The Calling

Chapter 3

Cold air fills my lungs. Not city-cold. Not exhaust and damp brick, but living cold. Clean, metallic, wild. I stand at the edge of a forest bathed in silver moonlight. The trees tower impossibly high, their trunks thick and dark, bark ridged like ancient armor. Their canopies swallow most of the sky, but the moon slipped through in pale shafts that painted the forest floor in fractured light.

The earth beneath my bare feet is soft and uneven. Damp moss yields under my toes. Fallen needles and leaves layer the ground in a quiet cushion that breathes out the scent of pine and soil. The ground is not flat like my apartment flooring. It rose and dipped subtly, roots curling just beneath the surface like sleeping serpents.

The forest was not silent. It was alive. Wind moves through the branches in long, whispering sighs. Somewhere to my left, something small darts through the brush. The faint chirr of night insects thread through the air. An owl gives a low, questioning call. Then, a howl. It rose in the distance, long and haunting, carrying across the trees in a mournful arc. Another answered it. Then a third, closer. My heart hammers against my ribs.

The sound isn't like any wolf call I have heard through phone speakers or documentaries. It vibrated through my sternum. It carried weight. Territory. Intelligence. I turn slowly. "I'm dreaming," I whisper, though my voice trembles. "I have to be dreaming." A branch snaps somewhere ahead. The undergrowth shifted. They emerge almost silently. Wolves. But not wolves like I know them.

They are massive. Their shoulders nearly reaching my chest. Thick fur caught the moonlight in shades of charcoal and silver. Their heads are broad, eyes sharp and knowing. Each movement is controlled, deliberate, predatory. It's like they were pulled straight from a Twilight movie. But these aren't CGI illusions. They breathed. Steam curls from their nostrils. Muscles roll beneath their coats with contained power.

One step forward. Its paws press into the earth with quiet authority. Brown eyes lock onto mine. I can't breathe. My mind fractured into sharp, frantic thoughts. This is how I die. I put on a necklace and I die in a forest no one will ever find. My legs felt carved from stone. I can't run, can't scream. Every instinct in me tells me not to turn my back.

Another wolf circles to my right. Then another behind me. They aren't lunging. They are studying. The first wolf lowers its massive head slightly, ears flickering forward. Its gaze doesn't hold simple animal hunger. It holds calculation. "Please..." I whisper, voice breaking.

My vision blurs at the edge. The forest tilts again, like my apartment had before everything tore open. My pulse roars in my ears so loudly it drowns out the wind. The moonlight grows too bright. The last thing I see is the lead wolf stepping closer, so close I can see the scar along its muzzle. Then the world went black.

...

Warmth. My first sensation. Not damp moss. Not night air. Warmth and softness. I stir, my body sinking into something plush. Fabric brushes my skin. Linen, not silk. My eyes flutter open.

I am lying on a wide bed layered with thick quilts. The mattress is feather soft beneath me. The scent of lavender faint in the sheets. I push myself up slowly. The room is nothing like my apartment.

Wooden wainscoting line the lower half of the walls—rich, dark oak polished to a low sheen. Above it, the plaster had been hand-painted with an intricate mural of a forest. Tall trees arched overhead in soft greens and muted blues, birds hidden among the branches. The brushstrokes are visible, deliberate. Art made by hand, not printed. The ceiling beams were exposed and heavy. An elegant chandelier hangs from the center, casting warm gold across the room. The air smells faintly of jasmine and herbs.

The furnishings felt like stepping into the 17th century. Something out of a historical manor untouched by modern life. As I look around, I realize I'm not alone. Two men stand near the foot of the bed. They are tall, broad shouldered. Muscular in a way, as if they spent their entire lives in a gym, both even dressed like that is where they came from, wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt.

The man to the right is taller with short sandy brown hair. His eyes are a deep brown, so brown you can mistake them for black. He has a faint scar that runs diagonally across his nose starting at the bottom middle of his left eye. It doesn't take away from his looks. It enhanced it. He is gorgeous, to be sure, having that masculine dangerous look that screams red flags, but you can't help being attracted to him anyway. His lips thin lined and cautious.

The man to the left is slightly shorter, with blond hair long enough to pull into a bun at the top of his head. His piercing green eyes watch me carefully, studying me. His face more gentle than that of his counterpart, but equally handsome. The ink on his forearm, a wolf, so detailed, showing signs of significance and permanence.

Their presence fills the room the way the wolves had filled the forest-controlled, powerful. Their eyes fixed on me.

At my bedside sits an older woman, around my mother's age, with blonde hair. Slivers of gray dance through the strands. Everything about her is elegant and luxurious. The carefully selected royal blue brocade fabric decorated with a gold jacquared paisley-designed dress fits her frame like royalty. Her face is lined but strong, her posture straight. Her gaze is sharp with intelligence.

