Lament of the Wolf: Book Two of A Dreamer's Misfortune

By C.A. Farran

I am death's master. I yield to none.

The mortal world hangs in the balance. The witch queen of the Netherworld has everything she needs to destroy the veil and bring chaos and ruin to the living.

Lark is determined to stop her by any means necessary. She and Gavriel search for answers, anything to aid them in ha

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sylvan Ink Press
• Release date: Oct 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798985132779

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

DACIANA

Daciana was no stranger to darkened forests—when the last few rays of the sun bled from the horizon and gave way to night. She suffered no fear or mistrust of darkness. She was a child of the moon, and even when her change wasn’t imminent, every instinct in her body rejoiced at the black sky. The creeping shadows held no malice, only a warm whisper calling out to her.

Welcome home.

The journey from Koval back to Ardenas was swift without the presence of her companions. Their absence was an ache she keenly felt, but this was something she must do on her own. It was tempting to delay the inevitable, to travel back alongside Lark and claim a few more weeks of her company. But a smaller merchant vessel left the port days before Lark and Gavriel arranged their own transport.

Each day that passed, she missed them more. Alistair, with his incessant need to disagree with every little thing she said. Langford with his impossibly kind heart and quick mind. And Lark, skies, she missed that girl. The way they understood each other with a mere glance.

She even missed Gavriel. Were it not for him and his assured presence, she wouldn’t have left Lark.

And Hugo…

She slipped a hand into her pocket, closing her fingers around the small stone she’d taken from his burial rite. A burial that held no body to mourn.

Picking up speed, she wended through the dark forest, a canopy of leaves keeping the stars from view. She didn’t need their light anyway. The moon’s arc had thickened, and the promise of the change whispered along her bones.

Just a few more days. That was more than enough time.

She’d reach the village of Mirefield, an insignificant spot on a map where the cattle outnumbered the people, long before dawn. It wasn’t a place Alistair liked to venture. Without the promise of work or a decent tavern, the village was all but useless in his eyes. But nestled in the forest, away from the heavy foot traffic of travelers and traders, it seemed as good a place as any for a hunter to visit in search of monsters. Beasts weren’t as picky with their victims as Alistair was with his travel routes.

She’d ask around and follow the stories. Of monsters slain by the girl wearing a red cloak.

Kenna.

Her name clanged around her head, echoing with the force of a blow. The last time they’d crossed paths, she’d barely had the strength to walk away. Kenna’s mere presence was enough to set every nerve alight. Raw and exposed.

Kenna’s pendant hung heavily around Daciana’s neck, mocking her for the faint echo in her heart.

It was madness to seek Kenna now. A risk, the worth she’d been debating this entire trek.

But if the veil fell, and monsters overran the world, the least she could do was offer fair warning.

Red cloak? Yeah, I saw the hunter, said a broad-shouldered man, face and neck reddened from working in the sun. Instead of a tavern, the local inn housed a modest dining room fit for Daciana’s purposes. The patrons were chatty, as she expected. A slip of coin loosened even the tightest of lips. Not two days ago she came by. No one’s paid any notice to the contract we posted, and the guard up north is useless. He spat on the floor.

What was the contract for?

He hesitated, his heavy brow furrowing. Something we never took issue with before. We had an understanding. The creature only attacked those disrespecting the land.

Daciana could guess the true name of this beast. Leśniks were guardians—protectors of nature, with a nasty streak for those who failed to honor the ground they tread.

We called it The Keeper, the ruddy-faced farmer said. But once the little ‘uns started going missing, we knew it was no longer punishing destruction, but mischief. Can’t let anyone wander into the forest alone. Not ‘til the hunter comes back to show us proof and collect her payment.

Where does it dwell? Daciana peered into his bloodshot eyes.

You a hunter, too?

Something like that.

The farmer shrugged. Don’t much care who faces the beast, so long as the deed is done and my yield doesn’t suffer.

Following his directions, Daciana made her way into another dark forest. Morning hinted its approach from the horizon, but it was lost amongst the trees.

She slipped under the shroud of branches laden with leaves, moving silently across the forest floor. Her muscles twitched, jittery energy buzzing across her skin at each step that drew her closer to Kenna. Images of her deep-set brown eyes, crinkled with amusement, filled her mind. Other images sprang to the forefront of her memory. Pale skin painted with moonlight, a soft press of her full lips to hers, light dancing in her eyes at promises made…

Daciana shook her head to clear her thoughts. This wasn’t about a life stolen, a wish not granted. This was duty. If the world fell, they’d need all the allies they could get.

Dawn insisted its stretch across the sky, bold light filtering through canopies of dense trees, and bright beams cutting across the moss covered ground. She was getting closer. The unmistakable pull of predator to hunter sang in her veins. As it had all those years ago.

The scent of burning leaves hit her first. Someone was close.

Daciana’s blood roared in her ears, drowning out all sounds of the forest. She didn’t need to hear the creatures that rustled in the underbrush; the ones that dug into the earth to find storage for winter; the wind rushing through the outstretched wings of the sparrow that soared from tree to tree. She felt their presence, as assuredly as her own heartbeat.

