That might be true for most people, but Sterling had advantages others did not. His ears and his nose were even sharper than his sight. Once beyond view of her home he could easily take on his wolf form and trek through the snow.
A howling wind shook the cottage and made Sterling pause to remember his last glimpse of the blinding white curtain of snow falling outside. A sliver of doubt worked its way under his confidence, making him realize he wasn't totally certain of his ability to survive the storm in either form.
With a defeated sigh, Sterling's shoulders slumped and he hung his head. "I'm sorry."
Zemyra started, wide-eyed and confused. "For what, Mr. Sterling?"
"For invading your home. I wanted answers. Wanted to talk to you. But I never intended to force my company on you." Knowing it was no use but not ready to give up, he added, "And it's just Sterling."
She continued to stare, confusion turned to sharp, clinical assessment. After several long moments, she inclined her head and said, "All right, Sterling."
Startled, his eyes jerked up to find her gracing him with knowing smirk.
"If we're going to be stuck together, it's probably better if I stop deliberately antagonizing you. Add some more wood to the fire, and I'll see what I can cobble together to make us some lunch."
She turned away from him to peruse the larder. Following orders, Sterling bent to pick up logs.
"And you might as well call me Myra," she added in a soft aside Sterling might have missed if not for his amplified hearing.
He kept his head down to hide the wide grin that burst to life at her concession and focused his attention on the fire.
***
Every winter, the first storm of the season reminded Myra how grateful she was for her sturdy little cottage.
Despite the buffeting winds and plummeting temperatures, the steady flame roaring in her fireplace was enough to keep the single room toasty and comfortable all through the night.
So she'd had no guilt over simply handing Sterling a pile of blankets and pillows and letting him sleep on the floor beside the hearth.
Now that morning had dawned, however, she felt a twinge of regret.
Pops, cracks, and groans filled the small cottage as Sterling worked the stiffness from his muscles. If the weather forced him to spend another night, Myra resolved to at least offer him a few more pillows to cushion his slumber.
Once he'd stretched out the worst of the knots, however, there was work to be done.
Myra sent him out into the still falling snow to bring in more wood while she busied herself making porridge for breakfast. They worked together and around each other easily. But the tense, uneasy detente they'd fallen into the day before remained stifling and uncomfortable between them.
Conversation, what little there was of it, continued to be stilted and careful, avoiding the topic uppermost in both their minds.
The Mirror King.
Which didn't leave much else to discuss but the weather and the food.
By the time they finished breakfast, Myra's nerves had stretched to the breaking point. She needed to do something before the endless tension drove her to tears, screams, or hysterical laughter.
Pulling a small trunk from under her bed, Myra sorted through half-finished projects until she found a complicated embroidery design she hadn't worked on in months.
Satisfied it would keep her busy and distracted, Myra settled into her chair. Picking up where she'd left off, she began filling in the hand-drawn pattern with precise stitches.
"What's that?" Sterling asked. Sounding genuinely curious, he leaned forward from where he sat on the hearth to get a closer look at her work.
"My usual evening's entertainment," Myra answered with a half-smirk and flipped the fabric around to show him the unfinished embroidery.
When complete, a griffin in full flight would dominate the center, surrounded by flamelike filigree stretching from edge to edge. The griffin’s head and torso were already picked out in white, blue, and gold, and Myra had just started in on one of the wings.
"It's beautiful," he murmured, sincere and fascinated. "Is it hard to learn?"
The question, asked with genuine eagerness, startled Myra.
"Not really. In the beginning, it's more about practice and consistency."
"Normally, I occupy my downtime with carving, but I left my stuff back at the inn," he explained, as he continued to study the fabric in her hands. He looked contemplative when he glanced up uncertainly with unspoken question.
Unsure exactly what that question was, Myra tentatively asked, "Do you want to learn?"
His green eyes lit up eagerly, but his tone remained polite and deferential. "If you don't mind?"
She'd suspected, but his answer still surprised her. The few men of the village she interacted with had no interest in or use for woman's crafts. Even the agents who bought her weavings, and made a hefty profit from them, were dismissive of the effort and skill necessary to create them.
"I've got nothing better to do today," she answered and rummaged through her trunk to see what she had for him to work on.
When she found the faded, bedraggled fabric of her first sampler, Myra's eyes filled with sudden tears.
Nostalgia clogged her throat and cut off her air. Reminding her of the days she sat at her mother's feet, painstakingly copying each stitch. Trying so hard to make them match her mother's neat precision.
It was one of the few things she managed to smuggle out with her after her mother died.
The Milners had insisted she needn't take anything with her. That they'd provide her with everything she needed.
What they meant, of course, was that they intended to sell everything down to the last pin and keep the money for themselves. That if Myra had nothing to call her own, then she'd be forced to stay with them and work herself to the bone for the scraps they gave her.
But that was the past, Myra reminded herself, pressing the back of her hand to her cheek and blinking the tears away. A past she refused to dwell on. Being Taken had had a silver lining.
