Tala.
She was so beautiful and kind. She loved him so much.
Every moment in time happened all at the same moment. That was the way of it in the Passages of Time. There was no past and no future, only an endless present. And in this moment, Tala was alive, and Tala was happy. He would have this moment forever, he realized. It was not lost; he could return to it, again and again, in his memory. It would sustain him. He thought of Bliss, who had suffered a loss as well. I lost someone too, and he’s gone, she’d said. I have to let go. He would be strong for her, he thought. He would move on, like she had.
Tala, I love you. Goodbye.
Why, Lawson, where are you going?
He recoiled. She had heard him. She looked out into the darkness with a frown on her face. Then she turned around and there he was. The Lawson from the past was standing behind her. He put his arms around her and they kissed.
Lawson remembered that kiss.
It had been a good one.
“Lawson, we’ve set the coordinates,” Bliss said. “We’re ready to go.”
He turned away from the house and followed his pack down the passage.
THIRTY-EIGHT
This time they landed in the dark, underground, deep within the earth. “We must be under the serpent mound,” Malcolm said.
“Start walking,” Rafe said.
Lawson led the group through the narrow tunnels, limping a little. Finally they reached the end of the tunnel; the sun lit the exit, and they rose out of the ground, one by one, until they were all standing next to the serpent mound. Lawson signaled the team to remain behind him. He looked down at the ground. It was covered in blood, a dark red stain on the dirt and grass.
“Marrok?” he whispered.
What had happened here? He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach, a knot of guilt forming at the thought of what he’d left the wolves behind to do.
“Hounds?” Bliss asked.
Malcolm shook his head. “I think they’re gone,” he said. “I feel fine.”
Rain began to fall, lightly, in cold drops. The sun remained in the sky but its light faded, though not enough to block the sight of a body, just steps past the entrance. It was Ulric, the big wolf. He’d been gutted from belly to throat. It made sense that he would have been the last to fall; Lawson remembered from the pits he’d been a fierce warrior. It appeared the wolves had held off the hounds as long as they could, but ultimately they had lost. The field was strewn with the corpses of dead wolves, some in human form, some in their wolf skin. There were dead hounds too; Lawson noted with satisfaction that the wolves had taken down many of them, more than he’d expected them to.
“Ulf,” a voice called.
Lawson saw Marrok lying motionless in the damp earth. A black sword was wedged in his chest. The rain had begun to wash the wound clear, but Marrok had lacked the strength to remove it. The metal glistened in the faint sunlight.
Lawson removed the blade. Marrok began to heave with pain. The rain grew stronger and poured over his face, welling in his eyes and nostrils. His skin was pale and still, almost lifeless. Lawson pressed a firm hand to the cut and dark blood flowed outward through his fingers. He said the words that Arthur had taught him, and prayed that Marrok would heal.
“It’s no use,” the fallen wolf said. “The hounds’ swords carry the Black Fire. Nothing can help me now.”
“Marrok … brother …” Lawson said, feeling tears form in his eyes.
“We held them off as long as we could,” Marrok said.
“You fought bravely,” Lawson said, and everyone else nodded behind him. “It was not in vain. We made it to Rome and averted the massacre. The timeline is intact. Romulus is dead. The Great Beast of Hell has been silenced.”
Marrok smiled and coughed; dark blood dribbled from his chin.
“What can I do for you, my brother?” Lawson asked. “How can I ease your passage?”
Marrok closed his eyes, and Lawson was afraid he had already lost him. Then, with some effort, he opened them again. “Promise me again what we promised back in the underworld. That you will free all of our people, that you will not rest until we return to our former glory, as guardians of the abyss. Use your power to restore order and keep the timeline pure. Now that the passages are open, time is vulnerable. You must guard them, protect against their misuse. It is imperative that they do not fall into the wrong hands. Even as Romulus has been defeated, there are others who will use the passages for their own gain. The Dark Prince …”
“You have my word,” Lawson said, clasping his hand.
