18 - Chained to a Tainted Legacy

Awareness flickers like sunlight on ocean waves, pulling me from the depths until I reach clarity. I'm entangled in bed sheets and a warm embrace, sleep a lurking fog in my head. Blearily, I blink my eyes open and find myself greeted by a searing light shining through the small window opposite. Though the curtains are drawn, they're so thin it hardly seems worth the effort; sunlight blazes through them regardless at a sharp angle. The light is tinted amber and, a little belatedly, I realise it's the afternoon, not morning.

Thoughts drift lazily through my mind; leaves caught in the current of a stream. The fight in the woods. The bullets. The lycanthrope. Imogen's revelations about my heritage. Our ambush of those few hunters left behind. Raiding the warehouse for any weapons I can use against that monster lurking somewhere in the woods.

One threat down, two to go.

With a heavy sigh, I grab the sheets and pull them over my head in a meagre effort to retreat once more to darkness. After returning to the Lakeside pack just as the sun rose, covered in mud from hiding the bodies, Rowan, the others and I had to take it in turns to shower and get rid of all the blood and dirt. Imogen, Darius and Milo seemed grateful beyond words for our return, as well as our promise that the hunters were all gone. As it turns out, they waited up all night for us, and they insisted on fixing us breakfast. After downing it in record time, we'd all crashed into the spare bedrooms for some much-needed rest.

As I'm lying there letting time drift along without me, savouring the pleasant heat of Rowan against me, his arms wrapped loosely around my bare torso and his soft breaths caressing the back of my neck, a new noise tugs at my focus. Familiar yet muffled thuds and grunts and sharp orders.

People are training outside.

Intrigued, I peek out of the sheets once more and — conscious of Rowan asleep at my back — set about shuffling out of bed as carefully as possible.

Sure enough, when I pad across the room and shift the curtain a little, I see a group of people and wolves alike at the far side of the clearing locked in controlled combat. They're all organised into pairs or groups of four and I catch sight of Milo weaving between them all, studying each group fervently and calling out suggestions.

"What is it?" Rowan asks, his sleep-thick voice nothing more than a mumble.

I glance at him over my shoulder and find him blinking blearily as he watches me from the nest of ruffled sheets and askew pillows. He sits up with a yawn and runs a hand through his curls in a futile attempt to neaten them.

For a moment, as the sheets pool in his lap, exposing his torso, I'm lost in admiration. His exquisite form of lithe muscle, his sleeve tattoos snaking up his arms, his bronze gaze locked on me appreciatively, his messy curls framing soft, gorgeous features, his full lips curving into a smile as he notices my close attention.

I clear my throat and my gaze retreats guiltily out the window once more. "They're all training."

Rowan hums, and I catch the sound of rustling and creaking as he gets out of bed. Soft pads on the floor alert me to his approach and, when he's at my back, he slips his arms around me with gentle ease, giving me enough time to change my mind. I lean a little into his warmth as we both gaze out at the training session. Every breath I take is laced with nutmeg and cinnamon and musk.

He doesn't rest his chin on my shoulder — he knows I'm a little wary around my neck — but every breath he releases caresses the shell of my ear and sends pleasant fizzles trickling down my spine. I melt a little further against him.

For a while, we lose ourselves to observation, savouring the peace we've found. Until, of course, our little bubble of paradise pops at the sharp sound of knocks on the door.

With a sigh, Rowan releases me and goes over to answer it. I grab a jumper from the dresser and shrug it on just as he opens the door.

"Hey, Lach," he greets tiredly.

"Sorry for the wake up call," the gamma returns. "Kay's sent me over to tell you both that they've made some dinner and if you let it go cold it'll ruin it and they're not making any more— their words, not mine."

Rowan laughs softly. "Well, then. In that case, we'll be right out."

Ten minutes later, after a quick pit-stop in the bathroom to freshen up, Rowan and I emerge into the kitchen to find the others caught in a form of organised chaos.

Kay is bustling back and forth in the kitchen, lost in their own world as they put the finishing touches on a salad and garnish a dish of mac and cheese coated in golden brown, crispy bread crumbs. It smells great, I have to admit, and my stomach twinges with hope.

Matteo is setting the table in the breakfast nook — it's a lot more comfortable and informal compared to the dining table — where a window looks out on a quieter portion of the clearing bordered by shivering fir trees. Teo glances up as we wander into the room and he offers us a smile of greeting.

At his side, Lachlan settles into a seat with a stifled yawn, his gaze drifting out the window. "They've been at it all day," he complains lightly. "I barely slept a wink."

