked at his mouth, and his eyes, tail sweeping back and forth in the snow.Glad. Pack. Love.
Leif sat back on his haunches to allow the other wolf to retake his feet. Ragnar shot up, ducked in to lick at Leif’s face again, a rapid flurry of pink tongue, and then ruffed an invitation and took off through the trees; he glanced back over his shoulder, seeking him out.Alpha. Come. Play.
Leif had never before interacted with anyone or anything in these wolf dreams. It took him a long moment – and Ragnar hunkering down in play position, tail wagging high in the air – for him to recognize that the feeling that welled up inside him was simple, animal joy.
He barked, and raced off into the benighted forest with his packmate, the two of them jostling and play-growling.
For the first time, his wolf was happy.
3
Amelia had learned that she shared her mother’s gift of detachment. She woke each morning to the banging of hammers and the milling of feet, the din of voices, and the shouts of a campground. The rumble and cry of dragons, fresh from the hunt, talking to one another, seeking her out through the bond they shared. She bathed with a chipped bowl of cold water, breath steaming, skin prickled with goosebumps, and donned a man’s clothes. Strapped a knife and a sword to her hips and went down to a cold breakfast of hardtack, and a day spent inventorying what new soldiers had trickled in from the small holdfasts, estates, and farms of the east.
By the time she fell back across the dusty mattress she’d taken for her own each night, she felt more defeated than the day before. They had the drakes – for scouting, for security, and she hoped for battle, when it came to that – but they lacked the manpower to launch a forward offensive. What numbers they did have lacked proper fitness and training. They were left with the dregs: those too old, young, or infirm to have marched in the first campaign. Wounded veterans, green boys, a few thieves and cattle rustlers who’d been let out of dungeons.
So full, and dispiriting, were her days that she found herself going for whole stretches of hours without ever thinking of Malcolm. She’d begun to expect Connor or Reginald’s faces when she turned to make a remark. Didn’t almost call Lord Edward by the wrong name anymore when he approached from behind and called her Lia, quietly, out of the hearing of the soldiers. The nickname no longer sent a thrill down her spine; was merely a shorthand way of getting her attention during another busy, fruitless day.
But her dreams betrayed her.
All day, she was able to hold memory at arm’s length, functional, and practical, and not at all emotional. It was Lady Katherine’s detachment she employed in her waking hours, her mother’s stern commitment to what-must-be-done.
But when sleep dragged her under, she stood in sea of waving gray grass, surrounded by her drakes, and Mal was there.
Some nights, they lay down in the grass together, soft as a feather mattress, and made love; on those occasions, she woke to find her heart racing, the sheets twisted around her, damp between her thighs. Other times, they walked, and talked, recalling all that they’d done together, growing up, and all that they’d never do again. She’d tried to take him up on Alpha with her, but he’d shaken his head, smile rueful, and said, “That’s not for me, love.”
Gods, she missed him. Even sitting beside him amidst the rustling of ghost grass, she ached for him. If she had enough magic to bond with dragons, surely that meant some magic existed that would allow her to grip him tight and drag him back across the veil to be with her in the real world once more.
One morning, she’d awoken to the weight of a body behind her in bed, and startled upright, heart slamming toward joy, convinced she’d managed, somehow. Only to turn over and see that it was only Liam, Connor’s son, who’d snuck into bed with her. He slept the innocent sleep of childhood, thumb in his mouth, lashes long as fans on his plump cheeks. She’d flopped back down and allowed herself a moment of quiet grief, eyes stinging. Then it had been cold water, and a heavy sword, and another day just like all the others.
Tonight, she and Mal stood within the loose ring of all five of her drakes, their long tails swish-swishing in the grass. Mal’s hand was warm and strong in hers…but to her horror, she realized it no longer felt familiar. That she was slowly forgetting what it had felt like: the exact breadth of his palm, the pattern of his calluses.
“What?” he asked, and reached to touch her cheek. His thumb, she saw, when he drew back, glittered with moisture.
