Blake
Soren’s footsteps slosh through puddles beside me, covering the magical buzz of Veiled Valley’s arts district as we walk through the rain. It’s pitch black–the night sky clogged by thick, dark clouds that promise the continuation of the downpour that started moments after we arrived in the ancient, veiled city.
Soren pulls his ball cap down to shield his face from the rain, grumbling under his breath as we walk through the city, crossing another bridge. “Couldn’t you have just jumped us directly to wherever it is we’re going?”
“Spiriting into the Archives is forbidden. It’s actually magically impossible,” I reply over the incessant, pounding rain. Thunder booms, rattling the awnings suspended over busy restaurants and bars.
“Who exactly is Arthur, and why is he so important? It’s midnight, for Goddess’s sake.”
We step beneath the shelter of an awning for a moment. I peer up at the stone staircase leading to the next level of the city, which is shrouded in almost total darkness. “What is Arthur is the better question.”
“What?”
I adjust my cloak, turning my attention to Soren, who I’m surprised to find annoyed with the prospect of this trip instead of chomping at the bit to get away from Moonrise for the next few days. “Arthur lives in the Archives–the ancient library here in Veiled Valley. He’s… not like us.”
Soren rolls his eyes. “Great. That seems to be a theme these days. What is he, exactly?”
“No one really knows. I honestly doubt he knows. He’s very old. He was an exceedingly old man back when Ella came to live in Veiled Valley, and she was younger than me at the time.”
Soren looks utterly perplexed. “That was like… fifty years ago–”
“Exactly. Come on, we’re meeting Ryatt there, and he’s going to be furious if we’re late.”
“It’s already late,” Soren murmurs behind me, but I’m already halfway up the last hike to the quiet, darkened heights of the city. Veiled Valley is covered by clouds below, nothing but the glow of the neon lights from the arts district to distinguish the kingdom from the storm raging through the valley, but within minutes, we’re standing in the foyer of the massive, cavernous library overlooking the city below, shedding our wet coats and cloaks.
Soren shakes out his hat as voices drift down the narrow stone corridor–Misty’s voice lifted over what I know is Ryatt, and the man of the hour, Arthur himself.
Ryatt is leaning against a wooden table when we walk into the first room of the multi-level library. Shelves stretch to the ceiling, and the exterior wall is completely made of glass that usually gives a view of the city, but tonight, water pours down the panes and shimmers with blue light as lightning crackles. Misty huffs as she crosses her arms under her chest, her golden blonde hair tumbling down her back in soft curls as she turns from Ryatt to smile softly at me and Soren, but Soren is staring at the small, ancient man standing directly on the surface of the table beside Ryatt. Arthur, dressed in a brown tweed suit that would fit an eight-year-old boy perfectly, twists his snow-white beard around a gnarled finger as he stares down at Soren in the exact same manner, raising a wiry white brown. “Ah-ha. This must be the heir you were talking about. I can see what you mean, Ryatt, about him being old king born.”
Soren glances at me before focusing his attention on Misty, who rolls her eyes and plants her hands on her hips. “Well, we’re all here now. Can we get this over with?”
“What exactly are we doing here?” I ask Ryatt, who called this meeting tonight. Technically, the family is meeting tomorrow at the castle to discuss war plans if it comes to that. Hours ago, I was walking around Moonrise with my mate and her new violin, talking about a future where I picked up our daughter from school while Marianna prepared for her evening performances at the concert hall. I thought I had the night with her, at least, before getting a rather rushed summons from Ryatt with the command to bring Soren with me.
Ryatt glances at Arthur, whom he can look directly in the eye as long as Arthur, who can’t be more than three feet tall, remains standing on the table. “Misty, I want to hear your recollection of your time beyond the portal Richard of Arcane Umbra opened–”
“I’m not doing this again,” Misty says with a shiver, shaking her head.
Arthur’s head is on a swivel as he glances between Ryatt and Misty.
“Soren needs to hear it. He spent more time with the Viper than anyone, and if the people you saw in the portal are anything like the Viper–”
“They weren’t the same,” Misty says on a breath, glaring. She turns to Soren, shaking her head. “They didn’t have the ears. They weren’t exceedingly tall like you described. They had–they had fangs–”
“Not the same,” Arthur muses, then slowly maneuvers off the table and hobbles his way to a ladder leaning against the bookshelves.
