Chapter 10

T his time, the transition feels instant. One moment I'm fighting unconsciousness, the next I'm a spark of awareness in the dark of The Dreaming.

Wolf is there, as promised. He trots over to me, nuzzling me with his cold wet nose, and suddenly I have a body, and all around me is a shadowy gray haze and something firm underfoot. There is no sense of substance, however, no texture or temperature.

Sparrow, " he says, and somehow, his voice becomes physical, no longer merely soundless words in my mind but a physical sound hitting my eardrums.

"I've never had a body here before," I say, hearing my voice.

"My mana affects you. I am of The Dreaming, and so you become physical, here, when you are with me, if I wish."

"You are the wolf, here. But yet you can speak?"

A doggy grin, jaws open, tongue lolling. "Anything is possible, here. We are closer to the source of maya. Mana becomes maya. Prana becomes maya. In some ways, The Dreaming is maya."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"No matter. You are here with me. That is what is important."

I'm nude, which is not strange or embarrassing. Even with Aeldfar, I am generally not even aware of my nudity. I have been naked for so long that it now seems almost strange to consider wearing clothing.

"Walk with me," Wolf says.

"Where?"

He yips, a short sharp sound. "Here. Where else?"

The haze is more like fog, now. Swirling, eddying around us as he ambles away and I follow, trotting to catch up. The swirling fog is dense, the world silent. For a while, Wolf merely walks through the fog. There is no light—or rather, the light is dim and sourceless.

And then, I feel something underfoot. A kind of grittiness, shifting with each step. Sand? I look down, but the fog eddies around my feet, obscuring them.

A sound reaches my ears, next. Soft, faint, a constant susurrus, a washing, gentle rush, a soft crash: waves upon a shore.

Beside me, Wolf glances up at me, tongue lolling happily, as if there's nowhere he'd rather be than here, now, with me.

I smile back.

It is peaceful, here. The bloodmate sickness is gone—well, no. If I strain, I hear him—Caspian, chanting my name as a plea.

I can't—I fucking can't .

Instead, I listen to the rush of the distant, invisible waves. Feel the sand shifting and crunching and squeaking underfoot. A memory of a trip Mom and I took together not long after moving to LA bubbles up inside my soul. We drove north along the PCH, following the iconic western shore. We found a turnoff and hiked down a narrow, winding, steep path to the beach. Down there, the cliffs towered on our right, lined with firs and pines, and the Pacific crashed noisily on our left, the water tickling our feet and washing around our ankles.

The rushing, crashing of waves becomes louder and more distinct as we walk together. The shifting sand underfoot becomes cool and damp. The fog thins. An enormous shape resolves in the fog—a boulder the size of a house. As we walk past it, I place my palm on the stone and it is cold and wet—my hand comes away glistening.

I look left and can almost make out the waves and the shorelines—it's as if they've been sketched in outline but not filled in yet.

We trudge onward through the sand, the icy seawater lapping at my ankles. A driftwood tree trunk appears in the fog, glistening wet, dripping with rain—my hair is damp, sticking to my cheeks. I smell the rain—smell the sea.

Beside me, Wolf looks at me with a thoughtful expression, eyes bright. See what I did? the expression says.

"Who are you, Maeve Sparrow?" Wolf's voice is the man's voice, deep and rough and dark and dense with power and confidence.

"I'm me."

"And who is that?"

I shrug. "I'm not sure what you're asking. Who are you ?"

He breaks into a lope, trotting ahead a few steps, and then there's a flash of amber light and Caleb is prancing backward, arms held out in a flourish. "I'm me. I am Wolf, and I am man. I am Caleb." He slows to let me catch up—he's naked as well. It isn't odd, in the way of dreams, but it is distracting because he is a stunningly perfect specimen of male power and beauty. "I am a pack leader, the alpha. I am a man who mourns his lost lover, a wolf who mourns his lost mate. I am an immortal who has been wronged by the Tribunal. I am a malcontent seeking revolution." He stops, turns to face me, and his eyes—as tawny and amber as his hair and his fur and the light of his magic—fix on me, on my eyes…and flit down my body, and they see me, and suddenly I am aware of myself, as a woman, and the object of his obvious desire, and my nudity. "And I am a man, walking with a beautiful woman."