"I guess they're feeling a little guilty leaving the hunters to us," Teo muses, taking a seat beside him. His brows are pinched as he follows Lach's gaze outside. "They've always been so forthright when it comes to dealing with threats. I think this lycanthrope — and what it's capable of — has shaken them."

"Understandably," Lachlan returns with a dramatic shiver. "That thing's another reason why I couldn't sleep."

As Rowan heads into the kitchen to offer Kay his aid, I take a seat and ask Teo, "What were they like back then? The pack, I mean, when you lived here."

"Ruthless," he tells me, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. His gaze meets mine and he says, "I found out just how seriously they took threats when I was little. My dad died to a hunter raid when I was young and my mum, she... well, she was never quite the same when she lost him. She was a scout, you see, and she spent her days out in the woods, shifted and patrolling our borders, just in case. If hunters attacked, she wanted to be ready for them and avenge her fated. I was young, bored and stupid, back then, and one day I decided to sneak out, shift, and follow her. That was the day the hunters came back. My mum was on her own and she..." He clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his gaze retreating out the window as ghosts stir in his eyes.

After a few moments of composure, he continues softly, "Well, she didn't stand a chance. She caught sight of me, her little pup frozen with fear in the underbrush, and she told me to run and not look back, and that everything would be alright. I did as she asked, but I heard her whines suddenly stop and I knew what it meant. I felt her presence in my head just... blink out. I could hear the hunters closing in so I hid, and then the pack showed up. Darius, Klaus and Milo were up front, leading them on. They destroyed the hunters and didn't give any a chance to scream, let alone escape their fury. It was brutal. I'd never seen them like that before. Milo's the one who found me. He coaxed me out of the bushes, took me here, to the main pack house, and cleaned me up. Darius and Imogen looked out for me like I was their own. Milo and Klaus trained me up, taught me not to be scared of the threats. They said whatever happened, we had a duty to protect our pack, and that's what we did."

I frown a little, trying to compare his words to Darius' actions. This pack, by the sound of it, was formidable. The lycanthrope has taken a heavy toll on them all. "I'm sorry about your parents," I say at last. People like me took his family from him, and though I can't go back and change it, I can make a stand against this lycanthrope roaming the woods and stop it from killing anyone else.

He shrugs, though there's a tension to his frame that wasn't there before. "It was a long time ago. That's how life was, back then. All the pack cared about was defending ourselves from threats. And now... now Darius has all but given up, Imogen is obsessed with the markings on your arms, and Milo's drowning in guilt because a monster from children's stories has crawled off the pages and torn this pack to pieces." He releases a little laugh, but there's no humour in the sound— only something teetering on the edge of defeat. "I'm starting to think maybe coming back here wasn't the smartest idea."

"Darius asked for your help, and here you are. That's admirable," Kay speaks up, bustling over with bowls in hand and Rowan in tow. They send their fated an admonishing glare softened by a slight smile as they distribute the food between us and settle down. "If we didn't come back, those hunters would've done a lot more damage. Besides, now we know lycanthropes actually exist, and our Riv's apparently really good at killing them."

"In theory," I cut in. "According to an old book and a grieving woman who's desperate for hope."

Kay shrugs, conceding. "Very true. So what's our plan?"

As we eat, we throw around potential plans— debating whether luring the lycanthrope into Lakeside territory or catching and following its trail is the better option. Even after we finish the meal and clean up, we discuss various approaches, hoping something will stick.

I need to know how it fights, what its strengths and weaknesses are, where its comfort zone lies. Until then, I'm taking a shot in the dark.

I don't like this— the unknown. None of us do.

Rowan must notice the growing apprehension rising between us as we discuss fighting something that shouldn't even exist, because it's not long before he suggests us all heading out to see what the pack are up to. Grateful for the distraction, we agree.

The clearing is alive with activity as we emerge. With dusk fast descending, the sky is a blanket of burnt umber and lilac casting long shadows across the ground. Darius and Imogen are gathered in the shadows of the trees at the far end of the clearing, watching everyone train. Milo strides down the centre of a crowd of people and wolves alike locked in close combat with one another, observing and calling orders. Hands tucked into his jean pockets, the gamma scrutinises them all with narrowed, focused eyes. Occasionally, he stops to watch a fight more closely, calling advice and moving on with a pleased, curt nod of approval.