She edged toward the thicket and peered into the clearing.

A small figure wearing a crimson cloak sat perched atop a fallen tree. Beams of light softly kissed her pale skin, casting her in an effulgent glow. The freckles across her nose and cheeks were more pronounced than Daciana remembered.

Kenna.

As if hearing her thoughts, Kenna’s head snapped up, dark bangs falling in her eyes. The knife she’d been lazily whittling a thick branch with instantly flipped to a defensive hold.

This wasn’t how Daciana wanted their initial meeting to go—creeping up on an armed hunter and waiting in the shrubberies like a common beast. If she were more like Alistair, she could have strolled in, quick words cutting from her tongue as she regarded the hunter with little more than vague amusement.

If she’d been like Lark, she’d have sprinted into the clearing and thrown her arms around her. The former Reaper wore her heart for all to see in a show of courage Daciana still couldn’t fathom. 

If she’d been like Langford, she’d have called her name, giving her the chance to run away if she didn’t wish to see her.

But Kenna would never run.

Daciana cleared her throat and stepped out from the cover of the forest. To stand as she was, before the girl who haunted her dreams. 

Kenna’s perfect face regarded her with shock, before the side of her mouth quirked in a tight smile. She placed the stick on her lap, sheathing her knife. Well, I can’t say I saw this coming.

Daciana grabbed the pendant encircling her neck, yanking it free of her hair she’d chosen to plait down her back in a thick braid. She glanced at it, mountains and shimmering sky sitting in her palm, before she tossed it to Kenna.

Snatching it from the air, Kenna’s eyes never left Daciana’s face. You came all this way to deliver this?

Daciana took slow deliberate steps before sitting across from her. Kenna’s lone pack and weapons lay on the earth at her feet, and the fire she’d built quietly crackled. It wasn’t like the campfires Daciana had with Alistair and their crew, where the flames danced high and sparks of embers shot into the night sky. This was lonely. There was no merriment, no air of camaraderie. She’d seen Kenna dig holes to conceal her fire many times. The second air channel she’d tunneled into the earth, feeding the flame and obscuring it.

I came to warn you, Daciana finally said, wetting her lips, about what’s coming.

Kenna leaned closer. What’s coming?

Before Daciana could answer, a soft whistle carried on the wind. There was no melody to it, just a sustained note of warning. Kenna examined the pendant in her palm before she closed her fist, yanking her short sword free from its sheath.

Hold that thought, she said, angling her sword to her ready stance and studying the spaces between the trees.

Daciana pulled her sword from the sheath on her back. The thick hilt was a familiar weight in her grasp. The Leśnik? It should be quick work between the two of them, provided the forest didn’t answer its call. If it did, even the roots beneath their feet weren’t to be trusted.

The ground shook—a steady approach trembling the surrounding trees. Kenna grinned, the eager face of a hunter in her element, before she took off for the nearest branch. She swung herself up and climbed. The years hadn’t dulled her agility.

A shadowy figure swept between the trees, appearing and disappearing, but its height was massive. Almost as if a giant tree stalked them.

Definitely a Leśnik.

Daciana circled her wrist, swinging her sword to loosen her muscles for a fight. Not that she’d face this alone. Kenna wasn’t gone. She was waiting. Hunting. 

That would make Daciana the bait. Not ideal, but she could adapt.

A great crash shook the camp as the creature charged into the clearing. It stilled, and its intent gaze sent her skin crawling. Towering at twice her height, the giant forest spirit was adorned with moss and leaves, its mottled green skin textured like the bark of a tree. It let out a screech and barrelled toward her. Daciana leapt at the last moment, swiping it back with her sword.

The ground split beneath her boots, roots shooting up and seizing her. They wound around her ankles, squeezing hard enough she heard something pop. Pain flared in her ankle. Gritting her teeth, she hacked the roots to bits and spun just in time to come face-to-face with the keeper of the forest. Long strands of moss hung from its jaw like a beard, and its humanoid face twisted with rage. Black eyes peered into her own, and there was no mercy in their depths.

It was a shame when killing felt like an unanswered question of ‘is it necessary?’ Fortunately, she had her answer this time.

Raising her sword, she readied to strike—

Kenna dropped from above, landing on its shoulders and driving her sword deep into its chest. She yanked her sword out and plunged in deep again, her lovely face twisted into a triumphant snarl. The Leśnik clawed at the intrusion, but she yielded nothing and sank her blade again and again, until finally the creature dropped to his knees. Kenna still sat astride its shoulders, a full head taller than Daciana, before she slid down and kicked the beast to the earth. Without wasting a moment, she sliced off one of the Leśnik’s clawed hands, its fingers like gnarled branches, and stuffed it into a sack. The rest of the body sank into the earth, roots wrapping around it, as if reclaiming their own.

Won’t be long now. At least it’ll feed the trees for a season. Kenna wiped her sweaty forehead. A faint blush had bloomed across her pale cheeks. Apologies for the interruption. You were saying? Something you wanted to warn me of. Hopefully, not this guy. She kicked at the mound as it rapidly became one with the earth. Otherwise he stole your purpose.