"You are different here than you were in The Waking, when you captured me," I say, watching his expression.

"Yes. For many reasons. I am more truly myself here than I am in The Waking, in some ways. That is one reason." He turns away and resumes walking, and we're close enough that our hands knock and brush; mine twitches, as if threatening to tangle with his. "But then, when I first finally found you in The Waking, I had to steel myself. I had to do what was necessary to save my pack even though I knew it would cause you unimaginable pain and suffering."

"How do you know they haven't already killed them?" I ask.

"I can feel them. It is like a mate-bond. If they were dead, I would have felt their death, and I would feel their absence. They are alive." He shakes his head. "The Tribunal hopes I will attempt a rescue. They wish to harness my power in The Waking, forcing me to do their bidding—as they did to capture you. I knew I had to do what was necessary, even though it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. So, I had to become as stone. Now, I may be free to be myself with you."

"I see." I look at him. "Your mate died?"

He nods, and I feel the sorrow wash through him in a palpable force. "She was a firefighter. She died in the towers when they fell on Nine-Eleven." He looks at me. "She was a chosen mate, not a bonded mate. But I loved her greatly, and I mourn her still." A long silence. "I spent nearly three years as Wolf, in The Waking, unable to cope with her death."

"I'm sorry."

"I was almost unable to find my man-shape. I had to relearn how to be a man again. I still struggle with it, sometimes. That is another reason I behave so differently as Caleb in The Waking."

"I don't understand how that works, honestly. Man, wolf…Caleb, and Wolf as in, like, a name."

He huffs a laugh. "It is not a name. It is a statement of identity. It is just the only way your OnceBlood mind can receive it. Another shifter—TwiceBlood, we call ourselves—would sense the identity more fully. Animals use their senses to perceive the world—senses other than sight, I mean—and so, as a shifter, do I. My identity, to another animal or shifter, is not just my body, as in my appearance, but my scent, and a dozen other factors that there are no human words for."

"I suppose that makes sense. But, why TwiceBlood? What does that mean?"

"It means we shifters have two selves but one soul. My wolf and my man are one being. I live in The Waking and I live in The Dreaming at the same time. I exist in both, always. I do not move from one to the other as you do. Right now, my body sleeps, as a wolf, beneath a tree. In a while, I will wake and I will hunt, even if I am still here with you. If I were to change back to my wolf, here and now, my man would be sleeping beneath the tree."

"Are you…like… aware of yourself in your other body?"

A bob of his head, side to side. "In a manner of speaking. I am less attuned to my wolf self right now. When I am in The Waking, as man, my wolf is here, doing wolf things, and I am less attuned to him. There is an awareness, but it is less. My focus can only divide so far."

"I sort of get it."

"None but a shifter can truly comprehend it. We do not truly comprehend it. We just…live it." He thinks for a while. "You are here in your spirit. Your body, in The Waking, is…not empty, but sort of. Your soul is here, so you are here. When you are in The Waking, you are not here in body or spirit. It is one or the other, for you. For me, not so. Thus, we are The TwiceBlood people."

We walk in silence, then, for a while.

"Tell me about your mother," he says.

"She was everything to me. I'm learning so much about her now that…that I just never saw, because she hid it from me."

"Tell me of the woman you knew." A pause. "Please?"

I look at him. His tawny eyes are piercing, warm, and interested. "Why?"

"I wish to know you. You dreamed of her quite often."

"It's a little weird that you stalked me in my dreams," I say.

He growls, an unhappy sound. "I did not stalk you. To stalk is to hunt. Wherever I went in The Dreaming, there you were. I did not seek you out. I did not hunt you—I did not need to. For, it seemed to me that you, in a way I have never and still do not understand, sought me out."

"Oh." I walk a few paces in silence. "Where do I even begin to explain Mom?"

He allows the silence to grow, to breathe, to be.

"She was gentle," I say, my voice soft. Sorrow bubbles up, and grief. "She had this way of being firm about things without ever raising her voice or getting angry or even frustrated, no matter what I did or how badly I behaved. I think it…I think I learned to listen to her early on because I just never wanted to make her sad, or upset with me." I think some more. "Everyone liked her. Men especially were attracted to her. I mean, she was stunning, so of course they were. But everyone just… loved her and wanted to be around her. People in checkout lines at the store would want to talk to her. People on the street would stop her as if she were famous. There was always at least one teacher or staff member at every school who was in love with her."

