Page 24 of Heart of a Dire Wolf
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Skyla pulled up the collar of her magenta coat and tightened the heavy wool blanket over her shoulders. She’d scrunched herself into a ball to conserve her heat in the nest she’d made using a pair of disintegrating cotton mattresses. The small storehouse kept the wind and snow out, but was still cold, even in the beam of sunlight in which she huddled. The magically heated cast-iron fry pan that served as her source of warmth needed recharging, but she couldn’t afford to spend the energy. She’d have starved without her wolf’s hunting skills. Real wolves could go days without eating. Shifter grad students couldn’t.
It had been three days since she’d listened to the heart-rending tales of terror, torture, and traumatic death by an overwhelming force that no one had seen before. At least she now knew where she was.
An unlikely alliance of peace-minded arctic elves and polar fairies had created Fort LeBlanc in the early eighteen hundreds as a sanctuary town for like-minded individuals. They’d hidden in plain sight by masquerading as a French military outpost that traded with the local First Nations peoples instead of trying to control them or steal their resources.
During the unrest in the arctic that culminated in the pyrrhic Siberian war, the town used a unique blend of elven glade, fairy demesne, and wizard magic to make the sanctuary invisible to the uninvited. It worked, until the marauders found them.
For reasons she couldn’t explain, Skyla was finding it hard to leave. Something felt unfinished. The first two days, she’d felt compelled to record the names and stories of the spirits. She’d gathered all the stray paper from each building, then used a precious bit of magic to create a never-empty ink cartridge for an antique fountain pen she found. She wrote as a human during the warmer part of the day, then hunted and slept as a wolf at night. She shifted for bio breaks, too, since none of the buildings had running water for the bathrooms. The slow act of writing, rather than typing on a computer keyboard, seemed to help her deal with the horrific images the stories had etched into her mind. Her own sister’s death paled in comparison.
She’d planned to leave today, but it had taken real effort last night and that morning to shift to and from human. Fast and easy shifting had always been her best talent, and now she was losing even that. She knew if Nic lived through the portal accident, he would be looking for her, the same way she planned to hunt for him across the world and beyond, if that’s what it took. The first rule of wilderness rescue was to stay put, but she couldn’t wait any longer. She needed help, before it was too late.
For now, she was conserving her strength, waiting until noon to start her trek westward. Assuming her nearly depleted magic had created an accurate map, she was a two-day wolf run from a lake and a small human settlement.
A trio of amorphous specters materialized in the darkest corner of the room, blinking like a strobe to get her attention. She recognized them and remembered their sad story. One floated as close to the sunlight as it could.“Singer, ourrhienihave come for us, but they cannot hear us.”
The spirits had taken to calling her Singer, because apparently Skyla wasn’t a proper name, or something. She wasn’t sure she could handle more life-and-ghost stories. Still, it was her or no one. She climbed to her feet and headed outside, still wrapped in her wool blanket. Melting snow squelched under her feet. Someday, she hoped to have dry shoes and socks again.
She was startled to see two very large white geese… no, swans, instead of more ghosts. They shifted into a short, dark-haired man and an even shorter, blonde woman, wearing warm winter clothes that had shifted in with them. Their mate bond shimmered like a sunbeam on water. The male looked around with a wary expression.
The female focused on Skyla. “Are you lost?” she asked, not unkindly.
“Not exactly.” The specters crowded in the shade of the nearby conifer and flickered frantically. “Did you used to live here?”
The woman’s expression became as wary as her mate’s. “Why do you ask?”
Skyla sighed. “I don’t know how to be tactful about this. When you left, you promised your three children you’d be back for them in a week. They’ve been waiting for you for over a hundred years.” She tilted her chin toward the three specters.
Color drained from the woman’s face as she clutched the arm of her mate. The man bristled. “Who the hell are you?”
“Skyla Chekal. Wolf shifter. Grad student. And freaking cold.” She pointed a thumb to the storehouse behind her. “If you’re going to yell at me, can we do it where it’s warmer?”
In the storehouse, Skyla moved a chair into the sunlight and sat. She envied their gloves and warm snow boots, and wished she had the talent for transformation magic. They ignored the other chairs and stood, taking in her makeshift camp. They didn’t say a word, but their expressions and body language suggested a telepathic argument. Finally, the woman spoke.
“I am Elsa Valkea, and my husband and mate is Gunnar. Please, tell us about our children.”
Skyla hitched her sagging blanket up on her shoulders again. “Ingrid, Maria, and Rolf. The marauders killed them and others in their schoolroom.” She nodded toward the corner where the specters flickered. “Their spirits are still here. They told me their story.”
Gunnar looked at the corner, but obviously saw nothing. “Why do they speak to you and not us?”
Elsa touched his arm and shook her head. “Don’t be rude.”
Skyla’s inner wolf demanded attention for a sound at the edge of her range. She borrowed as much of her wolf’s hearing as she could. The rhythmic crunch of snow. Metal on ice. Singing?
She stood and moved closer to the door. Elsa and Gunnar heard it a moment later and joined her.
Elsa shook her head. “I do not recognize the voice.”
Gunnar grunted. He stretched his neck and spread his arms, clearly expecting a fight.
“Oh, jingle bells, jingle bells…”
Warm relief and a hundred other nameless emotions flooded through Skyla. “I do.” She let the wool blanket fall as she flung open the door. “That’s my mate.”
She ran through the paths she’d already made, toward the sound and presence of the man whose memory lurked in waking moments and blazed in dreams. She slowed when she got to the unbroken field of snow between her and the creek that curved by from the northeast. She looked toward the trees, where her ears said the singing was coming from.
Her first glimpse of the man seated on the heavily laden utility vehicle startled her. First, because he was actually riding a sleigh, and second, because she didn’t know the face.
