33. Logan

Chapter 3 3

Logan

A t least the stench is gone. That’s the only good thing I can say about the Gloom as I jog down the echo version of Doverly’s streets. Or what exists of them in the Gloom’s shadow world.

Most of the smaller structures are gone. Their existence in the normal world—which some scholars, in a brilliant display of originality, labeled the Light—isn’t deep enough to pierce through the barrier. But the larger buildings are still here, though they are leached of whatever color they might have had in the rising dawn sun.

And it’s cold. The kind of cold no fire or cloak will fix. The Gloom feeds on life and magic of most Light-based beings. But there is no smell here. So there is that.

And there are no people.

The mercenaries, Kai, Rowan. None of them are here.

Theoretically, my being here is impossible too. Even in the immortal lands, only the more powerful fae are able to step into the Gloom. In the warded Eryndor the Gloom-Light barrier is impenetrable. It’s impossible for the corrupt creatures who call the Gloom home to surf ace within Eryndor’s wards. Impossible for anyone to step the other way—from Eryndor into the Gloom—too. Except me.

I don’t know why, except that it’s some bizzare twist of magic. Probably one developed from the desperation of a pup not ready to die at the hands of a rival pack. But what good is this talent of mine if I can’t use it to save my mate?

Because I now know that’s what she is. Truth is, I’ve known it from the start, from when I saw my bite mark on her face.

But it was that night in the woods when I tasted her that I finally stopped lying to myself. Rowan is my mate, tethered to me by fate or magic or whatever cruel force is behind such things. She is my mate. And she will never want me.

But I will always be hers, even if she never knows it.

I turn and find the alley leading to Wishing Well Inn opening up in front of me. Distances are different here. If the normal world was a cloak, the Gloom would be its floating lining—tethered to it, but a fabric of its own.

It’s a work of a few hours to work out where the mercs are holding Rowan and Kai, but there is nothing I can do about it right now. The chill digs deeper into my joints, reminding me that I need to get out of the Gloom before it drains me. I pick a spot where the barrier feels thin enough to step through and push through the veil into Doverly’s native stench.

Sound returns in a rush, workers starting their day and drunks finishing theirs. I dart into a narrow gap between two buildings, pressing my back against the rough stone as two mercenaries round the corner, their voices low.

"...Hak wants to move out. I get not being late, but we don’t need to be early,” one grumbles, adjusting the sword at his hip. “There is coin to be made.”

"You want to go tell him that?” his companion replies. “You know how he gets."

The voices disappear and I inch out of my concealment, examining the inn before steeling myself to coax Nyx into playing communication relay. It… takes a while .

The next few days only get worse. I watch Kai, Rowan and the cadets get piled into a prison wagon and driven out of town. Doing nothing while the mercenaries treat them as livestock. I do come out of hiding for a moment to put the idiot Yukos out of his misery, but not until the prison wagon is gone from sight.

I’ve spent most of my life as a captive of the pack that decimated my own, but this—staying safe in the shadows while my mate and brother are held prisoner—is an all new brand of torment. Even if Kai assures me it’s for the best.

By day five, when Kyrian catches up to where I’m paralleling the wagon carrying Rowan and Kai, I’m spending hours howling my frustration to the stars each night.

“You are probably scaring the shit out of her,” Kyrian says, settling next me onto the moss covered ground. It’s a chilly evening and the mercs are stopped just beyond the trees to camp for the night.

My hackles rise, my lips pulling back in a snarl that lets Kyrian see the whole length of my canines.

“I said you are scaring her,” Kyrian tosses back. “Your wolf trick doesn’t work on me.”

I shift back and punch Kyrian in the jaw. “How about that one?”

He curses, rubbing the bloodied spot. “That one works just fine,” he concedes. “Shit, Logan. You’ve not lost any muscle.”

Without Kyrian’s retaliation, my anger drains faster than I can re-grip it and I slump against a nearby tree trunk to glare at the ground. Out of my wolf form, things become a great deal more complicated and I’m tempted to shift right back just to avoid dealing with them.

Wolves are crunchy, Nyx informs me. He sounds like his usual delightful self, but his lack of complaints over keeping me, Kai and Kyrian in touch these past few days betrays his concern.

“The draken?” I ask Kyrian, trying to pull my mind to the mission despite the changing wind. If I shift back to my wolf form, I might catch Rowan’s scent.

“I was able to get one moving. The other was too far paralyzed.” He goes silent and I know what it means. “I… I didn’t let Eryndor take her. It was the best I could do. ”

“Why are they even trying to take them?” I demand. “It’s certainly not for the humanitarian reasons the Spire wants the cadets to believe.”

“No idea. Rumor is that the queen is trying to breed them. The draken, not the cadets.”

