Lone Werewolf Duology (bxb)

43. The Mighty Oak

The toes of Volya's boots touched the last tuft of grass on the shore. From there on, only clammy silt poked through with pebbles stretched to the water's edge. The emergence of the magic island widened the river, pushing the opposite bank towards the horizon. To his left and right, the normal course of the river looked almost as wide as the new channel between the bank and the island, but the exact lay of the land was hard to decipher through the mist.

Volya rekindled his oak brand—it seemed the right thing to do—and peered. At first, the shimmer of the running water under the billowing vapor was exactly the same whichever way he looked.

This continuous drift of the fluids brought on the motion sickness, but Volya resisted the temptation to sweep his gaze to the solid ground. The silver ripples popped up between the gray and white at the periphery of his vision. They were a bit like fish breaking water. Volya focused on them.

The dapples multiplied until they merged into a single silver highway. He found the moon road. His mundane mind informed him that the sun was still shining overhead, but he shrugged it off in a so-what gesture. If he questioned the delicate magic, it would shatter.

Uprising his smoldering brand, Volya stepped from the grass onto the squelching mud, and from there—onto the glimmering ovals, as if they were stepping stones.

He trusted the scientists were smart enough to follow in his footsteps exactly, and if not, it was their loss. They could use a cold shower.

Water leaked into his boots, but it never came above his ankles. He ignored the chill and moved on, from dapple to dapple.

The mist thickened as he went, so Volya had no idea how far he progressed across the river. He gritted his teeth at the thought of finding himself stranded in the middle of the Don if the illusion melted away prematurely. The upside was that he'd sink like a stone way before the embarrassment could hit him full force.

Meh. He could handle it. He'd come up, spit out the water, kick off his boots and swim to shore, that's all.

No, he wouldn't let this happen. He wasn't some clown. He was a Walkwe, and he had the magic in his blood. This was his place of power. He just had to keep walking, and everything would be fine. Onward, always onward; not standing in one place; not a single step back.

Finally, the soles of his boots scraped against the sand again. A few more staggering steps, and he fell, face first, to hug the closest million of sand-grains to his chest.

The mist didn't cloak the Buyan Isle any longer, but the ambient light was neither of the sun nor the moon. It was something in between, distant yet bright enough. And cool. Despite it, sweat trickled into Volya's eyes. He wiped it away, feeling the gritty stuff scratch his face.

Whatever. He made it across; he did it! And the others... oh, hell. The others! With a frustrated groan, Volya rolled onto his back and lifted himself on one elbow.

One by one, the scientists emerged from the wall of fog: daSilva, holding Lydia's hand; Sangha with Marina and Young—June refused to leave the trailer with the electronics. Unlike Anabelle though, June didn't ask for a babysitter. Damir brought up the rear of the small group.

Sangha, who judiciously took her sandals off before waddling in, made her way across the sand easier than the rest. She immediately counted Volya's pulse and studied his eyes. When his eyes yielded no new data, she commanded him to say 'aaah...'

Volya obeyed. Out of habit, he stuck his tongue out, letting her examine his throat. The woman couldn't go two hours without peering down there, so who was he to deny her the fix?

The rest of the team dispersed across the beach with their sampling bags, notebooks, and flashing phones—apparently, the magic didn't block the cellular signal. The resemblance to the teen girls chasing Liam was so striking that Volya snorted. And immediately regretted it, because the desire to have Liam with him and the hurt of abandonment, quick-punched him in the gut. His snort turned into a howl. He practically doubled over to stifle it.

"Are you experiencing the feeling of euphoria?" Sangha tapped her tablet with a stencil, frowning. "On the scale of 1 to 10–"

"My mood is steady. I've just thought of an old joke, that's all," Volya replied as solemnly as he could manage. "But I'm tired. If you don't mind, I want to rest in the shade over there."

He pointed at the beautiful oak, with a proud trunk and a sprawling canopy, standing by itself on the bluff.

She nodded reluctantly.

He made the beeline for the trail leading to the bluff. The track was just where he expected it to be from Akrum's memories, winding its way along the sand cliff's base and then shooting up toward the lone tree. Unlike Akrum, Volya didn't run up the slope on the tireless wolf-legs.

He climbed it huffing and puffing, whipping sweat and biting his lips for encouragement. Once he reached the tree, he slumped against its trunk.

Yes, this was that very same tree underneath which Akrum and Naktim watched the fertility rites.

Volya could see the familiar grove where the other trees and the carved standing stones mingled in two concentric circles. The place was just like he saw it in his vision, except for the unnerving silence. With the Walkwe not frolicking about, it looked dead.

He brushed the trunk with his hand, instinctively searching for someone's initials carved into the wood or some other nonsense.

Akrum and Naktim were here. Or a heart. A date maybe, if the Walkwe had kept the count of days.

The rough bark under Volya's palm didn't have any inscriptions, free of blemishes like the rest of the ethereal island. Maybe carving your bae's name into the sacred tree was a taboo back then?

He didn't know, but one thing was clear: nothing had changed here since Akrum's times. No disaster had befallen the sanctuary, no invasion scarred the grove, no heathen hand upturned the standing stones.

Then why was the place deserted?

Volya sat down, leaning his back and head against the oak. Where did the Walkwe tribe go?

The mist-wolf tittered in his head. They're closer than you think.

"Okay, I'll bite. Do you want to play 'Hot and Cold?'" Volya asked. "Is my poisoner here?"

Silence was his response.

"Is she my sister?"

Nothing.

"My mother?"

They're closer than you think, the mist-wolf repeated.

What did he mean when he said, 'they'? His mother and sister? The Walkwe? Akrum and Naktim?

Volya sighed, ripped a clump of grass and tossed it at his invisible companion. The clump plopped at the sand a few meters away, hitting nothing. Useless mist-wolf...

He wiped his hand on his jeans. By nightfall, he would probably hear a dozen hypotheses from daSilva and his cohorts about the whereabouts of the islanders. But these smart people couldn't answer the only question that mattered to him, personally.

Why weren't his mother and sister waiting for him here?

Because it's your fate to be a loner, the mist-wolf supplied helpfully. Unless you bond to a soulmate.

Volya blew a raspberry. He'd just done something incredible and ended up with an annoying voice in his head and an oak tree for a company. Was it his own fault? Had he let his heart waffle between two guys for so long that he'd ended up alone on the day of his greatest accomplishment?

He couldn't tell Toshka about it, anyway. He couldn't tell anyone from the regular world that he could do magic, and Liam picked Anabelle over him. So much for soulmates.

Wait a minute here! Maybe, just maybe, he could tell Toshka? It wasn't like he was doing anything bad. He was doing something pretty darn exciting and he could prove it was real, not rave about the werewolves and visions like a madman. Toshka might find it cool, and he definitely wouldn't tell anyone. After all, Volya kept Toshka's secrets, such as they were.

Don't tell anyone, the memory of Toshka's voice pleaded in Volya's head. He smiled, letting his mind drift into a not-so-ancient past. Don't tell anyone, Volya.