Chapter 15

Chapter

Fifteen

Evelyn

I worked to keep my wolf in check as we strode toward the long pole barn sitting back from the main drive. The earthy scent of manure and mulch filled my nostrils with the lush forest looming around us, a reminder of the wildness that ran through our veins. Wolf shifters were creatures of nature, but today, we sought answers from someone who belonged to the earth in a way even we didn't.

"Keep your senses sharp," Rowan murmured, his voice a low rumble beside me. His gaze was on me, I didn't even have to look. Alpha authority emanated from him like heat from a flame. Blake, surprisingly, didn't give a snarky response, his own eyes scanning the treeline, muscles tensed.

Rowan went first, pushing open the front door. The wood was weathered but sturdy. Despite growing up in a small town, I hadn't spent much time around farms. I couldn't tell if this one was in good condition or if Lyra had let it slip.

A figure emerged from the back office, wiping hands on a dirt-stained apron. He looked up, the surprise at seeing guests apparent in the rise of his bushy eyebrows. His mouth worked a moment before he finally said, "How can I help you?"

It was an excellent question, considering we only had a name to go off of. Was Lyra her real name? Was she hiding here?

"We're here to see an old friend," Rowan answered smoothly.

The man in the apron took him in and cleared his throat. "Are you positive you're in the right place? I'm Carter, the manager here. We don't have many employees."

Rowan didn't flinch. "I'm not sure she is an employee. Her name's Lyra."

Carter's face immediately brightened. "Well, why didn't you say that in the first place!" He approached with a genuine smile and shook each of our hands in turn. "At first I thought you looked like trouble, but if you're Lyra's friends—" He chuckled to himself as he motioned for us to follow. "She's got connections with the strangest folk."

I frowned. "Did he just call us strange?" I whispered to Blake.

Blake nodded to Rowan. "Probably referring just to him."

Rowan shot us an annoyed glance as we trailed behind Carter, our footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor. Rowan moved with a predator's grace, every inch the alpha leader, while Blake's presence was like a silent storm—calm until provoked. My own steps were measured, betraying nothing of my racing thoughts or the nerves that prickled beneath my skin.

The scent of soil and decay spiked as we followed Carter into the main barn. Ghostly white fungi sprouted in deliberate rows, their caps glowing faintly in the dim light. The air was thick with moisture, a palpable presence that clung to my skin and filled my lungs.

I remembered my mother telling me how mushrooms grew. How their spores floated through the air and attached to their hosts—dead and rotting logs, mulch piles. I imagined them filling my lungs and sprouting there in my alveoli.

Rowan nudged my shoulder. "Breathe."

"I am. That's the problem."

He frowned, and I shrugged, trying to ease the tension knotting my shoulders. Rowan's presence was like the hum of electricity before a storm, impossible to ignore. With each step, my senses stretched taut, keenly attuned to the rhythm of his breath, the subtle shift of his muscles beneath his clothes.

"Careful here." Carter guided us past a low-hanging shelf laden with oyster mushrooms, their delicate frills trembling at our passing. "We try to keep the environment stable for optimal growth."

Every rustle, every drip of water from the overhead pipes, seemed amplified, yet all paled in comparison to the silent symphony that was Rowan Steele. His aura brushed against mine, unseen but as real as the weight of my own body. My wolf stirred within, restless, drawn to his strength, his certainty.

"Quite the operation you have here," Blake said.

"Thank you," Carter replied. "Mushrooms require patience and precision."

Rowan's hand brushed mine briefly as we navigated a narrow turn, sending a jolt through me that left my heart stuttering. It was an accident, surely, but my wolf seized upon the contact, craving more.

Patience and precision. That described my whole life. In my work as an EMT I was the steady force. I was the one giving the orders and responsible for the outcomes of my patients.

To have Rowan there next to me was both terrifying and a relief so powerful it weakened my knees. You don't have to do this alone . My wolf pushed the thought forward, but I shook my head. I'd tried that once. I'd been a part of a pack, and where had that taken me?

But now I didn't know what all the patience and precision were for. What did I have to look forward to?

We moved deeper into the farm, the manager's voice a distant drone as he explained the intricacies of mushroom cultivation. I caught the glint of silver first—the cascade of Lyra Moonshadow's hair, stark and luminous against the earthen backdrop of the mushroom farm. It fell in a sleek river down her back as she bent over a tray of shiitake sprouts, her slender fingers working.

"Lyra," Carter called out.

She straightened, turning toward us, her violet eyes catching the dim light like the facets of a gemstone. She didn't smile.

Carter's enthusiasm wavered as he looked between her and our group. For a moment, I wondered if she was going to throw us out.

"So good to see you," Lyra replied, setting down a delicate tool on the table beside her. She wiped her hands on a cloth, every motion deliberate and unhurried. "Carter, thank you." It was a dismissal, and he understood perfectly. He gave us a final nod, then bumbled down the walkway back to the office.

