Page 82 of Snag
A huge older shifter stands next to the chair at the head of the table. The power he holds is robust but tightly coiled, as if focused inward. Without even looking for his threads, I can already sense that it’s his ties to his pack that easily make him one of the most powerful shifters I’ve ever met.
The Outcast.
Feeling slightly displaced — once again caught between who I was as Zaya and who I now must be as the Conduit — I remove my sunglasses. Then I realize I don’t have a bag to tuck them away within. I hold them instead, along with my phone, in one hand.
The Outcast meets my gaze steadily, even after my eyes are revealed.
Ari Guerra — I only know his given name because of the photograph Rath has commandeered — doesn’t really look like any of the Guerra siblings, his nieces and nephews. His face is longer, nose more prominent, his skin darker than even Reck, who I’m fairly certain has South American heritage from both sides of his bloodline. The Outcast’s straight black hair is long enough to tuck behind his ears and threaded through with thick strands of gray. His eyes are a light blue. He’s dressed in a thin sweater that’s slightly ragged at the cuffs and hem. Torn blue jeans. Barefoot.
As I approach under the Outcast’s gaze— fixed but not unwelcoming— I see that light-gray starbursts radiate from around his pupils. Each eye a different pattern. I don’t believe that those markings are connected to or evidence of his beast, though. Because I can’t sense any shift in his essence, not as I do when the gryphon peers out of Rought’s eyes.
The jagged edges surrounding his pupils almost look like healed-over, decades-old scar tissue.
From what?
Not a physical injury. A shifter of the Outcast’s stature, given enough years to heal, would be able to grow back even lost limbs and damaged eyes.
He’s almost as big as Rath, easily six foot seven inches. Though the cane he’s leaning on and the carefulway he occupies the space diminishes his presence. The cane appears to have been roughly carved out of bone, though I don’t know what sort of beast has a femur that long.
A furtive look exchanged between Rath and Rought, who have placed themselves on either side of me, indicates that something is different about the Outcast’s presence. Or something about his presence concerns them, at least. Perhaps he’s recovering from an illness or sickness? Hence the cane.
I don’t take a closer look.
A shifter of the Outcast’s power would sense any shift in my essence, his connection to the rest of his pack weaving palpable threads through the room. Plus we’re allies, our territories sharing the same country. Or more specifically, the Outcast territory surrounding the small sovereign domain I’ve inherited.
Having stood steadily silent under my regard, the Outcast raises his left hand, tapping the first three fingers over his heart. Thankfully he doesn’t bow his head as if in prayer. “Weaver, you bless this house, this land, with your presence.”
“I am but the spool, not the weaver,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can when confronted by an annoying bit of religious doctrine.
I’m suddenly hyperaware that this shifter knew my aunt— likely intimately given their proximity in the photo Rath has tucked away somewhere. Which means the Outcast actually knows something about the power I now hold as the Conduit. His reverent gesture tells me hebelieves.
The elder shifter huffs, clearly amused by my denial.
Thankfully, he directs his attention to his two nephews,first Rath, then lingering on Rought. “I see,” he murmurs. “You’re no longer one of mine. I thought I felt a shift.”
Rought steps forward and offers his uncle a folded bundle of black fabric. I didn’t notice him carrying it.
It’s his cut. The leather vest that displays his club patch and declares his allegiance to the Outcast — the motorcycle club and the shifter at its core.
The Outcast takes Rought’s offered cut with a nod, transferring it to the hand still holding the cane. He then wraps his free hand around the back of his nephew’s neck, pulling him closer to rest his forehead on Rought’s.
A gentle energy shifts between them, and they stand like that for long enough that I realize I’m holding my breath.
“I understand more than you know,” the Outcast says quietly.
“That’s why we’re here. Now.” Rought steps back to my side the moment his uncle releases him.
“Is it?” The Outcast raises a questioning eyebrow at both his nephews.
“You should eat,” Rath says gruffly.
The Outcast chuckles, but he obligingly steps back to prop the cane against the chair and settle at the head of the table. He tucks Rought’s discarded cut at his side.
Trailing Rath, Rought steers me around the table toward the sideboard, which appears to hold enough food for a small army, most of it in warming dishes. Granted, the three shifters actually are a substantially sized army, not even including what I bring to the mix.
I pick up a plate. Rought takes it from me, quickly filling one edge with the exact pieces of sliced fruit I would have gotten for myself.
“Our bond negates your bond to the Outcast?” I ask ina low murmur, even though there’s no chance that any of the sharp ears in the room don’t hear me.
