Sharp canes that have about a hundred percent chance of bumping into us.
As quietly as I can, I wrap my own arm against the one Soren has around my waist.
“Stay focused,” I silently mouth at him.
And then I lean us both backward until we tumble over the edge.
I catch us with one hand, swallowing down the loud grunt that tries to escape thanks to the sudden pressure on my muscles. Still holding Soren against me, I flex my fingers and tighten my grip on the bridge’s edge.
I can sense the murderous look Soren is giving me for this latest stunt, but he stays focused enough that his illusion spell never falters.
The creatures keep sweeping their swords.
One of them comes close enough that the blade’s end brushes some of my fingertips.
I close my eyes.
My lungs burn from barely breathing.
After what feels like five minutes, the swords pull away. I keep my eyes closed until all of my other senses tell me that those horrifying creatures are well past us. Then I brace myself for the strain, and I heave us back onto the bridge. We roll awkwardly together, staying close so we can both stay hidden behind his spell.
“What the hell were those things?” I breathe once my balance feels relatively sturdy again.
“The nex, I think.” He squints thoughtfully at the shadows they disappeared into. His voice is so quiet I can hardly understand him, even with my excellent hearing. “They can go weeks without eating or drinking, and they have terrible sight but their other senses are excellent—which is why they make excellent guards. Glimpses of them are believed by some to have inspired the death’s ferryman stories you see in some mythologies of Earth.”
He sounds like Carys reciting from one of her many beloved encyclopedias. A sharp bite of homesickness rips through me.
Please forgive me, I think, as if the thoughtspeech might somehow be able to cross worlds and reach her.
Unsurprisingly, I don’t get a response.
Soren steps in front of me and near-silently mouths, “Which way is the door?”
The question is a cold reminder that I don’t have time for homesickness right now.
I made my choice, and getting distracted during the follow-through might mean death.
I’m not sure where the door is, honestly. But I decide I want to go in the opposite direction of those nex thingies, wherever that ends up taking us. And I’m really good at looking like I know where I’m going, apparently, because Soren follows me without question.
We make it ten steps—ten painstakingly slow and quiet steps—before I hear a strange rustling sound behind us.
Apparently our steps weren’t quiet enough.
Another shiver rushes over my skin, and I can’t shake it this time; it dives deeper and stirs up the dormant wolf inside of me, alerting her to the danger we’re facing.
She rises up as a growl in my throat.
I start to automatically react in the same way I always have— by pushing that wolf back down, strangling her until there’s no chance she could escape and make a mess of things.
But then I remember: I don’t have to do that anymore.
For the first time in my life, I think I might be able to fully let her out.
My father is a werewolf, and my mom is a lycan with innate magic. I have that combination of their power sleeping inside of me, untapped and unexplored; I’ve never been able to transform before, because every time I came close to letting my wolf or magic side come out to play, it threatened to destabilize the wall that protected Earth from parallel worlds like Canath.
The reason for that destabilization talent of mine, it turns out, was because of a mark that had appeared on my wrist as a baby. It signaled me as one of the guardians who helped keep the walls between the worlds intact—a duty, no a curse, unknowingly passed on to me by my mother after she had a run-in with some creatures from Canath decades ago.
As a guardian, I was carrying a literal key to Canath inside of me.
But then Soren rather unceremoniously ripped it out of me.
So, silver lining is that now that I don’t have that key inside of me, throwing me off balance, I should be able to focus on controlling my power.
Right?
We’re still tiptoeing close to the bridge’s edge. Soren’s magic is still providing cover for us, but I know he must be getting tired, even if he doesn’t show it.
“Hey,” I begin breathlessly, feeling a little dizzy over what I’m about to suggest. “What do you think would happen if I shifted? Just in case we have to fight our way to that door?”
“Do you actually know how?” he whispers back after a moment’s pause.
“I—”
A blood-stopping shriek cuts me off.
I turn, and I see that the two nexes have found an extra friend.
And all three of them are gliding toward us with their swords drawn.
Chapter Two
The illusion around us is flickering.
I know we’ve been seen.
And I am not dying on this bridge.
That’s the last clear thought I have before I drop to my knees and brace my arms against the ground, and my hands begin to change.
“Be careful,” I hear Soren say. He’s saying something else, too, but it’s lost in the rush of wolfish thoughts overtaking me—
Shift.
Fight.
Survive.
Simple—the only three words I feel like I need just then. As long as I focus on them I don’t feel fear. I don’t feel pain.
What I do feel is enormous pressure. My bones feel like they might shatter under this pressure. But just when I think they’ve reached their limit, I feel them stretching instead of shattering, pulling my skin tighter as they do. It’s weird to feel and weirder to look at—although the silver fur that sprouts from that skin a moment later helps mask some of the weirdness.
My jaw stretches next, widening and lengthening to accommodate the fangs I’ve been waiting for.
They, along with the claws curving out from my fingertips, are hopefully going to be enough to save us.
With another high-pitched screech, the first nex reaches us with its sword swinging.