Daciana ran her gaze over the girl she sailed across the ocean to find—the one she’d abandoned the others for. The one she tried to forget. Her slight form had taken on new edges, firm muscles replacing the softness Daciana had trailed her fingers over countless times. 

Daciana realized she had yet to answer the question. Turning her thoughts to the task at hand, to the reason she’d sought Kenna out, she cleared her throat. The fall of the world.

Kenna narrowed her eyes, staring at her with a look Daciana knew all too well. Her mind was always puzzling. Well, don’t leave me in suspense. What in the blazing nethers happened?

CHAPTER TWO

LARK

A familiar throne room stretched before her. Archways of gold curved above, lining the vestibules along the sides of the great hall. Harsh light filtered through the giant windows at the head of the room.

Lark’s footsteps echoed against the polished marble floors, her heart hammering in her chest. She approached the dais, never once tearing her eyes from the ancient being lounging on the throne. His dark eyes glittered as he tracked her movements.

Thanar.

Shadows curled around him, both a warning and an invitation, as he lifted his chin to regard her with thinly veiled amusement. His long black hair hung loose and straight, a disapproving crease settling between his dark brows. He was handsome, there was no denying that, but he possessed a severity that made his features too hardened to appreciate.

Here you are once again, Larkin. His baritone voice carved a pit of dread in her stomach.

Lark stilled, hands clenching into fists. She would not cower before him. Real or imagined, he had no power over her. Not anymore. This was a farce, an echoed imitation of what he once was. Now he was at the mercy of the witch queen of the Netherworld, contracted to do her bidding. The image of him, broken and lost, by Nereida’s side, sprung to her mind—when he’d claimed Lark’s debt and sacrificed himself to set her free of her contract. A slick emotion closely resembling guilt settled alongside her discomfort. We both know I’m not really here.

He leaned forward in his seat, raven hair falling into his face. As you well know, that is a matter of debate. Tell me, where do we go when we dream? His obsidian eyes regarded her with careful consternation.

Reapers didn’t dream.

Lark had guarded her secret, afraid of what it might mean that she—a Reaper—could fall into the world of dreams and nightmares. The place only mortals were permitted to go.

But she was mortal now, and she had nothing to hide.

This is my dream. I decide what happens, she said. I don’t need to play your games.

His grin only widened, large hands curling to grip the armrests of his throne. Since when have you mastered the art of controlling your dreams? He arched a dark brow. You waste your bluster here, Larkin. For in the recesses of your own mind, you cannot hide.

Lark’s jaw clenched, heat rising up her neck. I’m not hiding from anyone, least of all from you, Thanar.

He chuckled darkly, the low sound of it slithering over her and leaving a trail of ice in its wake. You foolish girl. He stood so suddenly, Lark flinched. Did you really think you could outplay fate? He sauntered down the steps, a slow crawling storm.

Lark resisted the instinct to step back, to put space between them. Before she could respond, a wisp of gold fluttered out of the corner of her eye, and the scent of lupines and grass filled her senses. She turned—only to find nothing but that skies-forsaken throne room.

Did you really think you’d get to keep your mortal pet? That the balance wouldn’t demand a terrible reckoning?

He towered over her, and she had to lift her chin to meet his eyes. Fate may have determined my destiny, but it’s mine to claim, she said.

His eyes softened, regarding her with what appeared to be pity, brows drawn together in an expression of vulnerability. He will slip through your fingers, as you did mine.

Lark edged back, shaking her head. I was never yours for the taking. But he’d tried to claim her. To own her.

His face fell at her words before he quickly composed his expression into a mask of indifference. No, Larkin, you were never mine. Just as that mortal will never be yours. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. The pain of a shattered soul isn’t one you walk away from. It consumes you until you recognize nothing of yourself anymore.

This wasn’t Thanar. This was her fear given voice, reverberating against the walls of her mind. A less tangible enemy she hadn’t the faintest notion of how to conquer.

She turned on her heel and stormed toward the doors. Without so much as a backward glance, she abandoned her fear in that empty throne room.

Awareness pulled at Lark, and she opened her eyes. Gavriel still slept beside her, his chest slowly rising and falling with every breath. She reached out to run her knuckles against his jaw, stopping just short of making contact. It felt like an intrusion. Their easy touches suddenly seemed weightier. Like she was taking advantage of a soul bond between two humans that were long dead.

He will slip through your fingers, as you did mine.

Shaking the last vestiges of her dream, memories of that fateful day in Nereida’s throne room took hold of her thoughts. Of what they’d learned, deep in the bowels of the Netherworld. The truth of why she and Gavriel were inexplicably drawn to each other.

Beyond reason and logic, her soul had screamed for his. Their joining was the result of magic from lifetimes ago. It wasn’t Gavriel’s choice to be near her. His body vibrated with the same incessant need and drive as hers. Now each touch felt stolen, rather than granted. The thought drained the warmth from her blood.

Lark sat up and crept over his bedroll, soundlessly opening the flaps of their tent. The crisp air of a morning chasing Autumn’s call blasted her in the face. By midday, the sun would beat down on her back, driving away the chill. But for now, the cold air awakened her senses and sharpened her nerves.

