Page 88

“Adola!”

She gazes up at me, hand at her brow. I wave and reach out to her. She reaches up toward me. Music streams from the open doors at my back, the party fully in motion. A server offers me a glass of champagne, and it takes everything in me to push him away.

“I’ll be right here,” I shout down to her.

She nods.

A camera flashes.

“Have some class. You didn’t even ask,” I say as the cameraman sulks back inside.

“I require the balcony,” I say to no one in particular. And the smattering of guests retreat inside. Adola presses her palm to her heart and waves once more, before being escorted toward the luminous forest. My nails dig into stone railing.

When she disappears into darkness, I slip a hand into my coat and find the spot beneath my arm, where the flesh is raised and scarred from my lowest right rib, around my side, to my spine. Through my shirt I feel it, and remember. The air grows colder. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I hold on to the railing more tightly, biting down on my lip, but my mouth tastes like dirt. I inhale deeply, trying to fend off the memory that’s coming. But when a howl rips through the forest, my pulse thuds. I can see snapping jaws and sharp teeth as the memory, long buried, takes me.

I can see a moonlit clearing up ahead, with the oak tree, where my aunt wants me to retrieve the relic. Eyes gleam at me and low snarls rattle the forest. One wolfhound steps forward. With my heart in my throat I pull at my magic; a warm tingle tickles my belly. Then my jaw shifts. Sharp teeth tear through my gums, parting my lips, as my head morphs into a mirror of the monster before me.

To defeat the monster, you have to pretend to be the monster.

I step toward them; they bare their teeth. So I bare mine. I close my eyes and focus on the rustle of the leaves through the trees, picturing each crinkle as a note of sound I can grab. Magic burns deep down inside me and I tense all over, shoving together the two sensations: the noises I hear and the magic unfurling in me. I shudder as they collide. Suddenly the trees thunder with a chorus of menacing growls; my magic works to transform the sound.

One wolf retreats, then another, before each pair of glowing eyes disappears back into the forest. I collapse, shaking. I did it. I release the warm sensation, and my features bleed back to normal before I race to the oak clearing.

A chest of things is burrowed in a hole within the old oak. Inside are stacks of coins like the ones Draguns wear at their throats. But these are gold. There is also a velvet pouch of enhancer stones and a leather-bound book. I flip through its brittle pages carefully. Some of the handwritten words are confusing, but the name on the first page, I know. Dysiis.

The sun will rise soon. The book is the only thing that seems truly rare. I grab it and dart back toward home.

But the sound of wolves grows louder. I don’t look back until I run right past them, circling their prey. I glance their way and put my eyes on their meal. My heart stops.

Ollie, my Labrador retriever, cowers tethered to a tree, trembling. Surrounded.

His blue leather collar hangs from his neck, and the world blackens at its edges.

There are no perfect choices. Choose properly, my aunt said.

I need to keep going.

But Ollie.

Tears fill my eyes. I set the tome down carefully and pull at the warm feeling in my body until I have a wolf’s head again. I dart toward Ollie, pulling on the sound of the night, covering my footsteps in growls. I throw myself in front of him, and a dozen wolves stare back at me. Stalking me. Angry that I just interrupted their supper. I plant my feet firmly, choking on tears. They’ll have to kill me to have him. Ollie whimpers. A few wolves back away, but a large one steps forward. Fear like I’ve never felt buzzes through me.

He lunges through the air.

A sharp, cold bite sinks into my skin.

Just as a curious black substance I’ve never seen before streams through the air to my fingers.

* * *

“Mr. Wexton?”

I realize I’m on the ground, hugging my knees. The cameraman is back, staring at me. He snaps the camera in my face before I can get up. And I shoo him away. I lean against the balcony railing, eyeing the time, ignoring my racing pulse.

An hour has passed.

The other two participants have returned, bloody and fatigued, and are now limping up to the lounge for their pinning. My heart stutters in my chest, then pounds, and I’m overcome with the weight of a fear that’s foreign to me. I clutch my chest. The trace. Quell, nudging me. I pound my fist on the stone railing. There’s still no sign of Adola. I slip off my coat, then my tie. I’m not leaving her.

“Jordan, why are you concerned?” Beaulah asks, joining me on the balcony.