Page 2

Chapter 2

Bjorn

T he whirring of a motor rumbles in the water, and my claws and tentacles grip the bottom of the boat, plastering me against the hull. It reminds me of another boat in a faraway life, lost to me now in the currents of time. The boat races through the water, and the farther we head west, the more the tension in my muscles loosens. Familiar rocks and sunken markers of my territory ease the discomfort in my chest.

I ventured out of my bay today, pulled by some instinct that led me to the edges of my territory and into the open ocean.

The diver. A woman.

The ghost of her weight in my arms fills me with a yearning I don’t understand. My appendages stretch, sneaking toward her, breaking the surface. They slither closer to her. Even among the whipping wind and the splattering wake, I can taste her on the air. I yank on my control, forcing my limbs back. The feelers near my neck seem to hiss in protest, the little barbs nipping at the skin of my throat.

It’s much too dangerous for her to see me like this. I’ve already risked too much. My Beast protests when I push to take over. He does not wish to return my skin. For now, I let him remain in control, curious. He is content to follow her, to ensure her rise to the surface did not harm her. He is fascinated by the human.

I am at war with his reaction. A low warning gong travels through my limbs with every urge he has to go to her. She is not ours to collect and hoard. Not after we have proven ourselves incapable of protecting those who needed it most.

My kraken is oblivious to the danger. He knows only that she calls to him and so he prepares to stalk and chase.

The motor eases as we come into the harbor lanes, and my Beast waits impatiently until we arrive at the marina. My kraken detaches from the boat and glides under the dock, barely breaching the surface. He watches through sensitive eyes, the world too bright between the wooden slats.

She disembarks with the help of an older man. My limbs circle the pillars and squeeze, a flash of possessiveness that betrays my desire to rip him from her grasp. She rights herself, her soft melodic voice carrying on the breeze.

“But tomorrow then? First thing? I have to try to recover what I can.”

“Dr. Hart?—”

She is nothing but shadow and footsteps. My Beast longs to catch a glimpse of her face, pushing closer to the slats, searching. Their footsteps shuffle down the dock as they move away. Angling for a better view, he eases under boats and watches until she is lost on the shore.

When she is out of sight, my kraken takes off back toward the open ocean. His only thought is to recover her lost treasure and return it to her.

I hoist myself onto the rocky edge, my body shifting as I emerge from the water. The runes along my skin glow with the receding magic as my kraken form is replaced by my human one. My tentacles become legs, my claws retract into human fingers. Pain sears through my body with each movement. With the change, hazy flashes of memory return, but it’s too fuzzy to make sense of.

When my kraken is in control, time is recorded differently. There is no memory as in my human form, only sensations and instincts that drive the Beast. I can partially shift if I need the use of my Beast on land, but for many years, I have kept him caged excerpt for short bursts.

Long ago, when my people were plentiful and the Vikings ruled the northern seas, my Beast and I were one. Then, we did not need distinction and simply moved our form as desired. Now, we are something else. Something broken.

My kraken form is large. Though, of course, the legends of our raids on the seas exaggerate our size. The myths made our swarm of warriors into one monolithic Beast that brought sailors to their deaths.

The shift into my warrior form did not hurt as it does now. It was a breath from one to the next. Then, magic was plentiful, a sacred gift we took for granted. We feared nothing but the gods themselves and believed we were invincible. We were fools.

I force my body to move. Taking the slick staircase cut into the jagged rock, I make my way slowly toward the lonely white beacon at the top of the cliff. My stomach rumbles in protest and I blink against the harsh light after so long in the ocean. My kraken doesn’t sense less than my human side, but the sensations are different, jarring in their emotional complexity. Already I long for the comfort of the mud and the lure of the water, for the oblivion the creature provides from my human memories.

Don’t think of them.

Despite my command, their faces, aged only with the imperfection of memory, flit through my mind. Not their beauty or their fierce tongues or laughter. That, I might welcome. But of course, it is only their mouths gaping open in a never-ending scream and the blood. So much blood.

I close my eyes and lean against the cold rock, willing the memories of my dead wife and child to fade until the bracing pain becomes manageable, then I climb again. You would think I would have grown accustomed to the pain after so many years. That it, too, would have lessened with the imperfection of memory.