I’m clumsy. Two-legs to four is an adjustment, and my brain doesn’t make it quickly enough; the blade scrapes my shoulder and sends pain searing through my body.
The other nex descends right after the first, but Soren intercepts him. There’s a flash of greyish-green light, a hideous sounding hiss from the nex, and then an eerie silence; I start to turn my massive head toward that silence, but a bite of pain from my shoulder wound reminds me that I have my own problem to deal with.
And suddenly that problem is thrusting its sword at me again.
I roll awkwardly until there’s a few body-lengths of space between me and my monster. I straighten to my full height. My eyes are nearly level with the towering creature’s chest. I brace my paws against the strange surface of the bridge, and I knead my claws in and out.
Even with the distracting pain still burning through my shoulder, I can feel the power that ripples through my leg muscles.
The nex strikes for my wound.
I dodge.
It’s effortless—way more effortless than it should feel considering how huge I’ve become.
I could get used to this.
Pain is a distant memory as I let my mind relax fully into what I’ve become. I’m aware only of the nex’s every movement, of every clue it gives to what it’s going to do next: every twitch of its body, every subtle movement of its dead black eyes and mouth. The air vibrates with all the signals, smells, sounds I need—
The nex sweeps around, tries to get behind me in a motion so quick it becomes nothing but a blur of white and grey.
I’m a faster blur.
I curl back, and I manage to avoid the blade and clamp my jaws around the arm that’s holding its blade. I give a vicious twist and I feel something dislodge, hear the
sound of fabric ripping—that tattered cloak it was wearing is completely torn.
And most of the arm underneath has torn off with it.
My human mind wakes up a little.
And it freaks out, because holy shit I have an entire arm in my mouth. Not a human arm, but still—I spit it out. Quickly. Something like blood is oozing from the separated end, and from the stumpy bit still attached to the nex’s body, and gods, I am never going to get that taste out of my mouth.
On the plus side, the sword slipped free of the dismembered arm as soon as it hit the ground. So I wrap my jaws around its hilt instead, and I bound several feet away and toss it well out of reach of its owner.
I turn back around to finish off my now-literally-unarmed opponent.
Except it isn’t unarmed anymore, because that severed limb is in the process of growing back.
“Dismembering it isn’t going to work,” Soren says, panting a bit as he reaches my side.
Thank you, Captain Obvious, I think.
Disappointing that I no longer have the power of actual speech, really.
I glance around, sniffing the air and narrowing my eyes in search of the other two enemies.
“They went over the edge,” Soren replies to my unasked question. “But this one seems a little more resistant to my magic than they were. And I don’t really want to get close enough to touch it…”
I realize why he’s panting, then, and I notice that his hands are splayed out at his sides, his fingers working in subtle motions toward the remaining nex.
The creature’s arm is almost completely regenerated. It seems to be trying to keep its balance, or maybe just trying to shake off an annoying bug by rolling its bony shoulders and tossing its narrow head.
“Either that, or those last spells took more out of me than I realized,” Soren adds with a grimace.
I don’t have to guess about what sort of spells he used to trick those other two creatures into throwing themselves over the edge; I don’t want to guess. This is just a reminder that I’ve barely glimpsed Soren’s true power, and that’s unsettling to think about.
Personally, I’d much rather dismember this monster. I have that untapped magic in me, but I feel more in control of this new wolf body and its strength than I think I could ever feel towards magic—and it’s nice to feel like I’m in control for once.
So when the nex shakes off whatever annoying spell Soren is casting over its mind, and it lunges toward us, I channel my control into a powerful leap. My claws are outstretched and aiming for its neck.
Its grey skin is firm and unyielding. It’s like scraping stone. But I dig in, and I hang on, curling tighter around the creature until the combination of my weight and strength causes it to crumple beneath me.
It answers with more force than I expected given its skeletal frame. Its long fingers wrap around my right hind leg. It jerks me off my feet. As I crash against the ground, it grabs each side of my face, pulls me close, and lets out a nasty howl that fills my nose with the scent of blood and dry rot.
I squirm out of its grip, planting several powerful kicks into its stomach in the process. I scramble back to my feet and face it as it rises, my teeth bared and hackles lifted.
Out of the corner of my vision, I size up the space between the nex and the bridge’s edge.
Too far.
It jumps toward me, hands outstretched like my claws were earlier.
I skirt sideways just in time to avoid it, but it rebounds without missing a step. Over and over we dive and dodge each other, and I do my best to subtly coax it closer and closer to the edge. I get it within a few feet of that edge and it abruptly goes on the defensive, bouncing back and away and then pausing just long enough to pull another one of those beautiful, night-sky swords from somewhere within the folds of its ragged cloak.
I dart to the right and try to reach its unarmed side.
It slams a hand between my shoulder blades, the fingers digging in as sharply as if they were actual claws. I swear I feel something cold and liquid slipping out of its fingertips—like a frigid poison slithering into my bloodstream.
