Aviva
“Line up,” I whisper against ten-year-old Lexa’s ear. “Breathe in… release.” An arrow splits the cool spring air in two. A soft squeak whispers toward us as a squirrel falls from its perch on a nearby cottonwood tree. I squeeze her waist in silent congratulations while she beams, her dark-blue eyes wide and round. “Good job.” I grin, giving her a pat on the back. “Go get it.”
Lexa takes off in a blur of red curls and homespun textiles in soft creams and browns that match the melting snow. In the distance, over the shadowed mountains, plumes of gray smoke stretch toward the first inklings of the sunset.
Lexa bounds back to me, squirrel in hand. I tie it to her belt and help her put her b aow back in her halter while seven-year-old Nora puts the finishing touches on the snowman she’s been building for the last hour.
“Nora, come on!” Lexa calls out, motioning for her little sister to hurry up, but Nora has never listened to anyone in her life.
I smile as the girls start to bicker back and forth. It reminds me of my little sisters, who aren’t so little anymore. Shoshanna married during the last harvest festival and now lives in one of the new packs that settled nearby, and Lora is seventeen and in warrior training. They dote on their nieces whenever they visit, but it’s been a quiet winter. Now, spring is fast on its way.
I shift, taking a moment to find my footing in the slush beneath my paws. Lexa helps Nora onto my back before climbing up, wrapping her arms around her little sister’s waist while Nora clutches the halter strapped around my chest.
I carry my girls back to Silverhide against the warm light of the sunset, climbing over the mountains and dropping back into the village, which has grown immensely over the past decade.
The new pack house rises before us, smoke funneling from its chimney carrying the smell of dinner. Yes, we all still eat in the pack house. Yes, we still farm and hunt to get us through the winters, but the road leading into Silverhide is now paved, connecting us to the other packs that settled in the Deadlands from the Roguelands, Crescent Falls, and beyond.
We reach the house tucked in the outskirts of the village, and the girls jump off my back, racing up the steps. I shift back to my human form just in time to hear Lexa exclaim that she got a squirrel and walk through the front door to her jumping up and down, holding it up for Ryan to see.
Ryan, crouching to help Nora out of her boots, smiles at Lexa. My heart squeezes every time Ryan interacts with our girls. He was meant to be a girl dad. I’m also happy he was just as done as I was when Nora was born because she was just as big as Lexa.
Even now, the top of Lexa’s head brushes my shoulders at only ten years old. By next year, I’m sure I’ll have to look up at her when I’m scolding her for not picking up her room.
“Daddy?” Nora grunts as she pulls off her wet socks, tossing them on the floorboards with a splat. “Can we go to the pack house now? I’m hungry.”
“Yeah, yeah, but we’re waiting for somebody. Go get some fresh socks on.” He takes the squirrel from Lexa’s hand to inspect it before handing it back to her. “Be sure to take this down to the pack house so the cooks can use it for supper tomorrow.”
The girls start for the stairs, but I turn to Ryan, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Who are we waiting for? We’re already late for dinner.”
The bathroom door just around the corner of the kitchen opens, and heavy footsteps sound just out of sight, but the girls scream with joy and surprise.
“Oh,” I manage to say, pushing Ryan away and tearing toward the tall dark-haired young man exiting the steamy bathroom in fresh clothes, his curly hair brushed back away from his face.
Logan picks up the girls and squeezes them tight, pressing a kiss to each of their foreheads.
“When did you get here?” I exclaim, my hands on my hips.
Logan glances at me, looking slightly guilty as he sets the girls down and tells them to go change. I feel Ryan come up behind me as Logan runs his hand over his freshly shaven face. “Uh, an hour ago.”
“He just dropped in,” Ryan says with a hint of amusement in his voice.
Logan purses his lips as he looks down at me, his eyes shining with guilt. At twenty-two, he’s finally grown out of his boyish looks and his lanky frame. He’s a man now. Tall, muscular, and scarred.
He notices me staring at the healing wounds on his knuckles and tucks his hands behind his back. I lick my lips and give him my best attempt at a motherly look of disapproval but… I’ve never truly been his mother. I’ve come about as close as possible to that role, but in truth, we only had four years with him before he shipped off to train to be a warrior in Moonrise under Ryatt’s direction. He’d been sixteen then, and four years later, he returned for a summer before practically disappearing off the map.
That was last year.
A prickle of displaced anger rises in my chest, but I quickly banish it and step forward, wrapping my arms around him in a hug.
He leans down, resting his chin on the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” I murmur into his shirt. “You asshole. It’s been a year since we’ve heard from you. You were dead, for all we knew.”
“You knew I was training with the Ghosts,” he says as I pull away.
I glance up at Ryan, noticing the far off look in his eyes as his gaze sweeps over the scars and broken skin on Logan’s hands. Ryan looks like he’s about to say something, but the girls thunder back downstairs, begging to be taken to the pack house before they starve to death.
Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting at my usual table while Ryan does his evening rounds and the girls play with the other village children.