I let myself in the back door and find a pair of sweats before heading into the kitchen. Taking long gulps from the faucet, I drink until water leaks down my chin. When my thirst is satisfied, I open the fridge only to find it empty of any real nourishment and smelling stale.

How long was my shift?

Too long.

What could have kept me?

I rack my brain, the certainty that I am missing something important festering like an old wound that won’t heal.

All he shows me is a hunt for lost treasure. A camera? Some kind of underwater box? It doesn’t register. Whatever he’s gotten up to, we need to be more careful, or we risk exposure. Long ago our magic was discovered, and we were exposed. As a result, our people are no more.

Centuries ago, our people warred with the crusaders. When they came to our lands, the devout knight warriors had already discovered shifter magic and made an alliance with the serpent shifters who taught them how to strengthen their blades with dragon’s blood. The dragons and kraken clans were lost and the wolves numbers decimated. The treacherous serpents remained, though for their work in helping the humans they should have been wiped out.

Those of us who survived banded together and hunted the last of the crusaders until we had destroyed them and their records of our existence. Once we were successful, the remaining shifters created a permeant shifter settlement hidden from humans by magic wards. But I refused.

I’m disgraced. I have no family. No one to protect. Only those whom I have failed.

The world has long moved beyond my gods, our people a distant blip in history. But I did not die with honor on the battlefield. I lived while our warriors fell, and the knights took our land. Took my family. I can’t stand the idea of being discovered and meeting a dishonorable end, of failing them in death too.

The gnawing pit in my stomach forces me to focus on the present. I raid the pantry, tearing into cans. Peaches and tuna. Beans and cold tomatoes. At the back of my mind, my kraken tugs, a warning or a cry that I still don’t understand. I ignore it. With each passing moment, the sensation of looming dread grows.

When I have run through the measly stockpile, I ransack the kitchen for moonshine. Every jug I find is empty. I need to run to town and gather supplies, but I’m too exhausted after my long shift.

I curse and stumble to the bathroom, hoping the warm water and food will be enough after the physical exertion of the shift to lull me to a dreamless sleep. As I turn on the shower, I notice a new rune etched on my wrist amid my old marks. I look closer, horrified by the twisting lines that turn into the shape of a familiar brand. Pain lances my heart.

It’s impossible. I scrub at the new rune, trying to rub the lines off my skin. They shimmer with a happy golden light, mocking me.

No. This can’t be. I scream into the empty room, the sound drowned out by the pounding water.

“I refuse! Do you hear me? I refuse,” I yell like a madman, cursing the gods and the sea, though I am alone.

Despite my anger, the mark does not fade, etched there like a brand of ownership.

I curse the dragon and her visit last winter. After centuries in exile, she found me and asked me to help her restore shifter magic. One vial of my ink and she promised to leave me in peace. Randi did not let me forget how we fought together against the crusaders.

Fool.

I should have never helped the dragon. Now, magic has come for me.

But this will not belong to me.

Not again.

I wipe off the cracked mirror enough that I can see my reflection. Desperate, I lean in, hands splayed against my heart.

It’s still there. I sigh in relief.

My eyes burn with salty water as I trace the outline of the old marking. It has faded, no longer burning with magic since Thora left this realm for another. But it remains. The tips of my fingers brush against the familiar triangle and up the two intersecting lines. It is the rune for love, for mate.

I close my eyes, not wanting to see the new mark on my wrist glowing brightly with life. I did not ask for this, Thora. Please know I would never ask for this.

When I open my eyes again, the newest rune remains. The stark contrast between the dead and the living is never more apparent than now. I hate it.

But the sea has spoken and my kraken agrees.

My body revolts at the offensive suggestion that Thora could ever be replaced, that another should become my destiny. The contents of my stomach hit the stone floor, bringing me to my knees.

I want to run. To return to the ocean and bury myself beneath the mud, surrendering at last to the long sleep and the cold darkness. It’s almost funny how I wish I could stop time after so many centuries of wanting it to speed up.

Instead, I collapse on the floor in my own vomit and pray to Odin that I die before I ever have a chance to betray my memories.