My voice wavers. My eyes sting.

"She was so strong. I never, ever felt lonely. I hated moving as much as we did, but she always made wherever we were feel like home. Because… she was home." I let the tears fall. "She was home."

His hand finds mine, his huge rough palm engulfing mine, squeezing gently. The power in his hand is obvious: he could squeeze water out of a rock, it seems like, yet his touch is exquisitely gentle.

His fingers tangle with mine. And we just walk together, in silence. The water laps, laps, laps. Sand squelches. Sticks to my toes, my ankles. The water is cold, but the ache is refreshing. I cannot see the sky, but I know it's there. I cannot see the sun, but I feel its heat.

"Your mate?" I murmur. "What was she like?"

"Fierce," is his immediate reply. "Fearless. She lived to save lives—mortal lives. It was an obsession. When she was just a pup, a little girl, her parents were killed by hunters. They saw wolves, and…" he shrugs. "She was so young she was helpless, still. A mortal boy found her, brought her home, and raised her."

I frown. "I thought immortals didn't come into their powers until puberty?"

He shrugs. "Fae and vampires, perhaps. TwiceBlood are different. Our ability to shift into the body of an animal is not a power, like your ability to cast glamours as a fae, or move with vampiric speed. Our animal is who we are. But shifting itself is something that must be taught. It is not instinctive, nor is it simple. So my mate, Susannah, she was born a wolf. This is less common now, but it was quite common then."

"When was this?"

"Early eighteen hundreds."

" After the treaty?"

He nods. "Her mother took a mortal lover when her mate was gone hunting—he was gone for many months, as was common at that time."

"Did she…?" I trail off.

"Kill him? Yes. He was a seafarer. His ship wrecked off the shore near where she lived, and he lived on the beach for several weeks before her mother found him. Her father loved her as his own."

"So the hunters who killed Susannah's parents…"

"Were very likely Tribunal executioners, yes. Susannah never knew for sure, because there was a small mortal settlement in the region, and OnceBlood wolves did prey on their livestock. So it could have been mortal hunters, but I've never thought it the likely option." He shrugs. "She was raised as a dog, essentially, by the mortal boy for many, many years. I doubt she ever realized she was more when she lived with Roger. He always thought she was just the smartest wolf who ever lived, since she very clearly understood him, far beyond simple commands like most canines."

"So how did she find her woman?"

"Roger was killed in a train robbery. The grief and rage just…broke something in her, and she shifted. There on the train. She tore the bandits apart limb from limb with her bare hands. She was…she spent a long time finding her humanity. Eventually, she was found and taken in by a pack in the Southwest and taught the TwiceBlood ways. But she never forgot Roger, how he saved her and loved her, and it became an obsession with mortals. She loved them and felt it was her duty and destiny to save them. So she became a wartime nurse. She served in the Mexican-American War and The Civil War here in the US, and then in many, many conflicts overseas in Europe and throughout the world. Her packmates were men and thus were warriors, so they fought on the fronts and she served in the hospitals. Once women were allowed to serve as first responders, that was always her chosen profession. Police, fire, or medic."

"She sounds amazing."

"She was. But it is common for shifters to choose what mortals these days call blue-collar jobs. It is what we are drawn to. We can hide our greater strength more easily—and utilize it. Fae are drawn to the arts, and vampires to business. It is not a hard and fast distinction, but holds largely true."

"Alistair is a history professor," I say.

He nods. "Your coven elder is a unique vampire."

"He is? How so? I haven't met any others." I wince. "At least, none that I haven't had to then kill."

"Alistair strives for humanity. He is a human, before all else. Most vampires I have known are…not so. They are vampire first and human second." A shrug. "They are OnceBlood. Alistair embodies much of the spirit of the TwiceBlood people. I admire him."

"How do you know him?" I ask.