The Mirror King's coin allowed her to escape the Milners' clutches. It bought her the cottage where she'd lived with her mother before the sickness. A new loom and a shed to shelter it in. It had bought her a new life, with a little left over for a contingency or two.
Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Myra put the painful thoughts behind her. Myra delicately unfolded the sampler. Then she rummaged through the trunk some more for a similarly sized square of fabric.
She handed both to Sterling, along with a needle, colored thread, and some scrap cloth for practice.
"This should be easy for a beginner. I'll show you how to do each stitch, then you just recreate the design on your own bit of fabric."
One by one, she showed him the stitches, hovering over his shoulder as he practiced each technique until she was satisfied. It surprised her all over again how sincere and focused he was on learning the delicate craft.
He patiently listened to every suggestion and correction. He asked questions and followed directions without debate or argument.
And when his attempts smoothed out into passable stitches, he beamed at her praise.
Myra's breath caught in her throat at the pure joy in his eyes. An unsettling surge of affection and longing blindsided her.
Sterling was unlike anyone she knew. Despite his resolve and stubbornness, there was kindness and care and patience in both his words and his deeds. Things Myra had grown accustomed to living without.
When she found herself pressing a hand to his back and leaning much too close when she peered over his shoulder, Myra realized just how dangerous he could be.
Because she could easily grow to care for him.
To trust him.
And trusting anyone was the most dangerous thing she could do.
***
Sterling was surprised at how fast the hours flew by while he painsta
kingly tried to recreate the small sampler.
When Myra set her embroidery aside to begin preparing dinner, he was even more surprised at how much reluctance he felt putting down his own.
The tension in the cottage that morning had had him regretting leaving his wood and carving knife back in his room at the tavern. Sterling hated sitting idle, especially when time was ticking away. He'd wanted something to do. Something to distract him from the mire of his own thoughts.
When Myra showed him the half-finished griffin, he'd found it fascinating.
Trying the craft for himself had been enlightening.
Carefully placing each stitch of thread, watching the tiny dots and dashes of color come together to form a larger picture, it gave him the same satisfaction he got from his carving.
Taking a blank slate and creating something, just for the sake of creating, was a gift he'd never take for granted. He loved seeing something beautiful and unique come to life beneath his fingers.
It was both relaxing and exhilarating.
With a sigh, he reluctantly put the fabric away and bundled up to go outside for more wood.
Much of the tension between them had evaporated as Myra patiently taught him techniques and stitches. The rest of the day had been spent in a quiet, companionable atmosphere. The shared enterprise bonding them despite everything.
Over dinner, Sterling peppered Myra with questions about embroidery that segued into questions about weaving. She answered each one thoughtfully, but her amusement with his newfound fascination was obvious.
The meal was tasty and filling, the room cozy from the warm fire, and the conversation relaxed and filled with laughter.
So he wasn't thinking, just jumping from thought to thought when he asked, "Do you really weave magic into the blankets you sell?"
Myra's spoon froze halfway to her lips and Sterling instantly realized his mistake. But it was too late to take it back.
Ice and invisible distance filled the space between them, erasing the ease that had settled over them.
"The local villagers are a superstitious lot," she finally answered. Her mouth curved upward in a practiced smirk but no humor lit her eyes. "And superstition has doubled my prices."
The spoon finished the arc to her lips with deliberate steadiness, as if her response was the final word on the subject.
But Sterling had never quite learned to leave well enough alone. And her answer hit a little too close to home.
"Magic isn't superstition," he insisted.
Myra raised a disbelieving eyebrow, but Sterling was beginning to know her better.
Beneath the facade of disdain and skepticism, he saw the tick of nervousness. The hidden discomfort and fear she'd learned to hide.
And Sterling knew they were at a crossroads. Unless one of them took a leap of faith, risked trusting, they could go no further. There was nothing more they could share.
And he desperately did not want this to end.
So, he took a deep breath, set down his own spoon, and met her wary gaze head-on.
"I'm here because of magic."
Chapter Four
I'M HERE BECAUSE OF MAGIC.
Myra frowned, thrown off by his declaration and trying to anticipate where the conversation was headed.
Sterling made the announcement like it was some kind of revelation. But he'd been upfront that he was a treasure hunter. If he were only after coins or jewels or antiquities, there were a lot of easier places to loot than the Mirror King's lair.
From the beginning, it had been clear to Myra. If Sterling was interested in the Mirror King's treasure, then it must be about the magic and relics he was sure to have amassed.
But a cold chill of doubt crawled along her spine. He'd asked about her magic. He was certain she had more knowledge than she was revealing.
What if he came to her because he wanted more than answers? If he thought he could somehow use her for his own schemes and plans.
Or worse.
Use her to lure out the Mirror King.
Myra dropped her chin, attempting to hide the throbbing pulse racing at the base of her throat. Her voice came out a little tight but she was proud of the calm she managed to push into it.