Soren is torn between Misty’s story as she recounts the war in Tarsian and watching Arthur scale the wall. I don’t blame him. Even Ryatt positions himself beneath the old man–the ancient being, by all accounts–in the event he falls to his death.
“They were normal women. Kind women,” Misty continues hotly. “But one of them had pointy teeth.”
“And the other?” Ryatt asks even though I know he’s already heard this story.
“She was a shifter, for sure.”
“That’s because shifters are everywhere,” Arthur says from the ladder. A book thuds to the ground. He continues his search, pulling down two more thick, dusty books, before continuing, “You’re a rather resilient bunch.”
Soren can’t decide where to look but settles on Arthur as he slowly moves down the ladder.
“Misty, we’ve spoken about the portal. You know my stance,” Arthur says while Ryatt picks up the books he let fall to the ground. “You didn’t go to another realm. Our world is large. Crescent Falls and Eastonia share a continent, but there are others. Other kingdoms. Other undiscovered worlds. Other… undiscovered beings.”
Misty, also a historian, frowns at Arthur. “We have no proof.”
“We have these,” Arthur says, patting the books Ryatt just placed on the table.
“Myths and legends aren’t proof,” Ryatt argues, but Arthur shakes his head.
“Eastonia and Crescent Falls have long been considered the cradle of the wolf kind, yes, and while our history spans thousands of years, there’s a lot we don’t know about the time before the Firestone witches. Misty can attest to that,” Arthur remarks, cracking open one of the books and blowing the dust from the pages. “Anything before the dawn of the Firestones is lost to time, I’m afraid, but their own legends and folktales were passed down through the generations, stories about immortal beings with fangs–vampires–who require blood to survive. And… faeries, also immortal but in a more mystical way.”
“And what are you?” Soren asks without restraining himself.
Arthur looks directly at him but doesn’t answer. I honestly doubt Arthur knows what he is or where he came from, old as he is.
“Misty traveled to another place, not another time, that’s all,” Arthur says to the room at large. “And your Spider, Hannibal, also came from another place, but I believe he’s been trapped in Eastonia for a very long time–likely from a time before the fall of the Firestone Empire–”
“He cannot be that old,” Ryatt says. “I saw him. He’s young. Younger than the boys here.” He points to Soren and me.
“Well, faeries were rumored to be very beautiful, that’s true. They were gods, according to the Firestone legends.”
“Why are you only telling us this now? We’ve been coming to you for guidance since the Spider started playing his games with the family,” I grind out, but Arthur waves his hand at me in dismissal.
“We had no proof, but when Ryatt came to me shortly after Queen Maeve’s stand against the Viper, I remembered something. Something from the time of the Firestone era, the banshee scream she described. Yes, that was it. You see, there are dozens of types of faeries, or at least, in the myths about them–water fae with their siren songs and elemental magic, fae with the ability to fly, to make flowers bloom, to paint the sky with stars and… rewrite memories.” Arthur looks directly at me. “Yes, just like you, High Lord of the Mystics.”
“So you’re saying these… these children’s tales,” Ryatt says with effort, his eyes narrowing with frustration as he waves down to the ancient books now littering the table, “aren’t tales at all?”
“There’s always truth in fiction.”
Ryatt’s nostrils flare in annoyance, but I step closer to the books, gently flipping a page. The text is in a language that predates Firestone. It’s looping scribbles–symbols I don’t recognize, and even Misty, who excels at this kind of thing, looks perplexed.
“What is your theory, Arthur? Are we right to assume my granddaughter’s mate and their son are fae?” Ryatt’s voice silences the room. Even the rain outside the ancient walls ceases the pounding against the windows as his words settle.
This is the real reason he called this meeting–this secret meeting of a select few.
I know the family has had questions ever since Kieran’s birth. I know Brie and Logan have been uneasy, and that things in Emberfyll haven’t been smooth, so much so that Logan is seriously considering moving his entire pack to the Deadlands, if not here, to Veiled Valley.
There’s so much he doesn’t know about his own history, about his son’s history.