She set about starting a fire, caring little for the tremor in her numb hands.

The same thoughts that haunted her, both waking and sleeping, unfurled in her mind. Nereida had Thanar and all his power at her beck and call. Images of him from before, great and terrible, to the crushing reality of what he was now. The pet to the Queen of the Netherworld. For as long as Lark could remember, she feared facing that same fate by his hand. But witnessing his downfall, the betrayal of his inner circle, and the trap Nereida had set long ago finally snapping shut, didn’t offer Lark any satisfaction. Instead, potent dread curled in her chest. A deep sense of foreboding before the storm.

Nereida had all she needed to tear down the veil—the only barrier to keep the demons and Undesirables from seeping into the mortal world and scorching the earth. Each night, Lark prayed to the skies to be granted one more day before the world fell. Too afraid to ask for more. One more day to get that much closer to Inerys, to find answers. 

If anyone knew how to restore the veil, it was her.

Lark had long since given up on contacting Solana, the Goddess she’d freed and then promptly been abandoned by. If there was one thing she’d learned to trust, it was that the gods cared little for the plights of mortals.

So she’d find Inerys, the witch of the woods, and with luck, she’d form a plan. An inkling of a plan, even. Anything to not feel so powerless.

Strong hands ran up her arms, startling her. Gavriel had a penchant for sneaking up on her, his movements silent from a life of training in the art of subterfuge. 

You’re up early, he said, his voice a deep rumble, thick from sleep, again.

She shrugged away from his touch, refusing to turn around to see if hurt flashed across his face. Even as the loss of his warmth ached in her chest. It seems my body has a bit of an internal schedule. Must be the cold.

He took a step toward her. If you’re cold, there are ways to remedy that. His mouth curved in a suggestive smirk, tugging the scar bisecting his lip. It still lit a warmth low in her belly, but this time, the accompanying guilt smothered the feeling as quickly as it came.

I’ve already remedied it, she said, turning away to sit by the fire.

So you have. He walked around the circle of their campsite, dropping to sit across from her, and facing her through the flames. Shall I cook us some apples?

Langford was the first one to introduce her to that particular delicacy. They’d all parted ways weeks ago, Langford and Alistair staying behind to study the ancient archives of the Great Library in Koval. She missed him fiercely. His easy presence, the way he calmed her whenever he was near. She supposed she missed Alistair, too. And the way he always made her laugh. She even longed to hear his daily argument with Daciana.

Lark’s heart clenched. Daciana had gone on her own journey, with no real indication of what she sought.

Soon enough, they’d reunite.

Well. Not all of them.

Losing Hugo was something Lark hadn’t recovered from. But that wound was one she’d face down another day.

She swallowed the thick swell of despair that crept up her throat. I’ll just have mine raw, thank you.

Gavriel’s face revealed nothing, though he busied himself with packing up camp.

If only she could find the right words.

Instead, they hung heavy in the air between them, unspoken.

Deep in the Emerald Forest, they crossed that familiar lake. The only disruption to its glassy surface were the ripples from each dip of the oar. Lark and Gavriel approached the shore where Inerys’ cottage stood. 

Nothing about the façade had changed; the walls were made of stones forced to align and jutting out at odd angles. Vines wrapped around the cottage—as though the magic Inerys practiced within its walls called, and the forest had no choice but to answer. Trees loomed over the small hut. Guarding. Hawthorns glimmered like rubies against the dense thicket along her home.

The simple relief of finding the place right where they’d left it eased the tightness in Lark’s chest. She wouldn’t put it past the witch to have found a way to pick up her entire home and hide it deeper in the forest where she’d never be found. Especially after what happened the last time they were here.

Images of Balan, black horns curling out of a shock of white hair, crept from the darkest corners of her mind. The memory of how easily he’d sent Gavriel flying with a wave of his hand. How his body had careened through the air like a rag doll. A shiver crept down Lark’s spine. She glanced at the boulder he’d hit his head against. The dark stain of his blood had washed from the stone since they were last here.

This was the life their soul bond had wrought. An existence rife with danger, a blade forever poised at their throats. 

Gavriel’s hand found hers as if sensing her thoughts. The scrape of his calloused palm against her own lit her nerves aflame. She almost melted into his warmth. The desire to turn into him and press her face against his chest overwhelmed her.

But she couldn’t be sure of where that impulse came from. Not anymore. She gently tugged her fingers free, heart fracturing at the look of hurt that crossed his face for the briefest instant.

The door was firm against Lark’s chapped knuckles, and its red paint was peeling off in long strips and cracks against the woodgrain. Inerys would know how to help. The witch was far more cunning than she let on. It was only a matter of willingness.

The groan of the door snapped Lark’s attention to the dark eyes peering out from behind it. Inerys’ gaze narrowed into sharp slits. Reaper. I thought I made it clear you were never to set foot here again.

Technically, she said never again would be too soon, but this was important.

I need your aid.

