Page 49 of Fat Sold Mate
We approach with extreme caution, using the cover of trees until we reach the edge of the clearing. The smell hits me then—a sickly sweet rot that catches in the back of my throat and makes my eyes water.
“What is that?” I whisper, fighting the urge to gag.
“Advanced corruption,” James replies grimly. “The final stages, when it consumes rather than enhances.”
Movement catches my eye—a shambling figure emerging from one of the outbuildings. It might once have been a wolf, but now it's something else entirely, its form twisted beyond recognition. Limbs bend at impossible angles, fur patchy and sloughing off in places to reveal skin mottled with blackcorruption. Its movements are jerky and uncoordinated, as if it's forgotten how its body works.
“Gods,” I breathe, horror freezing my blood. “What happened to it?”
“Failed transformation,” James says, his voice tight. “When the corruption progresses too far, they can't shift properly anymore. Stuck between forms.”
The creature—I can't think of it as a wolf, or even a person anymore—lurches a few steps into the sunlight, then stops, its head swiveling aimlessly. It doesn't seem to see us, despite our position barely concealed at the forest's edge.
“They're blind,” James murmurs. “Deaf too, probably. The corruption eats away at everything eventually.”
“We can get past it,” I say, studying the creature's random movements. “It's not aware enough to track us.”
James nods, his expression grim. “There might be more inside. Stay close.”
We skirt the clearing, keeping to the shadows as we approach the main lodge from the rear. Two more corrupted creatures shamble near the back entrance, but they're as mindless as the first, trapped in their broken bodies and oblivious to our presence.
The lodge's interior is a study in controlled chaos—furniture overturned, personal belongings scattered as if the inhabitants fled in panic. The corruption smell is stronger here, mingled with the metallic tang of old blood and something else I can't identify.
“What happened here?” I whisper, stepping carefully over a child's abandoned toy.
James shakes his head, his expression troubled. “I don't know. But it wasn't an attack. There are no defensive marks, no signs of fighting.”
“Then what?”
He doesn't answer, just continues moving through the silent rooms with predatory caution. We eventually reach what must be the Alpha's quarters—a spacious chamber dominated by a massive desk carved from a single tree trunk. The walls are lined with books and maps, a large bed occupying one corner.
“The notes should be here,” I say, moving immediately to the desk. “Sera said her grandmother's research would be in the Alpha's quarters.”
James takes up a position by the door, keeping watch while I search. The desk drawers yield nothing of interest—pack records, territory maps, correspondence with neighboring packs. I run my hands along the underside, searching for hidden compartments, finding nothing.
“There must be something,” I mutter, frustration mounting as I scan the room. “A safe, a hidden drawer, something.”
James shifts uncomfortably at the doorway. “We should hurry. Even if those things outside can't sense us, others might return.”
I move to the bookshelf, pulling volumes at random, checking behind them for concealed spaces. Nothing. The bed yields no secrets either, nor the fireplace mantle. I'm about to suggest we try another room when my eyes catch on a slight irregularity in the wooden flooring beneath the desk.
Dropping to my knees, I examine the spot more closely. One plank is ever-so-slightly shorter than the others, with anearly invisible seam around it. I press experimentally, and the wood gives way beneath my fingers, revealing a small compartment.
“Found something,” I announce, reaching into the space to withdraw a leather-bound journal, its cover worn smooth with handling.
James steps closer, interest sharpening his features. “What is it?”
“Research notes, I think,” I say, already flipping through the pages. The journal is filled with cramped handwriting, diagrams, and what appear to be spell components. “This has to be Sera's grandmother's work.”
I scan the contents, my excitement growing as I recognize elements of purification rituals similar to those in my mother's grimoire, but expanded, adapted specifically to counteract the corruption process. The notes detail how the corruption takes hold through blood rituals that bind pack members to the Alpha, gradually transforming them both physically and mentally.
And then I find it—the counter-ritual, the purification spell that could potentially free the corrupted wolves and stop Matthias. My heart sinks as I read the requirements.
“What's wrong?” James asks, sensing my sudden dismay through our bond.
I close the journal quickly, unwilling to share what I've discovered. The counter-ritual requires the combined magical energy of bonded mates—a complete, consummated bond that would allow power to flow freely between partners. It would mean relying entirely on James, using our bond in the most intimate way possible.
After last night, the thought is unbearable. The way he's been so careful not to touch me today, the guilt I feel pulsing from him—he clearly regrets what happened between us. Suggesting that we use our bond in this way would only compound the embarrassment, forcing us into an intimacy neither of us wants to acknowledge.
