Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 150(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 150(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
"There are shapeshifters in Valhalla?" Tori turns wide eyes on Ing, who lowers his head and stares into the flames. If he understands what she's saying, I can't tell.
"Nei. The ability to change form was lost to their kin long ago." Dax passes a hand in front of his face, sighing. It's the middle of the night and everyone is exhausted. "Once, there were many who could do so. They were birthed by Odin's wolves, Geri and Freki. But those two always preferred the freedom of their animal forms. They assumed human form only when Odin required it. Their offspring were much the same way. After Ragnarök, the vargúlfr stopped shifting altogether." He glances at Ing. "Now, they exist only in this form."
I stare down at the wolf, a little awed to learn just how well his name fits him. He really is descended from the Great Ones. Is that why their way of speaking feels so familiar? Because, once upon a time, his ancestors knew what it was to be human and speak our human languages?
"So he's the offspring of shapeshifters," Rissa says, her gaze flickering from him to me. "Does he know?"
"Maybe." I shrug, not sure how to answer that. "He tends to share only what he thinks is important. He told me he was descended from the Great Ones, but he never explained what that meant."
Perhaps I should have asked. I feel like I failed him tonight, and because I failed, he lost his family. Everyone he loves is gone now, ripped away by the same shadow that hunts us. This isn't his war to fight, yet he's been thrust into the middle of it anyway.
It isn't fair to him. It isn't fair to any of them. Valhalla is supposed to be their haven too, their reward for the way their ancestors served Odin and the gods. And now, we've brought war right back to its doorstep. And I'm no longer sure they get to sit this one out. If the varulv really are turning them… Gods, it almost doesn't bare thinking about. Because the truth is far too grim. Ing is a good wolf, an honorable one. And yet, a single bite could turn him to the Dark just like it did Rider.
Rissa nods, her eyes still locked on the wolf. "Are there more out there?"
"Likely," Adriel says. "Valhalla has always been home to Geri and Freki's children."
Malachi sighs unhappily, causing Marion to slip her hand into his. "Which means it's possible the varulv are out there right now, creating their own army. One wickedly strong and impossible to control. Lovely."
"We don't know that for fact," Damrion argues. "One wolf isn't a pattern. Perhaps Stephan and Kara missed something."
"Like what?"
Damrion says nothing, his expression trouble. I don't think he has an answer. He's just trying to offer a little hope. It doesn't feel like there is any, not in this situation. The Forsaken are using the varulv to build an army of wolves right here in Valhalla. And when we're occupied with fending them off, they'll come for all of us.
Abigail shifts in her chair, shivering as if she's had the same exact thought. It's not a particularly kind one.
We have to figure out how to free those souls and stop the Forsaken.
"So we find his packmates," Stephan says. "And either establish a pattern or ease our minds."
Damrion's gaze flickers in my direction. "Kara, Valkyrie…" He glances at Ing, his gold eyes inscrutable. "Would he be willing to take us to where his pack ran into the varulv?"
I step toward Ing to ask him, only to pause when his consciousness brushes against mine. An image of him leading us through the forest lands in my mind—sent by him.
He's listening to the conversation, and he understands what Damrion wants him to do. I eye him again, caught off guard. I knew he was fiercely intelligent. But until now, he's avoided the Fae at all costs. I assumed it was because he was leery of them.
I don't think that's the case at all.
You aren't afraid of them, are you?
This time, he sends a series of images. Fae and wolves running together, fighting together. Fae roaming freely through Valhalla…and wolves doing the same. They pass one another, going in opposite directions. One of the warriors bows to the wolves. When he straightens, I catch a glimpse of his face. He could be Damrion's twin.
Ing's next image quickly unravels that thought. The Fae isn't Damrion's twin. It's Damrion himself.
Shock runs through me in a current.
You remember him? How?
Another series of images come, strung together like sentences this time. Damrion smells familiar, like Valhalla and memory. All of the Fae do.
But you weren't even…
I let the thought trail off, shaking my head. Clearly, it doesn't matter if he was alive when the Fae left Valhalla or not. He remembers them anyway, as if wolf memory is as instinctive and integral as their need to hunt.