Inerys opened the door wide to regard her with an impressive glower. Wisps of her dark hair curled away from her forehead, and her scarlet gown complimented her bronze skin. She was lovely in all her displeasure of their visit. What have you done this time?

You might want to invite us in, it’s a long story.

CHAPTER THREE

LANGFORD

The dry pages of the dusty tome crinkled their familiar comfort. Langford ran a hand through his dark hair, untidy from the hours he spent tugging on it, and clenched his eyes shut. He needed to regain focus on the blurry words before him.

He’d been so excited to return to the Great Library of Koval. It had been ages since he’d visited—since he attended the university, in fact. Setting foot in the massive building rife with knowledge filled him to the brim with a baffling mixture of melancholy and bitter nostalgia. Bitter, because he couldn’t recall personal aspects of that time in his life fondly, but oh, the way the world had once seemed so vast. As if he had all the time in the world, and regret was a far-off notion reserved for the old.

He spent the first day on the upper balconies, peering down at the massive landscape of books. Stained cherry wood bookcases and tables, caught in an array of golds and reds, served as the burning beacon of knowledge begging to be devoured. Ornate paintings by the great Aureus Madizza spanned the ceilings—the artist, long gone but not yet lost to time. His work was magnificent, if a touch macabre for Langford’s taste. Violent, bloody battles of the war that divided the continents, somehow made beautiful by the stroke of Madizza’s brush.

It was humbling, that first day, surrounded by all the world had to offer. The promise of everything that could be—right at his fingertips.

But now the reality of Langford’s task, along with the constant headaches from squinting at ancient texts and soreness from hunching over for days, waned his excitement.

If only slightly.

He massaged his neck, glancing over at Alistair. He’d rested the side of his face atop a stack of irreplaceable tomes, quietly snoring. The short beard dusting his jaw was more prominent than usual, and his black hair hung in his face. Langford studied Alistair’s unguarded expression, smoothed of all the tension he wore as of late.

It wasn’t without cause. Especially if Alistair felt half as torn up about what transpired as Langford did.

Nothing had been the same since the Forbidden Shrine. The shame and humiliation still set the skin beneath Langford’s collar ablaze—his deepest desire made real, and the implications of what it meant. The life he secretly longed for. The love of a man who couldn’t see him as anything other than a friend. He still carried those memories of an entire year, of a life that never existed. Yearned for a time that never came to pass.

Langford had always relied on logic and reasoning to keep him grounded while the rest of the world fell to baser instincts. But he couldn’t even trust logic anymore. If he let himself dwell on thoughts of Alistair and the life they never shared, he’d unravel. The delicate balance, each tangible sense that insisted he was here, this was happening, would be thrown off kilter.

It was safer to stay focused on the task at hand.

He turned his attention back to the tome he’d been dutifully studying. He’d pored over countless volumes already, yet the answer he sought always eluded him.

After the news Lark brought from the Netherworld, of the imminent fall of the veil protecting the mortal realm, there was only one chance for survival.

They needed to kill Nereida, the Queen of the Netherworld. Even though she had Thanar, the master of death, at her beck and call. All while facing whatever monsters roamed freely once the invisible bulwark fell.

No pressure.

With luck, Lark and Gavriel would prevent this from ever coming to pass. But Langford couldn’t be sure if fate or chance had a hand in this.

And he wasn’t much of a gambling man.

Any advantage couldn’t be overlooked. If he could but discover a way to slay the unkillable, his insurmountable task would feel possible.

Nearly possible.

Langford’s gaze drifted from the page to once again regard Alistair and his rumpled clothes from days and nights spent in the library. The dirt and blood caked in the lines on his hands—hands far too elegant for his roguish skill set. Alistair stirred, as if sensing Langford’s blatant examination.

Langford averted his attention back to the ancient text, eyes snagging on the word Messorum. He hunched forward, bringing his face close enough his breath ghosted against the page.

Messorum Ferrum. 

Langford sat back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Trying to clear his vision of the tears his aching eyes conjured. 

Reaper Blade.

It might be something, it might be nothing, but one thing was certain:

He was going to need more tea to analyze this finding.

CHAPTER FOUR

DACIANA

It was odd how memory filled in the gaps. How easily one fell into old habits and behaviors. Traveling alongside Kenna—blazes, fighting alongside her—felt as natural as breathing.

A fact that crept along Daciana’s skin, unsettling her with the painful reminder of how easy it was to lose oneself.

Once they’d slain the Leśnik and pocketed the bounty, Kenna and Daciana made their way south. Back to the cluster of villages where Kenna might find couriers to send her letters to other hunters in warning.

Daciana slipped her hand into the fraying pocket of her favorite trousers, thumbing the stone from Hugo’s grave marker. Once Kenna contacted the other hunters, she’d go search for Lark and wait for the others. Kenna would leave, and her conscience would be clear.

Daciana worried her thumb over the smooth surface of the stone, not at all feeling better.

Full moon. Kenna ruptured the silence, glancing over her shoulder. We should stay out here until it passes. I’d hate for you to maul any potential clients.