He glances up, noticing us as we emerge onto the porch, and a warm smile tugs at his lips. "You're all more than welcome to join in, if you'd like," he tells us. "We're just brushing up on a few techniques. Darius wants us all sharp for when we tackle this lycan."

My brows rise. "You're helping with that?" I ask incredulously. Given how Darius reacted to my initial hunter plan, I haven't expected any sort of help from him or his pack— especially since he's told his pack to run from this lycanthrope instead of chasing it out.

Milo shrugs. "This pack has been without hope for too long. Now we finally have some, but we're not going to sit back and let you risk your lives for us. We're going to help. This is our home, and we need to defend it."

Lachlan hums in approval, crossing his arms. "I wouldn't mind a quick session. Ro, you in?"

Rowan nods. "Yeah, of course. How about you three?"

As Matteo and Kay hastily agree — perhaps eager to do something they're familiar with as opposed to facing the unknown — I catch sight of Imogen once more and shake my head.

"I want to find out a little more about this lycanthrope first," I decide. The more I know about it, the better my chances of killing it.

As Lachlan, Kay and Teo disperse and find a free space to stretch, Rowan falters to catch my gaze, his brows pinching with a silent question. I nod in return and the echo of a smile touches his lips as he follows after his gamma.

Imogen is already weaving between the crowds towards me, leaving Darius to his observations, and I figure she must've heard me.

That theory is proven when she breaches the crowd, smiles encouragingly up at me, and says, "I'll get my notes."

The luna breezes past me and into the house, and it's not long at all before she returns, arms laden with books and sheets of paper covered in scrawled notes and drawings. We settle on the porch steps and dive in, with a buzzing porch light keeping the worst of the shadows at bay.

I try hard to focus on the intricate drawings and notes scribbled into the books strewn around me, but my focus wanders towards the crowds of werewolves sparring— or, more particularly, towards one specific pairing.

Rowan and Lachlan fight with a playful, carefree air. Even though Rowan's moving fast, dodging and aiming powerful blows, he makes it look effortless. I've had the pleasure of training against Lachlan many times over the past month — in which, more often than not after that first time, I come out on top, though not for lack of trying on his part — and I know he's a strong fighter. He uses brute force to wrestle an advantage and undermines every defence with more sly tactics. He throws everything he has and reads his opponent well enough to guess their intentions.

Rowan slips between his offence like silk, matching the gamma's brute force with unwavering focus and strength. In a matter of seconds, he turns Lachlan's fast approach against him and sends the gamma sprawling in the dirt.

I watch, brows raised in idle appreciation, all thoughts of legacies and curses on hold. Instead, I lose myself to the familiarity of training.

With a breathless laugh, Rowan offers Lachlan a hand and hauls him up.

"Bastard," Lachlan says, grinning and sweeping his blond hair out of his face.

Their fight resumes. Jabbing, feigning, pivoting, advancing, defending. Each move is calculated and fluid.

At least until Rowan catches my gaze. His steadfast advance on Lachlan falters for a heartbeat and the gamma rushes forwards in his distraction, grappling him to the ground and securing him in an arm lock.

Rowan melts against the ground in surrender and Lachlan releases him. As the gamma offers him a hand to help him up, Rowan glances my way once more almost sheepishly. Whoops, his eyes seem to say as he's hauled up.

Lachlan follows his gaze, catches me staring, and laughs softly to himself. "A little distracted, are we?" he taunts his alpha.

Rowan rolls his shoulders, preparing for another round, and admits with a smile, "Maybe a little."

With an effort, I coax my focus back towards the books, though Rowan's presence is like a siren's call and it takes a special form of restraint to keep my treacherous eyes from lifting to meet his.

Imogen's revelations about my heritage have been recorded in only a few old texts— tomes with yellow, crackling pages detailing the curse of lycanthropy and the role certain hunters have played to destroy them. Everything she told us rings true— lycanthropes are formidable enemies of werewolves, though only few in number, and their desire for the security of a pack has become deluded and tainted with fury. They attack werewolves and, blinded by the curse, either bite them in the hopes of forging their own pack or kill and consume them in a futile attempt to get back what they lost. Some records mention hunters adorned with silver runes and symbols of protection on their skin are the only ones strong enough to take them on. On one page, there's a rough charcoal drawing of figures stalking forwards, eyes empty, weapons slicing through the air. A shiver of recognition slides down my spine. A few months ago, that was all I ever knew.

"Where did you find these?" I ask the luna, trying to rein in my wandering focus.