"I assumed you came to loot whatever artifacts, magic or otherwise, the Mirror King has collected." Terrified of the answer but needing to know, she asked, "Was there some other magic you came for?"
Sterling sat back and shook his head, a chagrined grimace stretched across his lips.
"That's not what I meant. It's not about what I'm looking for."
For the first time, he seemed tentative and hesitant. But Myra was too lost in a flush of relief to consider what that might mean.
Until he exhaled a sharp, nervous breath and said, "It's about what I am."
His uncertainty tugged at Myra's heart. She recognized the fear and the doubt. The expectation of being rejected or outcast for standing outside what others deem normal.
"And what are you?" Myra asked the question with no judgment or suspicion. Wanting to sound as neutral and unconcerned as she could to put him at ease.
It still took Sterling a moment to respond, the hesitation still clear in the slope of his shoulders. Then Sterling squared himself, lips pinching flat with determination.
"I am wolfkin. A wolf-shifter."
There were a thousand things Myra might have expected him to say before wolf-shifter would ever have occurred to her.
Was he delusional? Or was he playing some kind of game? Trying to throw her off guard to manipulate more information from her?
"Wolf-shifters aren't real," she replied slowly, watching his face unblinkingly for any sign of what was really going on. "They're just tales and legends."
Surprisingly, the tightness eased from Sterling's shoulders and his lips quirked with a hint of amusement. "Many say the same thing about the Mirror King."
"Yes, but there is evidence that he exists." Myra shook her head, her irritation at his games was almost a relief as her own tension bled away. "Even if you dismiss the accounts of all the Taken as dreams, the coins are very real. This cottage is proof of that."
Myra paused, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. "No one has actually seen a wolf-shifter."
"Would you like to?"
Myra stared at him, doubtful and wary. But a bit of her curiosity and the thirst for adventure she'd once possessed flickered to life.
"All right. Show me then."
A sharp crack reverberated through the cottage and Myra flinched instinctively at the sound.
For a moment, her eyes refused to focus. When her vision finally cleared, a huge silver-grey wolf took up the space where Sterling had stood a moment before.
Myra stumbled out of her chair so fast it tumbled over with a crash. But she didn't stop backing away until her legs hit the edge of her cot and she had no more room to run. Not once though, did she take her eyes off the predator suddenly invading her home.
It was huge. Half again the size of any wolf Myra had ever heard of. Silver-grey fur glittered in the firelight as it settled on its haunches, mouth open and the tip of its pink tongue poking out between sharp teeth.
It...he...looked for all the world like he was doing his best impression of a harmless, adorable, domesticated dog.
Myra took a deep breath, then another as her pulse quieted and the initial shock and fear subsided. Calm returned slowly and she studied the animal again, curiosity taking over. Without the primal terror clouding her eyes, Myra couldn't help being awed by the majestic beauty of the wolf in front of her.
Couldn't help wondering if his fur was as soft, warm, and inviting as it looked.
Crossing the small room with deliberate steps, Myra moved closer to the wolf.
To Sterling.
It was hard to reconcile the two very different forms.
And yet she could easily see Sterling's wary amusement in the wolf's green eyes.
&n
bsp; When she'd closed the distance, Myra reached out without thought, fingers itching to feel the silky fur. Remembering at the last moment that Sterling was still in there, no matter what form, and she froze an inch away from petting him.
With a canine grin, Sterling leaned forward, bumping his head against her outstretched hand.
The fur managed to feel both soft and bristly against her skin. But the contentment of running her fingers through it made her want to drop to her knees and hug him. Like those nights when she'd sneak into the Milners’ neighbor's yard and curl up with their hunting hound.
But she wasn't a desperately lonely child, searching for any comfort she could find anymore. And Sterling wasn't a pet who'd give it to her unconditionally.
She'd accepted her lot in life the day the Mirror King's coins bought her independence. Her freedom came with a price. A lifetime alone. Outcast and suspect and damaged as far as the rest of the mountain was concerned. There was no comfort or solace for her.
So Myra curled her fingers into her palm and pulled her hand back, resisting the urge to keep petting.
"Now I have a lot more questions." Myra let her amusement at the absurdity of the situation fill her voice with soft laughter. "Can you talk in that form or...?"
Another shuddering crack and moment of disorientation and then Sterling was standing in the space beside her.
"How... Why... What..."
Face to face with him again, Myra had no idea where to begin with her questions.
"It is a really long story," Sterling said, moving past her to pick up the chair she'd toppled. "Why don't we get comfortable and I'll start at the beginning."
Myra took her seat at the table and Sterling settled back on his spot on the hearth.
"We were a team of treasure hunters. Always looking for the big find. People in our line of work have our own myths and legends. Tales of elusive ruins and undiscovered treasures. The temple of the Moon Blessed and Night Cursed was one of those unfindable finds."
"But you found it?"
Sterling smiled, a tight expression of pride and regret.
The Snow Wolf (Wolves Ever After Book 1) Page 3
