Chapter 3

I t turns out just getting to Atlanta is a nightmare. Shit, getting from the estate outside London to Manchester is an ordeal by itself. The highways circling London and leading out of it are jammed with people trying to get anywhere but London, with much of the backup caused by people who simply gave up and abandoned their cars. The M1 is completely impassable, as is the M40, requiring us to rely on GPS—which cuts out randomly as satellite support falters—to navigate the back roads far enough away from the snarled disaster around London. Four hours after our departure, we finally can get on the M40 near Birmingham—a distance we could have covered in half that time under normal circumstances.

We make it to the airfield outside Manchester after seven hours of travel—fortunately, Alistair had foreseen this and we'd left ourselves eight hours for the trip, fully double what it should have been.

Along the way across the English countryside, we saw plenty of evidence of the troubles—smoke rising from villages and towns in the distance, a burned-out hulk of a semi—or as they call them here, lorry—overturned and hanging halfway off an overpass; groups of mortals trudge along the shoulder of the M40 here and there, carrying meager belongings on their back and in their arms, watching us pass with fearful suspicion. We pass a lone fae male near Birmingham, carrying nothing but a backpack, his hair hacked off, bruises staining his face, and his arm in a sling. When we slow to talk to him, he just stares at us without a word until we carry onward with a shrug.

Manchester burns in the distance—explosions and white-gold flares of magic light up the night sky.

The jet idles noisily on the single runway, a mobile staircase snugged up to the doorway. There's no one waiting, so we leave the vehicles parked near the hangar and board the jet. The pilot is a vampire, unblooded, about Alistair's age, a clean-cut male with short brown hair and a neat goatee, his eyes voided, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a ballcap. He watches us board from the doorway to the cockpit, and then once we're all seated, he closes and secures the door.

"My name is Absalom," he says in a clipped, precise British accent. "Please find a seat, buckle in, and prepare for takeoff."

With that, he closes the cockpit door and locks it, and then we hear the engines whine as they spool up.

The flight across the Atlantic is uneventful and long—the pack takes over the TV, playing an action trilogy back to back to back, chattering, laughing, and teasing each other. Even Sierra, as long as she doesn't accidentally look at me, engages with her pack with an easy, familial humor that surprises me; she's funny in a biting, sarcastic, acerbic way.

Caleb sits across from me in a rear-facing seat with my feet on his lap, idly massaging my feet and staring into space as if lost in thought—beside me, Caspian reads a thick fantasy novel while I practice simple conjurations.

The trouble starts when we get close to Atlanta. The pilot pops open the door and sticks his head out. "We've been ordered into a holding pattern," he tells us. "Hang tight; it could be a long wait."

A long wait indeed—we circle for two hours before they clear us for landing, and then we sit on the runway for another two. We can see a line of jets ahead of us and stacking up behind us, wing and taillights flashing. Callahan snarls something about getting out and walking.

And then the real fun begins. Once we're finally allowed to disembark, we carry our luggage—none of us packed more than a duffel bag—into the concourse and join the horde of travelers. The airport is utter mayhem. Gate agents have given up—the lines at every gate are so long one is indistinguishable from the next. Every seat is taken, with more people sleeping on the floor, backs against walls and pillars and family members.

A few feet away, between two gates, a couple of mortal males start shoving and shouting—I hear something about an outlet—and it quickly turns into a fistfight. No one stops it—not even the terrified-looking security guard less than fifty feet away, armed with a taser and pepper spray.

"Attention," a voice announces from overhead, "all outbound flights have been canceled. Gate agents have no additional information at this time. All flights, international and domestic, have been grounded. Repeat, all outbound flights have been canceled…"

Caspian glances at me. "Getting back to England could be tricky."

I scan the chaos. "Getting out of this airport could be tricky. Getting to New York could be tricky. Getting to England?" I shake my head. "There's gonna be a rush at the car rental counter. We should hustle and see if we can get one."

"One?" Caleb barks a laugh. "Good luck fitting all of us in one car, unless they have a church van."

We reach the rental counter, but judging by the mayhem, we're too late. There are two clerks behind the counter and at least sixty people in what could be termed lines but is more like an angry conglomeration.

"I'm sorry, sir," one of the clerks says to the man at the counter. "But we're sold out. We have nothing. No cars."

There's a sign made on MS Word, printed out, and taped to a piece of cardboard, stating "NO CARS AVAILABLE."

"Then why is the counter open?" The customer demands.

The clerk, a thin, reedy, acne-pocked teenager, throws up his hands. "I don't fuckin' know, man. I'd LOVE to go home. All I know is we ran out of cars an hour ago."

"My brother is dying," the customer says. "This is my last chance to see him before he goes. You have to have something! Anything! I'll take a goddamn bicycle."