I pile their empty plates with a sigh, scanning the room until I find Logan standing with the group of boys–now men–he used to be friends with as a kid. Some of those friends went to warrior training in Moonrise when he did, but he was the only one who didn’t return. Now, most of his friends have found their mates and have begun to start families like most twenty-two-year-old shifters do… but not Logan. He sticks out, honestly. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his face is cast in shadow as he chats quietly with old friends, but I notice the dark circles under his eyes and the aura of darkness around him.
“He’s so grown up now,” Freya says, sitting down with a bottle of currant wine. She pops the cork and pours me a glass, then turns to Mercy, who’s braiding her youngest daughter, Moira’s, hair.
“I know,” I whisper, lifting my glass to my lips. It’s sweet, but the aftertaste is more bitter than I remember… or maybe that’s just the sour taste in my mouth.
“I heard he’s a Ghost now,” Mercy chimes in with a smile. “What an honor for Silverhide having one of our own be a part of that legion of Ryatt’s army.”
Freya nods, but I’m not smiling.
“I begged him not to join,” I say under my breath.
“Oh, come on, Aviva,” Freya smirks. “You’re a commander, and you didn’t want Logan to be a warrior like you? He worships the ground you walk on. You were a mother to him.”
“I tried,” I sigh, and Freya frowns, noticing the hurt in my voice. I don’t need to tell her that I worry about Logan constantly. I’ve been worrying about him since the day he walked into our lives, but more so now that he's a man, and can… try to go home.
I told him once that this is what he needed to do, didn’t I? If he wanted to see Emberfyll again, to fight for the home that was taken from him? I gave him the guide to make that happen but… he was so young then. I didn’t think he’d actually do it, and I didn’t realize how badly it’d hurt to watch him go.
Ryan comes over, pressing his palms on the table. “The girls want to stay with you tonight, Mercy. Gabriella told them Jacob finished building the doll house, and they want to play with it.”
Mercy smiles, rolling her eyes as Moira jumps off her laugh to join the older girls. “Sure, but they’re going to bed by nine.”
Ryan shrugs, pleased with a night off from our kids, it seems, because he throws me a wink before walking away.
Mercy gets up with a sigh, gathering her plate. While I had two kids, Freya and Mercy didn’t stop in the baby-making department until recently. Freya has four boys, with the youngest being only a year old, and Mercy and Jacob have six kids now, including a set of twins. Gabriella’s a year younger than Lexa, and she’s Lexa’s best friend.
I watch Mercy walk to her mate, the two of them gathering up the hoard of children now having a sleepover at their house on the other side of the village, and walk out into the night.
But I remain at the table even after Freya takes her leave and the pack house grows quiet. Only a few groups remain at the long tables, but a shadow passes over me as I pour myself a second glass of currant wine, and Logan sits down across from me.
He takes the bottle, drinking deeply from it, and sets it down.
“Gross,” I point out, giving him a look.
“It is gross. I hate currants.”
I crack a smile despite myself, but he’s looking at me, trying to read the expression I’m doing my best to keep hidden. “I should have written.”
“Why didn’t you?”
He flexes his jaw. “I’ve been traveling for a while, tracking a band of rebels in the Roguelands. I… we were undercover, and it was difficult–” He cuts himself off with a sign, reaching for the bottle. I watch him take another drink, my eyes darting to the injuries–new and old–dotting his hands.
“You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m not–not your mother–”
He covers my hands with him. “That’s not why.”
“Then where have you been?”
“Trying to find answers,” he admits, and judging by his tone, it’s difficult for him to say it. “I–I need to go back. To Emberfyll. Being part of the Ghosts gave me an opportunity to do that.”
I pull my hands away, my eyes narrowing in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“The Kings of Tarsian are putting together an armada along the coast of Tarsian. There’s been… signs of boats trying to reach our shores.”
I feel like standing up in shock but freeze instead.
“Pieces of boats,” he amends, swallowing hard. “I asked Evander if I could be stationed in Tarsian to aid the kings and their Alphas on the coast.”
“So you’ve been in Tarsian–”
“I’m going to Tarsian,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “Tomorrow.”
I shake my head. “How long will you be gone?”
“Six, seven years… it depends on my contract and whether–whether–”
I bite my lip to stop from saying the words on the tip of my tongue, but they come out anyway. “Whether or not you can get on a boat and go back?”
He looks down at his hands. “I have to try.”
I’m being selfish. I know I am. He’s an adult now. He can make these decisions for himself, but… he’s family. He’s family, even if he doesn’t see it that way. I feel a sudden jolt of anger at Evander, and even Ryatt, for allowing him to do this, but if there’s really boats washing up on the shore of Tarsian, Logan’s been the only survivor to ever wash up, and that was a decade ago.
Ryan starts walking toward us after lurking nearby, giving me a moment with our semi-adopted son. Logan notices his approach and straightens up, saying, “I should go, I think. I’m supposed to be at the border first thing in the morning–”
“You’ll stay the night,” Ryan cuts in with a sigh, nodding. “Stay the night, have another shower, eat a good breakfast, and then go.” He pauses before adding, “We want to hear about it, Logan. Everything you’ve done.”
Logan glances from Ryan to me.
“Because we’re proud,” I admit, even if it hurts knowing we’re about to lose him again.
And for all we know, it’ll be years before he’s back.
If he comes back at all.