Chapter 9
1302 Words
Selene's POV
“Tell Devlin I’ll like to see him.”
If I’m not angry, I might laugh. I never thought a day would come when I’d want to see Devlin. But it’s high time I stop running and face him.
What’s the worst he could do? Maybe finally get around to killing me. A cat can only play with a mouse for so long before its nature takes over.
The old man raises an eyebrow, leaning lazily against the doorframe, lips curving into a sinister smile. He is amused.
Lyra freezes mid-motion, the bundle of herbs trembling in her hands.
I don’t look at her.
“Devlin Draxmore?” the old man repeats, casual. Too casual. It comes across like sarcasm.
Fake bravado surges through me. “Yes,” I snap. “Don’t act like you don’t know him.”
His brows lift, flickering with a different kind of amusement. Maybe at my tone, maybe at my words. I can’t tell.
I warn myself to tread carefully. I don’t know where he stands in the Draxmore ranks. For all I know, he could be higher than Vey and have the power to make me see Vey as an angel instead of the demon he is.
“Why would I need to act, girl?” His tone is calm, almost bored. “I know the devil’s spawn you speak of. I’m just surprised you’d think he was here.”
My mouth goes dry. “He’s… not?” Where is he then?
The old man chuckles, the sound as sharp as splitting wood. “ShadowCrest is his den. It has been for ten years. He would never come here. Not after what they did.”
ShadowCrest. The word punches the air from my lungs.
So if he isn’t here… if he hasn’t dragged me to Lycan’s Hollow… then…
I remember the ritual. The silver ash. Alyssa’s eyes telling me to close mine. And then drowning, falling, emptying.
Oh Moon.
If I wasn’t sent here. Does that mean… Am I dead? Is this a dream? Maybe I’m in the Moon’s bosom.
I flinch as Lyra rubs her herbs on another raw skin. Moon, that burns but that also means I’m not dead.
There’s no pain in the Moon’s bosom.
At least, so I’ve heard.
My knees tremble. The weight of the questions presses harder than Lyra’s herbs burning my skin.
The old man must see it on my face because his smirk fades, just slightly. “We found you by Lily’s brook, a week ago.”
That’s… that’s…
I cannot comprehend. Why Lily’s brook? It’s so far from ShadowCrest.
“We thought you were dead. But the soothsayer said you’re yet to cross the threshold. She suggested we bring you home with us,” Lyra explains.
My throat burns. I want to argue, deny it, but the pain in my body says otherwise. But… how did I leave ShadowCrest? Last I remember is the ritual at the solstice yesterday.
Wait.
Did he say, a week ago?
“What do you mean a week ago? The winter solstice was just last night?”
“The winter solstice was 10 days ago.”
Suddenly the oxygen in the room seizes. Ten days ago? Why hasn’t Alyssa or Bea or Landon or Alex… anybody come find me? Why…
The old man pushes off the doorframe. “Lyra. Change her into something decent. The council has waited long enough.”
And then he leaves, the door shutting with a heavy thud.
Silence stretches.
Lyra sets the herbs aside and moves to a wooden chest in the corner. She pulls out a folded tunic and trousers, plain, rough cloth, smelling faintly of smoke. She hesitates, then turns to me.
“Here,” she says softly.
I blink. Her voice is gentler now. It’s like she pities me or resonates with me. Whichever. I want to snap at her, to keep the wall up, but when she kneels beside me and offers her arm, I find myself leaning, just slightly, allowing her to lift me, allowing myself a bit of friendliness.
In a way she reminds me of Bea. I think about them now. I wonder if they miss me. Are they looking for me? Is Alyssa looking at moonstones to find me? Is Landon reading minds up and down to find out about me?
I think of Damien too. Did Cicilia win?
Are they mated now? Has he slept with her?
I don’t know when the first tear falls, but my face is covered with tears now.
“It’s okay. You’re safe here. Devlin can’t hurt you anymore.”
I look at Lyra. I want to ask how she knows about Devlin, but she has a soft smile and her face has warmth, and I don’t want to think of Devlin. So I don’t.
Lyra helps me dress. Her hands are quick, practiced, but careful this time. She helps me into the clothes, her touch steadying me when my body tries to give out.
“You’ll feel weaker for a while,” she murmurs, tying the laces at my wrist. “The whip burned through more than your skin.”
I swallow. “You mean my wolf.”
Lyra’s hands pause, then resume. She doesn’t answer.
When I’m dressed, she guides me outside.
Lycan’s Hollow stretches before us, ruins and shadows, stone houses cracked and half-swallowed by weeds. The air smells of damp earth and smoke, thick enough to choke. The people we pass are sharp-eyed, their gazes lingering on me too long, like I’m something caught in their trap.
Whispers follow us.
“Another one?”
“Where did they find her?”
“She doesn’t look like much.”
I ignore them, thankful that the clothes Lyra chose cover the scars from the whip.
Lyra keeps her hand lightly at my elbow, as if to keep me from stumbling. I hate that I need it.
The old man leads us through the crooked streets until we reach a tall building of dark stone, its doors scarred with claw marks long faded.
A “council chamber” sign hangs above.
The doors loom, and my chest tightens.
I try to steady my breathing, but questions claw at me:
If Devlin truly doesn’t have a hand in this, why do I end up in Lycan’s Hollow of all places?
Why can’t I feel my wolf? Is it permanent?
And why does everyone here look less… wolfy?
The old man halts at the base of the steps. He turns, his sharp eyes cutting through me.
“Before you speak to the council,” he says slowly, “they’ll want proof.”
“Proof?” My voice cracks. “Of what?”
He studies me for a long, uncomfortable beat. Then, with a thin smile:
“Proof of what you are.”
What does he mean, what I am? My wolf link may be temporarily missing, but I am a werewolf.
A purebred werewolf.
One of the guards steps forward, drawing a thin blade. Its edge gleams with silver.
My stomach drops.
Lyra’s grip tightens on my arm, just for a moment, before she lets go.
The guard seizes my hand. The silver kisses my skin.
I brace for the burn. For the familiar fire that comes with silver against wolf blood.
But there is nothing.
No searing.
No smoke.
No consuming pain.
Nothing but the clean, sharp sting of a cut.
Red blood wells up, human red, sliding down my wrist.
The guard nods, then cleans the blood on his signet ring. He waits. The old man smirks. The blood does not
hing. For a moment. Then a single bubble emits from it.
“She’s human. Though her bloodline indicates an unnatural ancestral being of sorts, she’s just human.”
- Writer