They sat there together for a long time, long enough that Lawson thought maybe Marrok had been wrong, maybe there was a chance that he could make it. The rain continued to fall, washing the dirt from Marrok’s white hair, mixing with the tears now streaming from Lawson’s eyes.
Edon, Malcolm, Rafe, and Ahramin all knelt down on the muddy ground, encircling the fallen wolf. Bliss knelt with them, next to Lawson, pushing his wet hair off his forehead and then placing her hand on his back. The feel of her palm steadied him as he watched Marrok fighting the pain. Was it possible? Was there any hope?
Marrok lifted his head to look Lawson in the eye. “It’s been an honor, Fenrir,” he whispered. Then he closed his eyes. His skin went gray, then black as the fire of Hell consumed him.
“Goodbye, my friend,” Lawson said.
Lawson regarded his pack. His brothers: Malcolm, Rafe, Edon. Ahramin, who had returned to them. Bliss, the vampire in their midst. He turned to her now. “The Fallen need us for this task, you say. To help them in this war against our masters.”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “We will go with you. We will help you,” he said. He had meant what he’d said; he should never have doubted her for a moment, regardless of her parentage. Bliss Llewellyn was his friend. Maybe more, if he would let her be. It was too soon to think of that now. His feelings were too new, too painful after discovering what had happened to Tala. He thought of what the oculus had shown him. He had asked it to show him his mate, and he had seen Bliss in the light. Did they have a future together?
“You have a wolf’s name, and like us, you are a creature of the underworld. If you take the pact, you will be one of us,” he said.
“I’ll say the words, if you will lead,” she said softly.
Together they formed a circle and began to recite the words that bound them to each other.
We are wolves of the guard, soldiers of the light.
Hunted and haunted, by the beasts of the night.
Friend to all and foe to none,
Love and loyalty bind us as one.
Time and tide shall heal all wounds
Memories and madness shall not consume.
To death and despair we shall never surrender,
The pact never to be forsaken, or torn asunder.
Lawson laid a hand on Bliss’s cheek. When he removed it, her skin glowed with a pale blue crescent sign.
He turned to the other girl. His onetime rival, his onetime alpha. “Ahramin, you have returned to us, and we accept you as our sister once again.”
“I am proud to run with you once more,” Ahramin said. She felt her cheek in wonderment. “My sigil—it’s returned,” she whispered.
Then slowly, one by one, the six wolves walked back into the forest.
Turn the page
for an extract from
Blue Bloods
the book that began it all
ONE
The Bank was a decrepit stone building at the tail end of Houston Street, on the last divide between the gritty East Village and the wilds of the Lower East Side. Once the headquarters of the venerable Van Alen investment and brokerage house, it was an imposing, squat presence, a paradigm of the beaux-arts style, with a classic six-column façade and an intimidating row of “dentals”—razor-sharp serrations on the pediment’s surface. For many years it stood on the corner of Houston and Essex, desolate, empty, and abandoned,
until one winter evening when an eye-patch-wearing nightclub promoter chanced upon it after polishing off a hot dog at Katz’s Deli. He was looking for a venue to showcase the new music his DJs were spinning—a dark, haunted sound they were calling “Trance.”
The pulsing music spilled out to the sidewalk, where Schuyler Van Alen, a small, dark-haired fifteen-year-old girl, whose bright blue eyes were ringed with dark kohl eye shadow, stood nervously at the back of the line in front of the club. She picked at her chipping black nail polish. “Do you really think we’ll get in?” she asked.
“No sweat,” her best friend, Oliver Hazard-Perry replied, cocking an eyebrow. “Dylan guaranteed a cakewalk. Besides, we can always point to the plaque over there. Your family built this place, remember?” He grinned.
“So what else is new?” Schuyler smirked, rolling her eyes. The island of Manhattan was linked inexorably to her family history, and as far as she could tell, she was related to the Frick Museum, the Van Wyck Expressway, and the Hayden Planetarium, give or take an institution (or major thoroughfare) or two. Not that it made any difference in her life. She barely had enough to cover the twenty-five dollar charge at the door.