I don’t laugh. Revulsion shoots through me, then fury, and then, finally, basic thought. “Why? Even if she believes the drivel the Spires spew about draken being glorified flying horses, Eryndor is as inhospitable to the draken as it gets. With the wards, weather, and elevations, they can barely fly here at all.”

Kyrian holds up his hands. “I said I heard a rumor, not discovered the fountain of truth. I’ve no notion of what the Eryndor royals have in their skulls. Maybe the queen thinks she can create a new breed of draken who can thrive here.” His jaw clenches, the small muscles moving under his skin. “Speaking of brilliant plans, how is ours going?”

Our plan. The words taste sour in my mouth, but it’s not as if I can claim innocence. “The mercs expect to meet the fae host and sell off the cadets tomorrow,” I say, striving for the indifference neither of us feels. “Once we are safely with the fae, we officially kidnap Rowan and take her out of Eryndor through the clear corridor the Flurry army has left in its wake. We are close to the border already. We’ll be past the wards in no time.”

“Right.” Kyrian’s brilliant blue eyes take on a dull look as he stares into the trees beyond which Rowan is bedding down for the night. “And after that, it’s mission accomplished.”

“Exactly. The little rabbit gets locked up and forced to conjure an antidote to the auric alloy she’s been making.” I nod to no one. “Oh, and she hates our guts with every fiber of her being for the rest of her days—but that’s neither here nor there.”

Kyrian's hands clench into fists, his knuckles turning white until he brings his fingers behind his head instead. "I don't know if I can do it," he says quietly. "I don't know that I can look into those penetrating eyes of hers, see the trust shining there, and then just... betray her. Lock her away. Turn her into a prisoner and a pawn. "

“If it makes you feel better, I can pretty much guarantee there won’t be any shining trust in her gaze to begin with. I think we’ve successfully gutted that already.” I can’t tell if saying the truth aloud is a relief or just more pain. “What in the rutting hell is giving us the right to do this to her? Take her freedom? Her choices?"

Would you like another look at the draken poisoned with auric steel? Alive but paralyzed? Never to fly again? Nyx demands with no hint of sympathy. Or maybe the shifters who will never again run as wolves?

I haul up my shields. “What if we just tell her the truth?” I ask Kyrian, trying and failing to keep the hint of desperation out of my voice. “Explain what the alloy she is making really does, that we are out of options. That she’s our last chance at an antidote?”

“Would that be before or after we tell her we are enemy agents who have been undercover in the heart of her kingdom for the past two years? The I know we’ve been lying to your kingdom for years and to you personally since we met, but please believe us now because we really want you to approach may not have the hoped for results. Plus, there is the very real fact that she is a protector at heart. And that includes protecting her own kingdom. From, you know, us.” Each word Kyrian says is more bitter and dejected than the last. If it weren’t, I’d hit him again. Just to make myself feel better. But it’s not that easy.

Nothing is easy.

“We’ve not lied to her,” I say. “We’ve not said the whole truth, but we’ve not lied.”

“I’m sure she’ll take that into account when she fantasizes about the various ways she’d love to hurt us.”

“She is welcome to it,” I mutter. “I’ll take whatever she wants to dish out if it will mean she lets me stay close enough to take it. Stars, Kyrian… this isn’t how it was supposed to go.”

“We have to fix it,” he agrees.

A sudden shout rips through the night air, jolting us both to our feet. It’s coming from the mercenary camp.

Kyrian and I exchange a tense glance before darting through the trees toward the clearing as more voices join in, the sentries calling out warnings.

“Stars above—what now?” Kyrian mutters, peering at the organized chaos that’s taking over the sleeping camp. The mercs are leaping into action, grabbing weapons and shouting commands, scrambling to form a perimeter.

I lift my face toward the wind trying to catch the scent. Leather, sweat, and... formality. Armor too polished, too crisp for roadside thugs.

“Soldiers,” I say. “Eryndor’s soldiers. Maybe the commandant has finally worked out that she’s been played and sent a detachment to get her people back.”

Everything happens fast after that. The first arrow sails into the camp with a high-pitched whistle, followed by a chorus of shouting. Eryndor soldiers pour in from all sides, their armor glinting in the firelight. The clang of steel on steel echoes through the forest as swords clash and arrows whistle through the air.

But it's the figure at the head of the Eryndor force that draws my gaze like a lodestone. Tall and proud, her rich auburn hair whipping in the wind, the commandant herself leads the charge. Her blade flashes as she engages the nearest mercenary, her movements precise and deadly.

"Shit," Kyrian breathes beside me just as I get my first good look at the cold fury on Commandant Ainsley’s face. She didn’t just send a detachment to get the cadets back, she took command of it herself. And she doesn’t lose. "This isn't good."