The clerk winces. "I'm sorry, man. I feel for you. I just can't give you what I don't have."

Caleb, beside me, leans forward, his nose twitching. "He's a shifter," he murmurs under his breath. "This could get messy in a second."

"FUCK!" The man—huge, at least six-six, with mountains of muscle under a thick layer of padding, shaggy black hair, and a bushy beard—grips the edge of the counter in his massive hands.

The counter cracks under his grip and his huge shoulders heave with ragged, straining breaths.

"FIND ME…A FUCKING… CAR !" he bellows so loudly that the cardboard sign wobbles and tips over.

The clerk, a mortal barely out of childhood, quails, paling, and staggers backward. "The fuck? Fuck! He's—he's—he's a fucking werewolf!"

The shifter's head snaps up. "What did you just fucking call me?"

"Oh, fuck." Callahan sighs. "Little mortal dude is dog meat."

The enormous shifter growls, a rattling sound that makes the floor shake. Around us, mortals press away from the distraught male. Fur sprouts on his neck and his shoulders bulge and swell. His jeans split down the thighs with an audible rip, and his shirt shreds into tattered ribbons of cotton. Amber light flares, momentarily blinding, and then an eight-foot-tall grizzly bear stands towering over the counter, claws like sabers, roaring in fury.

"Caleb." I gesture at the bear. "Go do your Alpha Prime thing."

Caleb glances to the side—tracking the cell phones recording what's happening. "Fuck." He steps forward into the open space around the berserk, roaring, slavering grizzly. "HEY!"

The bear pivots, muscle and fur shaking as he lands on all fours and stomps toward Caleb, growling and rumbling with each step.

" HALT ." Caleb's voice snaps, magically loud and quivering with authority.

Everyone, mortal and immortal, freezes in place. I glance left and see the mortals can't even blink.

The bear shuffles to a halt, its giant snout a foot away from Caleb. He snuffles in confusion and then makes a growling sound in his chest.

"Shift back." Caleb's voice is calm and quiet, conversational. "You don't want to do this, friend. Not here, not now."

"RRRrrrfffff." He sounds irritated in an ursine way; he plops down on his haunches as if the wind has gone out of his sails.

"Shift back." Caleb reaches out a hand and rests it on the bear's head. "You won't get where you need to go like this."

With a great snarling whuff of annoyance, the enormous bear seems to shrink—although not by much. Amber light blazes and the man is left crouching, naked, in the center of the open space.

"Callahan, give him something to put on," Caleb orders.

Callahan drops his duffel bag, unzips it, rifles through it for a minute, and then tosses the shifter a pair of big, baggy gym shorts. The shifter catches them, glancing around the room as if just now realizing how much an audience he has: there's an additional crowd beyond the doors, recording with cell phones raised overhead.

"Shifters, circle up." Caleb steps forward, and immediately, all the rest follow suit, circling around the shifter to provide privacy so he can put on the shorts.

When he's dressed, nominally at least, they step back. The shifter is visibly shaken up.

He turns to the clerk. "I apologize for my behavior. You did nothing wrong. Please forgive me, my friend."

The teenage clerk seems taken aback. "I…I…yeah, no—no problem. Forgiven. I wish I could help you, I just…I can't."

Turning back to Caleb, he drops to one knee, head bowed. "My thanks, Alpha. I wish your intervention had not been necessary. I am not myself, with my mother's death weighing so heavily on me."

Caleb claps the man on the shoulder. "We've all been there, my friend. Having a brother is rare in our world. You should be with him. What's your name?"

He rises to his feet. "Nico." NEE-co. "He's my half-brother, sort of. My father sired me on a female servant before the treaty, and my mother—my father's mate—bore my brother by a male stablehand, also before the treaty. We were raised as brothers."

"How does he come to be dying?" Channing asks. "I've not heard of a shifter taking ill."

Nico shakes his head. "Not ill. Wounded fighting the Mortal Federation in New York. Too wounded to survive."

I glance at Caleb, and we don't need to even speak mentally to come to an agreement. "We're bound for New York ourselves, Nico," I say. "Please, join us."

Nico frowns at me as if seeing me for the first time or as if weirded out by being addressed by a non-shifter. "Who are you?"

I smile at him. "My name is Maeve."

Saige steps toward him. "She is Maeve Sparrow, the WorldBreaker and the Once-Mortal Queen. We go to New York to address the Mortal Federation and bring an end to the hostilities."

Whispers and murmurs rise at her words. Part of me wishes she hadn't announced me here, like this, in this context.

"Thank you, Saige." I move toward Nico and place my hand on his forearm. "She speaks truly, Nico. And we would be honored to have you with us."

He stares down at me with an inscrutable expression. "They shot him. He wasn't shifted. He wasn't doing anything—he was just there. It was a protest."