Oliver affectionately swung an arm around her shoulders. “Stop worrying! You worry too much. This’ll be fun, I promise.”
“I wish Dylan had waited for us,” Schuyler fretted, shivering in her long black cardigan with holes in each elbow. She’d found the sweater in a Manhattan Valley thrift store last week. It smelled like decay and stale rose-water perfume, and her skinny frame was lost in its voluminous folds. Schuyler always looked like she was drowning in fabric. The black sweater reached almost to her calves, and underneath she wore a sheer black T-shirt over a worn gray thermal undershirt; and under that, a long peasant skirt that swept the floor. Like a nineteenth century street urchin, her skirt hems were black with dirt from dragging on the sidewalks. She was wearing her favorite pair of black-and-white Jack Purcell sneakers, the ones with the duct-taped hole on the right toe. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back with a beaded scarf she’d found in her grandmother’s closet.
Schuyler was startlingly pretty, with a sweet, heart-shaped face; a perfectly upturned nose; and soft, milky skin—but there was something almost insubstantial about her beauty. She looked like a Dresden doll in witch’s clothing. Kids at the Duchesne School thought she dressed like a bag lady. It didn’t help that she was painfully shy and kept to herself, because then they just thought she was stuck-up, which she wasn’t. She was just quiet.
Oliver was tall and slim, with a fair, elfin face that was framed by a shag of brilliant chestnut hair. He had sharp cheekbones and sympathetic hazel eyes. He was wearing a severe military greatcoat over a flannel shirt and a pair of holey blue jeans. Of course, the flannel shirt was John Varvatos and the jeans from Citizens of Humanity. Oliver liked to play the part of disaffected youth, but he liked shopping in SoHo even more.
The two of them had been best friends ever since the second grade, when Schuyler’s nanny forgot to pack her lunch one day, and Oliver had given her half of his lettuce and mayo sandwich. They finished each other’s sentences and liked to read aloud from random pages of Infinite Jest when they were bored. Both were Duchesne legacy kids who traced their ancestry back to the Mayflower. Schuyler counted six U.S. presidents in her family tree alone. But even with their prestigious pedigrees, they didn’t fit in at Duchesne. Oliver preferred museums to lacrosse, and Schuyler never cut her hair and wore things from consignment shops.
Dylan Ward was a new friend—a sad-faced boy with long lashes, smoldering eyes, and a tarnished reputation. Supposedly, he had a rap sheet and had just been sprung from military school. His grandfather had reportedly bribed Duchesne with funds for a new gym to let him enroll. He had immediately gravitated toward Schuyler and Oliver, recognizing their similar misfit status.
Schuyler sucked in her cheeks and felt a pit of anxiety forming in her stomach. They’d been so comfortable just hanging out in Oliver’s room as usual, listening to music and flipping through the offerings on his TiVo; Oliver booting up another game of Vice City on the split screen, while she rifled through the pages of glossy magazines, fantasizing that she too, was lounging on a raft in Sardinia, dancing the flamenco in Madrid, or wandering pensively through the streets of Bombay.
“I’m not sure about this,” she said, wishing they were back in his cozy room instead of shivering outside on the sidewalk, waiting to see if they would pass muster at the door.
“Don’t be so negative,” Oliver chastised. It had been his idea to leave the comfort of his room to brave the New York nightlife, and he didn’t want to regret it. “If you think we’ll get in, we’ll get in. It’s all about confidence, trust me.” Just then, his BlackBerry beeped. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen. “It’s Dylan. He’s inside, he’ll meet us by the windows on the second floor. Okay?”
“Do I really look all right?” she asked, feeling suddenly doubtful about her clothes.
“You look fine,” he replied automatically. “You look great,” he said, as his thumbs jabbed a reply on the plastic device.
“You’re not even looking at me.”