I’m in full control of my urges. Daciana whipped her hand out of her pocket to grip the handle of her dagger. Patience. She exhaled a slow breath, searching for her center. It was always difficult to keep a steady hold on her reactions this close to her change. Being near Kenna wasn’t helping.

That’s a shame. Kenna offered her signature grin—the one that dimpled her cheeks.

Daciana turned away, ignoring the flood of heat to her cheeks, and leaned against a nearby tree. She hadn’t planned on staying with her this long, and the unspoken pull of her presence was already worrying. You can go into town without me. I’ve told you everything I had to say. The rest is up to you.

Is it now? Kenna crossed her arms, canting her head to the side. Her red hood had fallen away from her face, black wisps of hair hanging in her eyes. I’m not writing a damn word to anyone if you take off running now.

Daciana pushed off the tree fast enough, Kenna tensed. What exactly am I running from?

Lifting her chin, Kenna narrowed her eyes. I don’t even think you know anymore.

Every instinct in Daciana’s body screamed to assert she was the predator, that she had the advantage, but she remained utterly still.

Kenna continued. You’ll go with me and help me complete a few jobs, then I’ll chase your cause. I’m not abandoning people who need my help to clean up a mess your new friend made.

Daciana grasped Kenna by the throat, shoving her against the tree. She scarcely had time to register the action, but her own shock did nothing to dim the heat of anger in her blood. Beneath her anger, a thrum of need formed a heady undercurrent. It took every shred of Daciana’s control not to press her face against the flutter of Kenna’s pulse point when her breath hitched. You think to command me. When has that ever worked?

Even with a hand gripping her pale throat, Kenna rolled her eyes. It’s called a deal. Take it or leave it. You want the hunters’ aid? You’re going to help me first.

Daciana relaxed her hold. It’s your life’s calling to shield the world from these monsters. What right have you to hesitate?

Kenna placed her hand over Daciana’s, tightening her grip on her narrow throat as if in challenge. There are monsters everywhere. So long as I never stop fighting, I maintain my honor. Her hand fell away. Can you say the same?

Daciana released her, stepping back. The distance was an instant reprieve. And there’s honor in making coin off the misfortune of others?

I won’t apologize for being compensated each time I put my life on the line, but I get to choose where and when I do that. Kenna wet her lips. And I’m not dying for whatever war you’re starting. Not without a show of good faith.

Daciana’s heart hammered in her chest, blood simmering beneath her veins. The call of the moon beckoned. What exactly do you need faith in?

Kenna grinned—those damned dimples creasing her smooth cheeks. That when you save the world, there are humans left to enjoy it.

To the blazing nethers with this girl. She wouldn’t really refuse to alert the other hunters, would she? Daciana had no interest in calling her bluff. Perhaps it was weakness or selfishness. She had weeks to spare before Alistair and Langford would dock at the port. Lark was supposed to leave her a message at the Walden Inn and anywhere else she stayed to make it easier to track her down, but Daciana had time. Part of her wanted to send Kenna away, content she’d done her part and the rest was out of her hands. But a shameful part of her wasn’t ready to be alone once more.

Deal.

Daciana found a secluded spot to shift. After some convincing, Kenna swore not to come looking for her. Kenna was a lot of things, but she’d always kept her word.

In the nearby underbrush, a fox peered out. Daciana met its gaze, acknowledging another night bound hunter. The fox skittered away. Animals knew to steer clear of her. Their senses recognized her as the predator she was.

She rolled her shoulders, preparing for the immeasurable pain that was soon to be lancing through her veins. The price of her power. The curse of her blood—of her bloodline she sullied with one act of vengeance.

Her nerves fired, oversensitive and seeking the change. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rose, awaiting the moon’s command.

It was a terrifying and wondrous thing. Both a cage and unyielding freedom. To be so much and yet so bound. By time. By the skies.

She fell forward, gripping the earth between her fingers. Throwing her head back, she let a snarl slip free.

Here, she needn’t be human. Alone in the woods, under a sky that knew exactly what lurked beneath her skin. She needn’t be anything other than the monster she was.

The notice board in Whitebridge was littered with tacked pages. Some were listings for unwanted furniture in need of a new home, day laborers advertising their services, and far too many missing persons. Those notices were faded and yellowed with age.

Kenna scanned the listings, eyes roving and never landing. She had a way of absorbing information in constant motion. Her hand snatched a parchment half concealed, the drawing of a girl with dark skin and bright eyes. The artist captured the delicate curve of her mouth, as if she had a secret poised on the tip of her tongue. Beneath her portrait read one word: MISSING.

Daciana peered over Kenna’s shoulder, studying the image.

She was a beauty, a fact that meant little, but Daciana had learned never to ignore even the least significant of information.

Kenna hummed to herself.

What is it?

Kenna shook her head. I don’t know. This one’s strange. All the other notices detailed their clothing and where they were last seen. This one has nothing. No leads. Just a picture of a pretty girl. She angled her head questioningly. It’s curious, isn’t it?

Daciana studied the image. The girl was young, eyes smiling even in the drawn portrait. Whoever sketched this took great care to bring her to life.

Something knocked into her back. She turned to find a young boy sprawled on the ground, panting with a sheepish grin. Daciana helped him to his feet.