"My former pack were a little on the superstitious side," she admits, idly running her thumb up the corner of the pages of the book in her own hands. "They had books on all sorts of creatures— mythical, or so I'd thought when I was little. And then... then I saw the lycanthrope, and it... it was like it had crawled off the pages of those books I used to read as a child. When I moved here, I took a few of those books with me, for nostalgia. It was a good job I did; my pack was destroyed by hunters many years ago, and they burnt my home and everything in it to the ground. I used to read those books to..." She sniffs and clears her throat. "Excuse me. I read them to Grace when she was little. It wasn't meant to become real. It wasn't meant to... to take her from me."

Sensing that this conversation is crossing into dangerous waters of grief and loss, I try hard to change the subject.

"You honestly think Ferreus hunters are the only ones who can kill this thing? Surely anyone with a silver knife can take it out, if they get close enough," I tell her, a frown pinching at my features.

She lifts her gaze to mine, her eyes narrowing a little as she studies me. "River, you took out a group of hunters on your own in these woods, last night. You survived two bullets wounds and were up and ready to fight in a matter of hours. I imagine you've grown up thinking that's normal, but it isn't. Your family can take out entire packs in one night, so the legends say. You're something else. Something other. Just like the lycanthrope is something other, compared to werewolves."

"They're not my family," I cut back, my voice cold and hard as ice.

"Sorry," Imogen says, briefly admonished, before forging on, "I only mean, Ferreus hunters are infamous for what they can do to people like me. Your strength and skills are a match for the lycanthrope— the perfect balance."

"So you're saying I've been killing the wrong people for all my life," I finalise curtly. I know werewolves aren't the monsters I was led to believe, but knowing there's something else out there that has escaped the wrath of Ferreus hunters all this time, knowing we could've done something about them instead of turning on innocent people... It's not a pleasant thought.

"I'm saying you were coerced into seeing us as enemies and the lycans have escaped unnoticed, but you can make it right by killing this thing for us," she tells me, her voice soft with patience, as though attempting to teach a child something simple. Unwillingly, my father's voice echoes through my head— the traces of one of my earliest memories, before the hunt took him. River, you're holding the knife all wrong. Show him, Esme. That's it. Just like that. Hold it properly or you're going to get killed. An uncomfortable shiver scuttles down my spine at the memory of his stern voice and, instinctively, I straighten a little, my awareness slipping towards the fighting.

Lachlan has teamed up with Kay against Matteo, and Rowan stalks through the groups of grappling forms towards me, his eyes narrowed with something close to distaste and fixed upon Imogen.

The luna is still talking, unaware of my discomfort. "They were thought to be extinct, mere legends, but now they're growing in numbers, lurking beneath everyone's radar. I don't know why this one has fixated on my pack, and I don't know why it has made itself known after so long hiding in the shadows, but I know that we stand a chance now you're here."

Rowan takes a seat on the porch step below me, angling himself against the railing so he can face us both. He picks up a book carefully and studies the pages for a moment before his eyes flick up to regard Imogen.

"All this training better mean something," he says. A dangerous note I'm not used to hearing lurks at the edges of his voice. "You cannot hide behind River and make him face this thing alone simply because you claim it's his destiny."

Imogen holds his steely gaze. "Of course we won't hide. Not anymore. We are as dedicated to preserving him as you are, Rowan. If River dies, we'll have no hope in hell of killing this thing."

"Preserving," Rowan echoes, his features pinching as though he has tasted the word and decided it's a little too sour. "He isn't a weapon for you to use. He's been chained to the Ferreus name and their tainted legacy all his life, and now he's free of it, I will not let him be used in that way ever again. I'd like you to remember that. When we face this thing, it'll be his choice to fight, not yours."

I stare at him, discomfort dissipating as his words stir up a suit of armour made of peace and dedication. He told me he has my back, and he meant it. Of course he did.

He catches my gaze, a question shimmering behind his dark eyes. My lips twitch with a soft echo of a smile and he returns it.

"I understand," Imogen manages at last, drawing our focus once more. Her attention flickers between us knowingly.

Before she can say anything else, my gaze darts upwards as Darius approaches. His features are pinched with discomfort, and I realise he must have heard every word of our discussion.

When at last he stops at the base of the porch steps, he seems to have reached a conclusion, and he crosses his arms and levels his gaze on me.

"Well, River," he says. "We're all yours tonight. What's your plan?"

A little smile pulls at my lips. At the mere thought of facing this lycanthrope, my Haze stirs in my veins, whispering promises.

I thought he'd never ask.