Page 35 of Kings of Sherwood

“So, wait, wait, wait. What’s your theory, then?”

I swallow my cheese. “About? I have lots of theories.”

She waves a hand, sloshing her glass just a tiny bit. “About us. You. Why people like you guys...exist.”

“Shifters?”

She nods. “Yeah. I mean, you must have wondered, right? Besides all the stuff we read about before we lost all Guy’s books. Is it... genetic or something?”

“Not so far as I can tell,” I say. “I actually had all the guys do those mail-order kits a while back—you know, spit in the tube, figure out what percentage Swedish or North African or whatever you are?”Thatwas a fun ask. Will almost looked excited when I told him I need him to spit for me. “Got the source code of all our sequences and uploaded it to a reader program.”

“And?”

“Normal,” I say. “Or, well, fully human, anyway. Only revelations were that Will’s got a predisposition to cirrhosis and LJ’s got some Caribbean ancestry.” I look at my fingernails. “So it’s something that DNA doesn’t account for.”

“Mmm.” She runs her finger over the map again. “So it’s just random chance?”

“I don’t know if it’s that.” I glance at the storm outside, thinking.

Because I have thought about this a lot.

But never really talked about it with anyone.

“I think we were made to adapt,” I start. “I mean, literally, that’s what we do, right? So it stands to reason. But the when and where of it all...” I look at the map. “That part I’m still fuzzy on.”

She slows down. The thunder gives her cover to think.

“You said you guys aren’t genetically different,” she says slowly. “So it’s not inherited. But what if it’s environmental? Like...they put in a nuclear power plant and then all the fish end up with three eyes.”

I tilt my head at her. “I think that’s just inThe Simpsons.”

She waves me off. “You know what I mean. Guy’s books. All those historical accounts. The ones about shifters in the Scottish Highlands. In Istanbul during the Ottoman Empire. That clan in Mali that resisted colonization...”

“You remember all that?” I’m impressed. I’m a good student—kinda my thing—but memorization, or, honestly, expansive recall of things, isn’t necessarily my strong suit. Hence all the post-its.

But I frown, looking at the map. She’s right: there’s a convergence in Scotland. In Türkiye. In Mali.

But...

“But those are three areas withwildlydifferent environments,” I say, peering closer. “I mean, we’re talking a span of over forty degrees of latitude, hugely varying amounts of sunlight and moonlight exposure—and the soil composition—”

“Tuck,” Maren says, just a little annoyed, and I shrink back. But she smiles. “You’re being too literal. I need you to think more in terms of—

“...vibes?” I offer.

“Vibes,” she agrees. “And what these places have in common is...things are fucked up. At least, going based on what we know about history, right? The...power is fucked up.”

I open my mouth, but she cuts me off, just as lightning flashes through the room.

“No, no, not as inliteral electricity.” She looks up and around her, like nature was sending a lightning strike to prove a point. “I mean in terms of human power. Metaphorically speaking. Powerstructures.There’s...oppression. Injustice. People getting crushed by the system and no one’s stopping it. Maybe...”

She cuts herself off.

“No,” I prompt her. “What?”

“I’ve had too much wine,” she mutters. “I’m barely making sense.”

“Logic seems perfectly clear to me,” I say.

---