Thanks, missus, he said breathlessly. His large, round eyes caught sight of the parchment in Kenna’s hands. Oh, that’s Amara. He craned his neck, squinting to study their faces against the sunlight. You going to kill the beast?

What beast? Kenna stepped toward him.

The one that stole her away, he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Everyone knows about it.

Clarence!

Shit! That’s my mum, I gotta run, good luck! He sprinted away, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.

Well, that was strange. Daciana stared after him, his figure receding in the distance.

That is what I call a job opportunity. Kenna grinned, yanking her hood up over her head. Let’s ask around for any living relatives.

It didn’t take long to discover Amara’s only relative in the village was her father. But whenever they asked about the Beast, they were met with harsh glares and dismissive comments. Mad Felix weaved the tale of the Beast rather than admit his daughter ran away, they’d say.

Rumor had it Felix was an artist who drove himself mad by seeking to craft the perfect masterpiece. He’d experimented with his creations, heating and bending metals to create ghastly sculptures that would send a shiver down even the bravest of spines. But one day he sliced his hand on the sharp edge of a metal form, blood weeping from the wound. He began smearing it against his creation, weaving bits of himself in his own art.

That was the day he learned that a true masterpiece takes sacrifice.

He sliced off his own fingers and skewered them onto his sculpture.

His daughter, Amara, was also the subject of ridicule and gossip.

Everyone thought her a great beauty, but it was widely accepted she’d bargained with a demon to grant her limitless beauty and knowledge. In every trade within the village, she seemed to have a keen understanding of their mechanics. Every subject broached, she was teeming with expertise. Whenever anyone would ask where she learned such things, a small smile would cross her face, and she’d simply answer, I read it in a book.

The mad artist and his demon-dealing daughter weren’t the village’s most favored.

We’re actually going with the notion that a woman can only be beautiful and knowledgeable if she did, in fact, make a deal with a demon. Kenna stomped up the dirt path toward the dilapidated cottage where Felix lived. That’s what you’re going with?

Of course not, Daciana hissed, urging her to quiet her voice, lest they scare him off. I merely said we can’t overlook any detail they’ve shared with us.

What they’ve shared is a load of horseshit.

It was a load of horseshit, she wasn’t wrong. But perception was evidence of its own.

Daciana knocked on the wooden door. Painted flower blooms and vines ran up the wood grains in vibrant yellows and greens. They looked so real; she was tempted to run her fingers over them just to be sure.

Footsteps shuffled from within before the door groaned open. A man with dark umber skin and wild hair peered out at them, his eyes alight with alarm. Can I help you?

We wish to talk to you about your daughter, Daciana said. She’d been tempted to begin with pleasantries, but it seemed a waste of time.

He yanked the door wide, blinking at them owlishly. Thank Avalon! I thought no one would ever help me get her back from him.

From who? Kenna stepped forward, eying him cautiously. Who do you think has your daughter?

He lifted a trembling hand to run along his unshaven jaw. A Beast. A horrible, monstrous Beast.

CHAPTER FIVE

LARK

Inerys rubbed her temples. Her eyes slipped closed, dark hair falling over her face. Mud and soot blackened the hem of her scarlet gown. Lark gazed at it as she sat on the bench beside Gavriel, patiently awaiting the witch’s response.

So can you help us?

Patience never was Lark’s strength.

Inerys lifted her head to regard her with a pained expression. Extend me the courtesy of a moment to process. It’s not every day I’m informed of the impending arrival of the apocalypse.

They’d waited for more than a moment. After Lark had spewed the entire story, down to the last detail, Inerys sat in stunned silence. The longer they waited, the deeper Lark’s worry carved into the pit of her stomach.

I understand, Gavriel said, leaning forward, but time is a luxury we don’t exactly possess.

Very well, I’ll make this brief. Inerys leapt to her feet, and the floor groaned beneath her steps, muddy skirts swishing about her legs. I can’t prevent the fall of the veil, nor can I restore it. But in theory, there’s a way to remake it.

Lark released the breath that had been clenching in her chest. Thank the skies. What must be done?

This is all theoretical. It would be a new veil to prevent the dead from walking among the living. It would take considerable power. Power I don’t possess. To answer your question, yes, there’s a way to replace the veil once it falls. But it won’t be by my hand.

Whose then? Lark rose, careful to avoid knocking her shoulder into the shelf overflowing with glass vials and greenery. It didn’t matter if she left with more questions than answers, so long as she had a direction to travel in. Who has that power?

Inerys hummed, eyes darting between Lark and Gavriel as if she was mulling over her response. No one within your reach, I’m afraid. But perhaps there’s another reason you came to see me.

Gavriel glanced at Lark, studying her carefully.

Her heart sped up in her chest. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Don’t you? Inerys smiled, revealing a row of straight white teeth. I can’t believe I didn’t sense it before. Perhaps it was dormant. But now it’s almost ear-splitting how loud the bond between your souls screams. A true soul bond that transcended death. Remarkable. She placed a finger over her lips. Do you wish to retrieve those memories, long forgotten? The ones glimmering on the edge of your mind, just out of reach? Of a life once lived and lost?