“I look at you every day.” Oliver laughed, meeting her eye, then uncharacteristically blushing and looking away. His BlackBerry beeped again, and this time he excused himself, walking away to answer it.
Across the street, Schuyler saw a cab pull up to the curb, and a tall blond guy stepped out of it. Just as he emerged, another cab barreled down the street on the opposite side. It was swerving recklessly, and at first it looked like it would miss him, but at the last moment, the boy threw himself in its path and disappeared underneath its wheels. The taxicab never even stopped, just kept going as if nothing happened.
“Oh my God!” Schuyler screamed.
The guy had been hit—she was sure of it—he’d been run over—he was surely dead.
“Did you see that?” she asked, frantically looking around for Oliver, who seemed to have disappeared. Schuyler ran across the street, fully expecting to see a dead body, but the boy was standing right in front of her, counting the change in his wallet. He slammed the door shut and sent his taxi on its way. He was whole and unhurt.
“You should be dead,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?” he asked, a quizzical smile on his face.
Schuyler was a little taken aback—she recognized him from school. It was Jack Force. The famous Jack Force. One of those guys—head of the lacrosse team, lead in the school play, his term paper on shopping malls published in Wired, so handsome she couldn’t even meet his eye.
Maybe she was dreaming things. Maybe she just thought she’d seen him dive in front of the cab. That had to be it. She was just tired.
“I didn’t know you were a dazehead,” she blurted awkwardly, meaning a Trance acolyte.
“I’m not, actually. I’m headed over there,” he explained, motioning to the club next door to The Bank, where a very intoxicated rock star was steering several giggling groupies past the velvet rope.
Schuyler blushed. “Oh, I should have known.”
He smiled at her kindly. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why apologize? How would you have known that? You read minds or something?” he asked.
“Maybe I do. And maybe it’s an off day.” She smiled. He was flirting with her, and she was flirting back. Okay, so it was definitely just her imagination. He had totally not thrown himself in front of the cab.
She was surprised he was being so friendly. Most of the guys at Duchesne were so stuck-up, Schuyler didn’t bother with them. They were all the same—with their Duck Head chinos and their guarded nonchalance, their bland jokes and their lacrosse field jackets. She’d never given Jack Force more than a fleeting thought—he was a junior, from the planet Popular; they might go to the same school but they hardly breathed the same air. And after all, his twin sister was the indomitable Mimi Force, whose one goal in life was to make
everyone else’s miserable. “On your way to a funeral?” “Who died and made you homeless?” were some of Mimi’s unimaginative insults directed her way. Where was Mimi, anyway? Weren’t the Force twins joined at the hip?
“Listen, you want to come in?” Jack asked, smiling and showing his even, straight teeth. “I’m a member.”
Before she could respond, Oliver materialized at her side. Where had he come from? Schuyler wondered. And how did he keep doing that? Oliver demonstrated a keen ability to suddenly show up the minute you didn’t want him there. “There you are, my dear,” he said, with a hint of reproach.
Schuyler blinked. “Hey, Ollie. Do you know Jack?”
“Who doesn’t?” Oliver replied, pointedly ignoring him. “Babe, you coming?” he demanded in a proprietary tone. “They’re finally letting people in.” He motioned to The Bank, where a steady stream of black-clad teenagers were being herded through the fluted columns.
“I should go,” she said apologetically.
“So soon?” Jack asked, his eyes dancing again.
“Not soon enough,” Oliver added, smiling threateningly.
Jack shrugged. “See you around, Schuyler,” he said, pulling up the collar on his tweed coat and walking in the opposite direction.
“Some people,” Oliver complained, as they rejoined their line. He crossed his arms and looked annoyed.
Schuyler was silent, her heart fluttering in her chest.
Jack Force knew her name.
They inched forward, ever closer to the drag queen with the clipboard glaring imperiously behind the velvet rope. The Elvira clone sized up each group with a withering stare, but no one was turned away.
Wolf Pact: A Wolf Pact Novel Page 16