And now, after everything that happened with the Viper and Hannibal… if they’re like them, what do we do?
“No. Not entirely. You must understand that fae, when they existed here in Eastonia, were gods to people like us. They may have walked among us, but they were not like us, and according to the legends, they are simply described as the Old Gods–those who lived during the time of our Moon Goddess’s mortal life. It’s likely that Emberfyll may have been a fae kingdom at some point, and over the generations, perhaps fae and wolves had… relations… that resulted in a kind of hybrid society. Emberfyll is likely as old as Veiled Valley from your own research, Misty. It’s highly plausible, in my opinion, that Logan and his pack carry fae blood, which would explain the physical characteristics–the height, the ears.”
“But not the powers,” Soren cuts in. “The Viper could turn anything she touched to silver.”
“Yes, I am aware.” Arthur sighs heavily. “Again, based on the myths, there were dozens of different kinds of fae–high fae, their beautiful rulers–the gods of old. Immortal, winged beauties. But also lower fae–creatures of the water and the sky. Ugly beasts–some winged, some not. The oldest written texts that describe our own Goddess recount Her in Her… winged form as a woman with moon-white hair and pearlescent skin. Her wolf, however, did not have wings.”
“Then she was also fae? Or a… a hybrid of both?” Misty shifts her weight.
“That’s a question to ask when your time in the realm of the living ends, my dear,” Arthur says to Misty, who looks pale and uncomfortable.
“What are we up against, Arthur?” Ryatt asks.
“Hell,” he answers honestly. “If they’re still out there, if the legends passed through millennia weren’t correct, and they didn’t ascend to the heavens after all like the gods they were rumored to be, but were simply displaced… hell. They’re powerful creatures. Hard to kill. In the legends, they are the gods, so their will was law.”
I look at Misty, whose eyes are locked on one of the books. She’s lost in thought. She eventually meets my eyes and tilts her head toward the hallway leading out of the library and back to the foyer, her voice a soft whisper inside my head as she asks if I’d like to take a walk.
Ryatt lifts his head from his conversation with Arthur but says nothing as the two of us walk away. He begins to grill Soren instead, asking about the physical characteristics and powers of the Viper, all while Arthur murmurs his agreement that fae are, in fact, what we’re dealing with.
Outside, huddled beneath a pair of columns holding up the exterior facade of the library’s entrance, Misty turns to me, stuffing her hands in her pockets.
“You have to find them.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have a choice anymore, Blake. You’re the only one who can see that far–”
“I don’t know where I’m looking.” I think of Skye’s dream with a wince. “I don’t know how far or how close these people are.”
“I’ve been doing as much research as I can,” she says. “We’re still finding bits and pieces of the Firestone empire but nothing before that. We know so little about the Old Gods–their stories, yes, but that’s it. We know about the blessing of the falls in Maatua and the Goddess’s hand in that, but not Her origins. We know nothing, but if Hannibal is… fae, then what can we do? He disappeared from the island. Maeve couldn’t get close to him. It was like the Viper was strategically put there as a buffer. And if Kieran–if Logan and Kieran are fae, and everything that happened in Emberfyll was because of the fae…” She tapers off, shaking her head. “I’m tired, Blake. Everyone is tired. I almost wish something would happen so we can all move on with our lives and put Hannibal behind us–”
“I’ll find him. I’ll put an end to it.” I meet her eyes in the rain-soaked darkness. “You have my word.”
“Will there ever be peace, Blake? Can you see it?”
“I’ve never looked that far, Aunt Misty.”
But I will. I have to.
Because I’m a wolf… aren’t I?
Or are there… pieces of us, my family, that the fae are to thank for? Our powers?
Voices from inside the library drift toward us.
Misty reaches out to clutch my forearm in silent solidarity. “You’re the only one who can do what you do,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
She must know the cost, doesn’t she? She must be able to feel it–the limits of my powers. I slowly step out of her touch and look out at the rain.
“Blake?”
I turn slightly to the side, staring at her over my shoulder.
She takes a shallow breath. “We thought–I thought it was over when Cole killed Richard. I thought what I saw–the people I saw–didn’t matter–”
“This isn’t your fault, Misty–”
“It could be.”
“It’s not. I’ll fix it. I’ll fix everything.”