My head is swimming seconds later.
I stagger backward, shaking it and trying to clear my vision.
As chills rack my body, the nex rockets forward and grabs me by the throat. I twist my head at an odd angle—somewhat painful, but it allows me to sink my fangs into its arm. Its grip on my throat loosens, but in the same instant it draws the sword and holds it at the perfect angle to slice right through my neck.
Black dots dance in front of my eyes.
When they clear, Soren is suddenly to my right. His brow is creased in furious concentration, and his hand is raised, pushing the nex back without actually touching it.
As soon as I can see straight again, I slam my massive body into the nex and send it hurtling toward the edge. It careens over the side, catching itself with a single hand—though barely.
Its grip begins to slip.
At the last second, I lunge forward and lean my head over the side, grabbing the wrist attached to its sword hand. My body wavers dangerously as I try to rip his arm off for a second time. After a few seconds of working my jaw, I feel that tell-tale tearing sensation.
Then the weight hanging from my clamped teeth disappears so quickly that I nearly lose my balance.
“Elle, what the—”
I collide with Soren as I skitter back away from the edge, and I toss my head back and fling the sword—still-attached hand and all—onto the bridge.
“Oh.”
He glares at it, shaking his head.
I walk calmly over and take the hilt in my mouth, shaking it free of the gruesome remains of its former owner. I’d swear the fingers are still twitching with movement even as they hit the ground.
“You were saving the sword.” His glare shifts to me. “You know there’s another one over there, right? Did you really need both?”
My long, feathered tail thumps once against the ground.
Obviously, I think. And then I’m reminded once again that thoughtspeech is a shifter thing, and I feel a sharp twisting in my gut, at least as painful as that sword that sliced through my shoulder.
I focus on the two pretty swords I’ve just acquired instead of my confusing thoughts of home.
“That was incredibly stupid of you,” Soren mutters.
I attempt a shrug, or whatever the canine equivalent of that looks like. Because I don’t care about how stupid it was. All I care about is the fact that my enemy’s swords are now mine, and, more importantly, I just managed my first successful shift.
I’ve been watching my pack members do that for seventeen years now.
I’ve studied them relentlessly—even though I never thought I’d actually be able to do what they did.
And I only wish some of them were here to see it.
I feel a whine building in my throat, but I swallow it down. Soren still seems to be able to sense my abrupt misery, because he stops chiding me and lets his relief show through a sigh, and then he walks over to inspect my bloodied shoulder.
It is, of course, already healed.
Another perk of the wolf form: I heal fast as a human, but not this fast.
That poison or whatever was flowing from that nasty thing’s fingertips seems to be fading from my system as well; my mind is still a bit hazy, but I have no trouble getting to my feet and circling, sniffing and searching for a clue about where to go next.
Soren retrieves the second sword, and then he comes back and pries the other from my mouth.
“I’ll hang on to these,” he suggests, and I don’t argue, because I can tell by the dullness in his eyes and something else—an odd shift in his scent, maybe?—that his magic use has temporarily left him a lot weaker than he’s acting. I say ‘temporarily’ because he’s a Blood Sorcerer, which means that his magic gets inherently stronger for every creature he kills and each drop of blood he spills. So if those two he sent over the edge are truly dead,
once he’s regained his energy he’ll be even stronger than he was before.
But for now, he gets the swords.
It’s not like I can swing a sword as a wolf, anyway, and I’m not sure if I can go back to human as easily as I became this beast.
I’ll just cross that bridge after I finish crossing this one, I figure.
We start to walk again. It feels as endless as before, but unlike on the bridge above us, the scenery to our left and right is clearly changing as we move. Soon I see silhouettes of what appear to be buildings far off in the distance, tall and towering and wrapped in hazy orange fog. I want to study them closer, but I keep my eyes on the path ahead and behind, and my other senses focused on watching for any more monsters coming to finish the job of stopping us.
“It’s weird,” Soren says suddenly, “walking beside you when you look like this, I mean.”
It’s weird being like this, I think.
“Mostly because I’m not used to you being so quiet. It’s kind of nice.”
I let out a soft growl, and he flashes me a smile that makes me even more glad I’m in this form— because wolves can’t blush.
Then we come to a door.
It’s so tall, and so black, that I can’t see the top of it in the darkness above us. What I can see is polished, the stone shiny enough that it clearly displays my reflection. I get weirded out by my appearance all over again.
In the rare instances where I’d let myself daydream about me transforming into a beast, I’d always wondered what sort of beast I’d end up looking like. More of a lycan, it turns out—tall and elegant compared to the more muscular and compact werewolves. The fur on my tail and legs is feathered, and my human-hand-sized ears are accented with tufts of that same sort of feathery fur; so I’m my mother in stature and shape, but my coat is the same silver shade as my father’s. My eyes are still his, too—that beautiful shade of pale, clear blue.
All in all, I look pretty good for a wolf.
Just saying.
Silver and Shadow (The Canath Chronicles Book 2) Page 2