We're still holding hands. It soothes me—comforts me. In this place, he is all there is, and that is a comforting thing. Out there, in The Waking? There are so many demands on my mind, on my body, on my emotions—on me . There's grief for Mom, there's the bloodmate sickness, the revolution—apparently—and being imprisoned by the Tribunal and the cuffs and the ward and my grandfather and my magic and the whole immortal world…

Here?

Just me and Caleb. The Dreaming. The sweet, gentle silence of the depthless black. The warmth of the nothingness, the embrace of the shadows, the slow timeless quickening absence of all things but self.

"Our packmate bond is very similar to a bloodmate bond," Caleb says, apropos of nothing, after many minutes of quiet strolling along the ghostly gray shore. "There is no sexual or romantic element to it—it is purely platonic, a brotherhood and sisterhood. But, like your bloodmate bond, it is powerful, and as the word suggests, binding. Without them, I…" he shakes his head slowly, searching for words. "I am going mad. I must free them." He looks at me. "You must free them, Sparrow." He says my last name like a caress, an endearment rather than merely my last name.

"I hear them," I whisper. "My mate, my coven. Caspian most of all. He needs me. He's in pain without me. But if I so much as speak his name out loud, the ward hurts me. It threw me across the room and broke my arm in three places—I healed myself, but I passed out in the process, which is why I'm here in The Dreaming."

He looks at me sharply. "You healed yourself?"

I nod. 'Yes. Why?"

"It's thought to be impossible."

"Well, I did it, but…" I shrug, and sigh. "I got dizzy and passed out. My prana acted weird, too. I'll have to ask Aeldfar about it."

"Who?"

"My grandfather."

He smiles. "Ah." He nods. "Yes. He will know if anyone will. But I would be cautious of repeating that. Being what you are, your abilities are largely unknown."

"It was weird. But I figured it better to use prana, which I have a lot of, than blood, which I do not. And once I run out of blood, I can't touch my prana."

"Oh?"

"I'm glad you're here," I say.

He just nods. Squeezes my hand. "You are the first female I have felt a connection to since Susannah died." He lets out a breath. "My packmates…they are females, but…they aren't women , to me. Do you understand what I mean?"

I nod and squeeze his hand. "Yes, I understand." I swallow hard. "I just…I have a mate , Caleb."

He holds up our joined hands, looks at them, and then at me. "Do you feel this to be wrong?"

I shrug. "It's a dream. I don't know. I…I've been so scared and I've endured so much pain, and I…you…being here with you…I can breathe. I can catch my breath. The bloodmate sickness is quieter, here."

"You are of the Blood, Sparrow," he says. "Mortal ways are not your ways."

I laugh. "I know. I'm feeling that out. It was weird at first, feeling the things I felt, not just for Caspian but his coven brothers, and Alistair. Being attracted to them, wanting them, being wanted by them, but still feeling the love and loyalty for Caspian." I wave a hand. "I'm still learning to accept it—or, I was before all the crazy shit happened."

He pulls his hand away from mine, stops walking, turns to face me, and takes my shoulders in his hands. "You make your own path, Maeve Sparrow. There has never been one of the Blood like you. What is right? What is wrong? You decide. Caspian is your mate, and you are blood-bonded. You have your coven, and they are good men. I have watched them, here and in The Waking. But…" he trails off, brows knitting in thought. " You found me , Sparrow. The Dreaming is infinite. It is…it is every world and none. And in all of that, here I am with you. Why do you think that is?"

"You think it is fate?" I whisper.

"Who can know the ways of fate until after the deeds are done? Not I. But I do not think it is a coincidence, no. We are here, together. And I think it is for a purpose."

"But…Caspian."

He is closer. Bigger. Warmer. His breath smells like glacier streams and winter days and blood—a sweet smell, to a vampire. His hands clasp my shoulders, holding gently. A spark shivers down my skin at his touch, and the longer he holds my skin, the more sparks fly. I can almost see them arcing off my flesh.

His amber eyes are liquid pools, depthless and fathomless and wild. He is not tame, even as his man. He is animal. He is primal.

The mores of human relations, then…do they apply?

I don't know.

Here, in this gray, foggy landscape, cocooned in silence and alone in all the endless world, he is everything.

It is the easiest, simplest, and most natural thing in the world, then, to kiss him.