"I know. But if you come with us, do not think this is a mission of revenge. I will avoid open warfare if at all possible."

"They say the immortals there are calling themselves the Army of the Once-Mortal Queen."

I nod. "So they say. They fight in my name, but I've not commissioned them to do so. That's the other reason I'm headed there—to find out who is organizing armies in my name."

He glances at Caleb, then at me. "You command an Alpha Prime?"

I shake my head. "Not command, no. He is my true, bonded mate." I rest a hand on Caspian's shoulder. "As is he."

Nico's eyes widen. "A shifter bonded to a fae?"

I grin. "Haven't you heard? I'm no fae, Nico. I'm a vaer—half vampire, half-fae. And yes, I'm bonded to an Alpha Prime." I gesture with a sweep of my hand at the pack. "And this is his pack."

"Not your pack?"

I shake my head and shrug. "I'm not a shifter. I can feel them through my bond with Caleb, but no. They're not my pack—they're his."

"Yet they follow you?"

Saige answers. "We do follow her—not because our Alpha commands it, but because we choose to. She fought the Tribunal itself to rescue us. She saved our Alpha, she saved us, and I believe she will save our world. You can do no better than to follow her."

Conjure the mark , Caleb says mentally.

I conjure the mark of fealty with a flourish. Saige is the first to place her palm on the glowing golden-white ball. "I swear my eternal fealty to you, Maeve; I pledge my life and death in willing service to your cause and your court."

I hold her eyes. "Thank you, Saige." I swallow hard. "And you're right—I do need a girlfriend. I'm happy it's you."

She blinks a few times and then slams into me, her strong smooth arms wrapping around my neck. After a moment, she lets go and backs up, smiling.

Colin repeats Saige's vow as he takes my mark. One by one, the rest follow suit—Channing, Callahan, and Colin.

Sierra is last, standing slightly apart. She's dressed in skintight black leggings with a black tunic belted at the waist, the hem hanging just below her backside, and calf-height, well-worn combat boots. Her waist-length raven-black hair has been intricately braided into a crown around the top of her head and then falling loose and glossy down her back—Saige's handiwork, I'd guess.

She's a stunning, intimidating woman, I admit. Powerfully built, immensely strong, curvy, and breathtakingly beautiful, she radiates feminine lethality. Right now, she's glaring at me with a hard, cold expression that outright dares me to fuck with her.

I face her with the mark hovering above my right hand. I smile. "The mark is voluntary, Sierra. I offer it to you even though I know what you will answer."

She uncrosses her arms and flips me off with both hands. "Fuck your mark and fuck you." She spits at my feet and slings her bag over her shoulder with a hard look at Caleb. "Compel me, Alpha. I fucking dare you."

Caleb only stares at her with sadness in his eyes. "Your jealousy is eating your soul, Sierra. You weaken the pack with your anger." He strides over to her, and touches the index and middle finger of his right hand to her forehead. "I free you of your bond to this pack, Sierra Mackenzie Hendricks. I command you no more. Choose your own path."

The entire pack gasps audibly as one.

Sierra's eyes widen, her mouth flaps open and closed, and then tears spurt from her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. "Caleb—no. No."

I look around and realize this entire exchange is being live streamed—I throw up my hands to waist high with a flourish, casting a glamour that envelops us in a dome of light, shielding us, giving us privacy.

Caleb holds her gaze. "I have known of your feelings for decades, Sierra. I have done nothing to encourage them, hoping you would understand." He softens, steps closer, and cups her biceps in his hands. "You are a good woman, a powerful, skilled shifter, and an invaluable member of our pack, Sierra. I haven't broken the bond…yet. You have six months to choose your path—get over your jealousy and anger and rejoin the pack, or cling to your feelings and reject the bond." Sierra opens her mouth to speak, but Caleb cuts over her, silencing her without magic or compulsion. "I love you, Sierra—as a friend, as a sister, and as my pack-mate. But you will not disrespect my mate again. Ever . She has done nothing to you. She has been endlessly understanding and forgiving—far beyond what your behavior warrants."

"Caleb—Alpha, please." She sounds…broken.

"Figure your shit out, Sierra. Six months." He looks around, seeing the shield I cast. "Even now she considers your feelings, after you cursed her and spat at her. You're better than this."

He nods at me, and I lower the dome. The crowd remains, watching, rapt. I wonder if the glamour shielded sound as well as sight—I didn't specify, so I don't know.

Caleb scans the crowd. " DISPERSE ." The word is laced with authority none can ignore, certainly not mortals. Within seconds, we're alone at the rental counter.

He shoulders his bag. "We'll have to walk for now. Pack—move out."

Callahan, Channing, Colin, and Saige follow him away from the counter and toward the exit. Caspian eyes me—I nod at him, and he follows them. Caleb goes with him, as does Nico.