My heart begins to pound all over again. I lift my trembling hand to my collarbone. The moonstone still rests there. The older woman follows my motion and gives a slow, knowing nod. The taller of the two men step forward slightly, not threatening, but alert. My voice comes out hoarse. "Where am I?"

The three of them exchange glances. And for a fleeting second, I realize something that makes my blood run colder than the forest air had. They are not surprised to see me. The older woman leans forward, her fingers cool and steady as they wrap gently around my wrist. "You are safe," she said, her voice low and textured with age. There is an accent to it I can't place. Something old, rounded by time. "Your body simply struggled with the crossing."

"The crossing," I repeated faintly. One of the men, the taller one with sharp cheekbones, stepped closer. His eyes were the same deep brown as the wolf that had approached me in the forest. My stomach dropped.

"You came through the Veil untrained," he said. His voice is deep, controlled, but there is an undercurrent there. Something restrained. "Few survive that their first time."

First time. My pulse skidded. "The wolves," I whisper. "In the forest..."

The two men exchange a brief glance. "That was us," the second man said quietly.

Silence fell heavy in the room. I started at them, at their broad shoulders, their steady posture, the faint scar along the taller ones' muzzle....No. Not muzzle. Face. But I had seen that scar before. On the wolf. My breath hitched. "That's not possible."

The older woman released my wrist and folds her hands in her lap. "In your world, perhaps not."

The taller man held my gaze. "You stepped into our territory. We didn't know who you were. Or whether you were sent."

"Sent?" My thoughts raced, snagging on every impossible word. "I didn't choose this. I put on a necklace and..."

My fingers fly to the moonstone again. The older woman's eyes soften. "The moonstone does not answer accidents. It answers blood."

The room tilts again, not physically this time, but in meaning. "What does that mean?" I demanded, panic creeping back into my voice. "I don't belong here. I have an apartment. A job. Family. A life..."

"A life that felt like waiting," the blond-haired woman said gently. The words struck too close. I swallowed.

The taller man steps nearer to the bedside now, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. Not ordinary warmth, something deeper, like banked embers beneath the skin. "You crossed because you are bound to this realm," he said. "The stone is a port key, forged centuries ago by our kind and yours. It awakens only for those of the old lineage."

I shake my head. "No. No, that's not possible. Im a nobody."

A faint, almost amused huff left the second man. "Nobody, does not survive the Veil."

Outside the room, wind brushed against the walls. I suddenly become aware that this isn't a fragile cottage. The beams are thick. The structure solid. Somewhere beyond these walls lay the forest. The same forest where I had nearly died. "Why didn't you kill me?" My voice barely audible.

The taller man's jaw tightened slightly. "We wouldn't kill one of our own."

My heart stumbled. "I'm not..."

"You are," the older woman said firmly now, the softness gone. "At least half, from what I can scent. One, if not both, of your parents is of this realm." The words detonated in my chest. "I sense...magic in you. It's faint, as if masked. Your wolf though, I can feel her trying to climb out. She has grown stronger by the second since you entered this realm." I can feel the edges of reality fraying again.

Images flickered through my mind, my mother's quirky resolve. The way she would stare at the moon some nights. Her deep fascination with witches. The old stories she used to tell. The way she never spoke of her childhood. "You're lying," I whisper, though it lacks conviction.

The taller man slowly kneels beside the bed so we're at eye level. Up close, I can see it clearly now, the wildness in him. Not untamed. Controlled. But there, his eyes don't move like a human. They track with a predator's precision. "When you collapsed," he said quietly, "the forest did not reject you. The Veil did not tear you apart. The moonstone did not burn you."

His gaze flickers briefly to the necklace resting against my skin. "It accepted you." The room felt too small suddenly.

I pushed the blankets aside and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The wooden floor was smooth beneath my feet. Cool, solid, undeniably real. "This is insane," I breathed. "I was almost eaten by giant wolves, and now you're telling me I'm what, part of some other world?"

The second man's lips curve slightly. "You were not prey." A charged silence settled between them.

I look from one face to another, the guarded strength in the men, the knowing calm of the older woman. "Then what am I?" I ask.

The older woman rises slowly from her chair. She carries herself like someone accustomed to authority. "You," she said, "are the first calling in two generations." The words vibrated strangely in my chest. "The Veil between our realms has thinned," the woman continued. "Something is weakening it. The moonstone did not awaken to bring you hear by chance."

A distant howl echoed through the night. Closer now, but not threatening. Calling. The taller man stood as well, his expression sharpening. "They will have felt the crossing," he said.

My heart began racing once more. "They?"

The older woman met my eyes. "Not all who walk in this forest guard it."

A new sound drifted through the open window. Not a howl this time, but something lower. Rougher. More numerous. I feel the moonstone grow warm against my skin. Not gently. Warningly. And for the first time since waking, I realize something far more terrifying than wolves. I had not been brought here by accident. I was brought here for a reason.