Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

42. Magic in His Blood

Next morning Volya woke more rested than ever, but once he inhaled his bacon-and-steak and found the right spot on the bluff above the Don River, blood pounded in his ears. Shivers passed through him, turning to shakes, as if he hadn't slept, let alone next to Liam; as if he didn't kiss Liam for luck first thing in the morning; as if he were ravenous. Basically, he shook as if he was about to pass out.

Get a grip, the mist-wolf commanded. You're in the right place.

Exactly, Volya snapped, rubbing his shoulders. That's exactly the problem. For a creature living rent-free in his head, the wolf was dreadful at reading his moods.

He dreamt about this damnable riverbank every night. No matter what his fragmented dreams were about at first, they always morphed into the memory of Akrum drawing the glyphs in the air, until the fabled island solidified from the mist on this very spot. Then the dream played on a loop until every grain of sand, every stone, every leaf imprinted themselves in Volya's memory.

Remember, the voice of his blood implored him, as he stared at the flowing water, trembled and sweated like he had dysentery, remember, remember.

For God's sake, he did! He remembered it so well, he had to squint to distinguish this place from the dream-augmented reality that had Buyan. He squinted—and before him flowed the river, no island. No matter, it would be there.

The glyph for sun. The sand. The glyph for new life. The oak leaves. The glyph for sun.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, but it was pointless. It wasn't his heart that drove blood-rush in his ears, rendering him dizzy, but an unknown organ, as atavistic as the row of nipples on Akrum's belly when he became a wolf.

Volya didn't want extra nipples. Eww... A second heart wasn't too bad though. Or maybe his chest didn't sprout another heart; maybe this maddening flow of blood was its own thing, a wild magic. Then the mist-wolf was its voice and they conspired to drive him mad.

Volya wished he could talk to Akrum. The man could deny being a shaman all he wanted, but he knew oodles about magic. Volya yearned for explanations that didn't include big words like 'parthenogenesis'. He wanted something that made sense to him.

Did your blood act up like this every time you'd prepared to do magic, Akrum? Did it invade your dreams? Did it rouse you out of your sleep, shaking and light-headed?

Alas, in the early morning hours of the non-magic twenty-first century, fog clung to the River Don in vain. Akrum's millennia-old ghost didn't pop in to provide the lost cub with guidance.

Volya, as always, had only himself and the flaky wolf to rely upon. Trailed by his many academic friends, but alone, he approached the water's edge.

The fog enveloped him in a dump cloud, so different from a warm, fuzzy cloud nine he'd floated on last night with Liam. The wet chill came from every direction. The water murmured under this unpleasant cover as if trying to feign ignorance of the magic island hiding beneath its surface.

Volya took an oak brand they'd prepared and held its end to the mundane gas-lighter, borrowed from Damir. The fresh wood smoldered. A tongue of blue flame flickered, then it turned orange.

His hand grew steady on its own as he raised the firebrand in the air to draw the wards. His knees no longer wobbled. His spine snapped to a straight, rigid line. The rush of blood took five. He cleared his throat and called upon his memory, though it barely qualified as an effort. The glyph shone in his mind brighter than a sword drawn out of its sheath.

Blood rushed into his head again, so fiercely, that he swayed on his feet. But his arm moved through the air, pushed by his growing need to do magic. He had to fight with all his might to control the spell pouring from his heart and tingling in his fingertips.