"Follow me." Lyra led us away from the growing beds. We wound through narrow corridors lined with shelves heavy with fungi. The air grew cooler as we left the main pathways. Lyra pushed open a wooden door that groaned softly on its hinges, revealing a small room with shelves filled with books and strange artifacts. In the center stood a sturdy desk covered with papers and jars of peculiar herbs.

"Sit." She gestured toward a pair of mismatched chairs before perching herself on the edge of the desk, those violet eyes never leaving our faces. "I smelled you before you left the office. Impressive, considering I was surrounded by dung."

My wolf's hackles raised, and I put a hand on her muzzle. Blake and I sat obediently, but Rowan stayed standing.

"Must've been a reprieve. To smell something other than shit." Rowan put a protective hand on the back of my chair.

The corner of Lyra's mouth lifted. "Don't get your panties in a twist. It's a hobby of mine to poke alpha's with a stick."

Blake coughed next to me, covering a laugh.

Lyra folded her arms in front of her. "So. Please. Enlighten me as to why you decided to meet with the wicked witch."

Rowan glanced down at me, and I reached for my backpack. "We found this." I pulled the dagger out and unwrapped the old shirt I'd rolled it in.

Lyra's eyes widened, the smirk leaving her face. "Ah, yes, the Relic of Binding." Lyra's fingers idly traced the wood grain of the desk. "A dangerous artifact, created to harness the power of blood, sacrifice, and the bonds we forge."

I held it out to her, but she shook her head. Rowan shifted beside me, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

Blake leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I thought the relics were legends."

He stole the words right out of my mouth. All pups heard the stories. How there were objects forged that could bind souls and control fates. These tales were used to scare us into brushing our teeth, eating vegetables, and attending the full moon runs when the elders insisted on babbling for an hour before we could shift.

"Legends always have roots in truth." Lyra's eyes seemed to glow. "But the relics...they are both more complex and more simple than the stories suggest."

"Simple how?" I prodded, needing to understand the force that seemed to pull at the very fibers of my being.

"Simple in its need for connection," Lyra explained. "It requires a bond, willing or not, to weave its magic. Without that, it's merely metal and intent."

"And the blood, the sacrifice?" Rowan's deep voice resonated within the close walls.

"Those are the keys to unlocking its full potential," Lyra continued, her expression unreadable. "To wield it is to accept a burden—one that should not be taken lightly."

I felt the chill of realization seep into my bones. The dagger bound us, yes, but it was the intertwining of our lives, our choices, that would determine its true power. Had it already been used for blood?

I thought back to the legends. About the dark witch who was said to have created the relics in the first place. "Is the rest of the story true, then?"

Lyra's gaze flickered from me to Rowan and then to Blake before she nodded slowly. "Centuries ago, there lived a dark witch named Seraphina. She was powerful and feared, but not without her enemies." Her voice was soft, almost reverent. "To protect herself and to cement her power, she created five objects, each imbued with a fraction of her essence."

"Five?" Rowan's question echoed my own. The stories all differed in how many relics there were. Some told of a statue hidden deep in the forest or an ancient book buried in the earth.

"Few know the full extent of her legacy," Lyra replied. "The dagger is but one. There are four others, scattered across the world, lost to time and greed."

As she spoke, her hands moved with purpose and grace—a fluidity that betrayed something otherworldly beneath her human facade. She looked the part. Her clothes. Her hair held back with a bandana. It reminded me of myself, how I'd learned to blend into the human world, to hide the primal nature that lurked beneath my skin. As an EMT, I'd mastered the art of maintaining control, of keeping my wolf at bay even when every instinct screamed otherwise.

But there was something in Lyra's demeanor that didn't quite fit, a sense of belonging perpetually out of reach. We could walk among them and talk like them, but we would never truly be one of them. Our very beings were etched with the indelible mark of magic and moonlight, our souls intertwined with forces beyond the mundane.

"Seraphina's creations. They're meant to be together?" Blake asked, drawing me back to the conversation.

"Perhaps," Lyra said, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Or perhaps they are meant to stay hidden. Together, they hold a power that no single being should wield. Separately, they are dangerous enough."

"Like calls to like," I murmured, the strange coolness still seeping through the fabric between my hand and the metal. The silver blade caught the light.

"Unfortunately, yes." Lyra pushed off the desk. She glanced at the blade warily, then pushed her hands into the pockets of her faded jeans. "How did you come by this?"

I quickly rolled the shirt around the dagger and shoved it back into my backpack, debating whether I should tell the truth. Lyra was a witch, and while the elders seemed to be frightened of her, she had allowed us into her personal space. She'd answered our questions. I figured I could show the same trust. "A friend of mine went missing. I found this hidden in her things."

Lyra raised an eyebrow. "She left it behind."

"I don't think she left willingly."

The witch nodded, pulling her silver hair over her shoulder. "Those who touch the blade aren't often convinced to part with it."

Convinced. The word sent a shiver down my spine. "Does it already…has it already been used to bind?"

Lyra's violet eyes darkened. "That blade is older than your magic." She glanced down at my bag. "Pray you never hear the words it whispers." She pulled one of the jars off the desk, inspected it, and handed it to Rowan. "Something you might want to keep close, alpha."