Lark fought to temper her impatience. No, Inerys. I wish to halt the fall of the world. To save countless lives. To restore order and balance to a world threatened by chaos. That her heart fractured each time she looked at Gavriel was of little consequence. She would spend each breath fighting. Fighting for a way to right the wrong set in motion long ago. Ceto once asked what Lark was willing to sacrifice to make things right.

Everything.

Who has the power to create the veil? I don’t care if they’re out of reach. Give me a name. Give me something, Inerys.

Inerys studied her with her impossibly dark eyes. Her irises were nearly black, depthless. Lifetimes passed behind those eyes, and here she remained. Hidden from the world, in the heart of the forest. I don’t have a name, Inerys said finally, but I can tell you the source of power it requires.

Lark nodded, urging her to continue.

Gavriel remained seated, far too silent and still for Lark’s liking. As if he was on his own mission to absorb everything around him. Even words unspoken. His sharp jaw was clenched, a muscle feathering his cheek. His forest green eyes found Lark’s, and the unmistakable sensation of being analyzed swept over her.

There would be time to deal with that later.

How familiar are you with Vitas Conjuring? Inerys arched her brow.

Life Magic? Lark scoffed. Familiar enough to know it’s fallen into archaic myth. The practice died out long before her time. Such essence wielders drew magic beyond mortal limits. There was an essence in the blood they could call upon from the surrounding life—a guided sacrifice to uphold balance. She recalled Leysa once telling her of the wielders of old standing against the paragons, but it sounded more like a motivational speech than a true testament of history. You can’t actually mean to say there’s a wielder of any significance.

A small smile crept along Inerys’ mouth. Allow me to rectify your ignorance.

Lark bit the inside of her cheek, stilling her tongue from any sharp response. Warranted or not.

Vitas Conjuring, Life Magic, predates even the creation of the Netherworld. The creation of the Otherworld, where your kind is made. The practice was once revered for its impressive strength and wealth of power. To not be contained by one’s own earthly limitations, but to derive power from the essence of life. She shook her head. It was formidable even against the great warriors of Avalon, against the paragons you mortals seem so keen to worship. At this, she offered Gavriel a pointed glance.

How do you know so much about an ancient practice long dead? Lark asked, trying to slow the rising irritation of her own ignorance.

Because it serves as a cautionary tale. When I was green and untested, I longed to dive into the forbidden arts. To experiment with how much power my mortal body could handle. My mother made me study this forgotten history, this well-kept secret, to keep me from harm —she glared at Lark— and unlike you, I heed the warnings of my elders.

Lark ignored the witch’s misguided attempt to chastise her. There wasn’t a mortal walking this earth who could claim to be her elder.

"Apart from somniavi, Inerys continued, life wielders were the greatest threat among mortals."

So what changed? Lark asked.

Do you think the paragons of Avalon appreciated mortals grasping for power? Of leveling the proverbial hierarchy? Of ascending to their level and offering resistance? Inerys laughed humorlessly. The most prominent life wielders were rounded up and slain, entire bloodlines destroyed to protect the fragile egos of the paragons. After the warriors completed the Great Purge, the paragons took it even further. They created the Netherworld. The pit for human souls to languish after their lives were spent, withholding the gift of Avalon from any who hadn’t earned the right to ascend, as a reminder not to neglect offering their fealty. That was also when the first Reaper created the Otherworld.

Lark desperately tried to make the information fit with what she’d already known as a Reaper. Why had no one told her of the history of the Otherworld? The first Reaper, she said. It was Thanar.

Inerys nodded. Thanar was once a guardian of Avalon, a warrior in his own right. His disdain for the way mortals were treated resulted in his banishment. The King of Avalon—

Sargon! Lark blurted, unable to keep quiet.

Inerys cleared her throat. Yes, Sargon crafted Thanar’s punishment with great care. His love for the mortals would be rewarded with watching them die over and over and forever leading them to the pits of the Netherworld.

Lark’s head spun, her mind barely clutching each piece of the puzzle, hastily fitting together to grant the whole messy picture. We were told it was unknown where souls went. Fate kept their destination a secret.

Inerys shook her head, a sad smile on her face. Probably a lie forged for comfort.

Lark glanced down at Gavriel, at his clenched fist at his thigh. She had the sudden urge to grab it, to yank him to his feet and forget about all of this. The end of the world. The lies crafted to keep them forever in darkness. Forget everything and try to find some small semblance of light. If only for a moment.

Fate does play a hand in all of this… but the threads of fate aren’t unpredictable. There is a source. Someone has to pull the strings.

Lark pushed the dread back down her throat, focusing on Inerys, her anchor point. It was too much, all of it. She needed to stay focused on the task at hand or else be swept away by the casual unraveling of everything she’d ever known.

But there are some who reject fate. Solana crafted Arcadia, the peaceful afterlife in the Netherworld.

Inerys nodded. She did, and she was punished.

Sargon banished her to the Forbidden Shrine and relegated her to live as an ancient relic that granted wishes. Her only hope for freedom was to destroy the