That leaves me alone with Sierra. She stares at me, tears in her eyes. She looks lost, stunned.

"You've taken everything from me," she whispers. "Before you came along, at least I had hope, even though I knew he'd never love me back. Now, not only do I not have that, I don't even have my pack."

I sigh. "I'm not one of the Fates, Sierra. I didn't choose to be his mate. I had no more choice in that than you had in not being his mate. I'm truly, truly sorry."

Her lip quivers. "Why are you so fucking nice all the goddamn time?"

"I never had friends growing up. It was just me and my mom, and because she was hunted by the Tribunal we moved every few months. Having a coven, having mates…and now having a pack around me? It's a gift, Sierra." I hold her eyes. "I'll tell you a secret: I have no fucking clue what I'm doing. I'm just…I'm trying to be a good person. I'm trying to make the best decisions I can with what's in front of me. All of this just…it got dumped in my lap and I'm just trying to figure it out. I never wanted to take anything from you. I can't change how you feel, or Caleb. He's my mate. I didn't ask for it or choose it, but I do love him. I know that hurts you, and I'm sorry. I don't want you to leave. They're your pack—your family. We can be cordial or even just ignore each other. But I can't keep dealing with your anger—I have too much else on my plate. If you can't get over hating me, you'll have to make a choice and deal with the consequences—it isn't my place to tell Caleb what to do with his pack."

"But you could. You could ask him to take me back."

"Perhaps, but I wouldn't. And I don't think you would want me to, in the long run. And besides, Sierra, he didn't kick you out—he gave you the time and freedom to sort yourself out. If you can't be around me or him, leaving the pack might be the kindest option. I don't know. Maybe you just need some time. And if time is what you need, then he gave you that time away from the pack without risking bond-sickness."

She winces, nodding. "He did that for Connor after his father died. That's why he went down with the Apaches." She rubs her face with both hands. "I've been with the pack since my first shift. I don't know what to do or where to go."

"Whatever you do and wherever you go, Sierra, just be careful. It's dangerous out there for immortals. And just know that as far as I'm concerned, you're always welcome. I'm only speaking for myself." I glance after the others—Saige trails behind, watching our conversation with concern. "We all must choose our paths, Sierra. Now, you choose yours."

I move past her and trot to catch up with the others, my bag bouncing off my hip.

Saige stares after Sierra, walking backward, eyes misting. She waves once, and Sierra waves back, and then the current of hurrying mortals moves between us.

"She's my sister," Saige whispers. "She's my girl—my ride or die. I know she's difficult, but…"

"I have a feeling she'll join us sooner rather than later," I say. "I think she just needs some time alone to figure herself out. Caleb knows what he's doing, Saige. He values her. I think what he did was the kindest thing he could have done."

She turns to walk forward, nodding. "I trust my Alpha. I just…Sierra puts on a tough front, but deep down, she's a very sensitive person. I worry about her alone."

I clasp her hand in mine and we walk like that, following the pack and my mates as we weave through the chaos of the Atlanta airport.

I find myself worrying about Sierra too—I can't imagine what it would be like having a pack, a family, constantly surrounding me for two hundred years and then suddenly being alone.

I don't envy her, that's for sure.

We reach the exit and emerge in the bright hot humidity of an Atlanta morning. Crowds cluster waiting for taxis—another fight breaks out, and a gun is drawn and fired. Someone screams.

Overhead, a passenger jet howls—too low, too fast. More screams.

I look up just in time to see the jet bank sharply, wings tipping precariously—before I can even consider doing anything to help, its nose angles down, and the engine whines—

WHUMP!

Heat billows like a hot breath from Hell as the jet smashes into the ground in a massive fireball.

Caleb's arms circle my waist, and he hauls me off the ground, hurrying me away. "You can't do anything, Maeve. You can't help them. It's a mortal affair."

I realize my hair is glowing—my skin, my tattoos. The crowd around us is torn between horror at the crash and confused, awed fear at me.

When eagles of iron fall from the sky, and those of the Blood cry war brother against brother, then will the WorldBreaker come .

The eagles of iron have fallen.

Now, I suppose, those of the Blood—immortals—will cry war brother against brother.

The rest of the prophecy echoes in my head:

"Her hair will be white as the driven snow. She will wield her maya with the spirit of her mother. She is the WorldBreaker. She is The Once-Mortal Queen, and all shall bow, but not before the rivers run red and the streets flood scarlet. She shall know Death, and Death shall know her. She will have a mate of fang and a mate of fur. She is the WorldBreaker and the Once-Mortal Queen."

I glance back: the dead mortal lays in the middle of the road going past the Arrivals area—a river of blood runs away from him, painting the road red.

I never really believed in prophecies, I realize.

I suppose now I might have to start.