Page 12 of Brody
“So does Freya’s magic,” he said.“Just because we don’t fully understand the mechanism doesn’t mean it’s not real.After all, humans once thought flight was impossible.”
“More like a realist,” I replied, unwilling to concede the point, even as my mind acknowledged the gap in my logic.
“Freya describes the spell as an alteration of probability.It asks the universe to send the fated mates of all unmated males to the Ridge, shifting the odds so that even improbable connections happen.Magic is wild and willful, meaning Freya doesn’t have precise control over how the spell will manifest or exactly who it will bring.”
“Hence, the reason I’m here.The spell hasn’t brought enough fated mates to the Ridge, and unmated males are displaying pre-feral symptoms.”
“I agree that the uptick in males with pre-feral symptoms is alarming, but like you said, that’s why you are here.”He paused.“I’ve also been doing my part with my tonic.”
I was instantly interested when I recalled Quinn having mentioned that Brody was his resident botanical expert.
“Tell me about your tonic.”
Despite our personal history, I hoped his knowledge might complement my research approach.
“I own and run Thornbern Brewstillery and have been working on my own treatments for pre-feral progression.A temporary solution, but something is better than nothing.”
“And what does your tonic do?”
“Temporarily slows the progression of pre-feral symptoms in unmated male shifters, which can lead them to lose touch with their human side and become feral.”
“That sounds groundbreaking.What’s in the tonic?”I asked, my heart racing.This might be the critical information I needed.
“It’s based on the healing botanical remedies developed by my late grandmother, Una Thornbern.I’ve been actively reverse engineering her formula, but the tonic’s results are inconsistent.”He sighed heavily.“I’m brewing the tonic on guesswork and prayer without the complete process.But we’re running out of time.”
The wordwe’rescraped against my ribs like a rusty blade.We.Us.Together.Words stripped from my vocabulary at ten, when my father walked out without a backward glance.
Seven years after that, rain had soaked through my black dress as I’d stood alone by my mother’s grave, the cemetery workers shifting awkwardly as they waited for family members who never came.My grandmother’s assistant had sent flowers.Not even a card in her own handwriting.
And here was Brody, tossingwe’rebetween us like a bridge I could trust my weight to.
I’d learned young thatwewas just a temporary fiction.People left.They always left.I’d built my identity around the certainty of standing alone—in academic conference rooms, in research labs, in life.My work was my shelter, my papers and data the only things I could count on to still be there in the morning.
This man, who’d rejected me more completely than anyone, now oh so casually saidwe’reas if he hadn’t taught me the most devastating lesson of all: Even the universe’s so-called perfect match could look at me and decide I wasn’t worth staying for.
“What do you mean bywe’re?”I asked, the words feeling like broken glass in my throat.
He was so silent that I thought he wasn’t going to answer my question.
“The pack,” he finally said, his voice tight.“The unmated males especially.We’re all counting on your research.”
The SUV suddenly swerved; then he corrected its path.In the rearview mirror, I caught a flash of genuine fear across his face.Not fear of the road, but something deeper, more primal.
My doctor’s instincts kicked in, eyes cataloging details I’d been determinedly ignoring.The subtle pallor beneath his tan.The sweat beading at his temple despite the cool air-conditioning.The rigid set of his shoulders, as if he were fighting some invisible battle.
“You’re sick,” I said, the realization hitting me with unexpected force.
“I’m fine,” he replied, too quickly.
The acrid scent of burned rubber instantly filled the SUV.The unmistakable odor every shifter recognized as the telltale sign of a lie.My nostrils flared, the smell confirming what my eyes had already told me.
“You’re lying,” I said flatly.“I can smell it.”
He cursed under his breath, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.“It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Another whiff of burned rubber, though fainter this time.A partial lie, then.
My fingers twitched toward my laptop bag with the instinctive urgency of reaching for a weapon.Data.I needed data.Symptoms.Treatment protocols.Anything to drown out the sudden inexplicable hollowness spreading beneath my ribs.
