SPIRITBORNE | Book 1 of the Spirits' War Trilogy [excerpt]

3: THE WHITE WOLF

Image: The White Wolf by James Corwin

Soundtrack: The Mummers' Dance by Loreena McKennitt

***

He's just standing there, oblivious to my watchful eye. Just minding his own business, as always. Unable to force my gaze away, I shut my eyes. I can still see the image, seared against my retinas as if I'd tattooed the insides of my eyelids, tracing with delicate detail every crevice, every minute projection of the antlers...

I feel him direct his gaze towards me even though I cannot see him. I feel the cold, judgmental eyes bore into my skull as if I had committed the crime of the century. I feel his hatred towards me and all that I live for. But he doesn't know. He doesn't know my story, how I've lived all these years. What do I live for?

I live for the pack. I live for the hunt.

No...that's not right. I live for Margo and David...for Max...

I open my eyes and the buck is gone as if he'd never existed in the first place. I blink and I am standing at the windowsill, watching as the sleek form of an ivory wolf stares back at me, ears pricked.

The White Wolf.

She waits for me. I have seen her many times before. I have dreamt of her nearly every time I shut my eyes. I have painted her every time I lift a brush.

Her eyes glow silver in the twilight, mysterious and unyielding. Her silky snow-white fur shines magnificently against a backdrop of forest green...

She cannot get to me. She cannot reach me. I am safe in here. I am safe from harm.

I am safe.

I am...

I awaken in pain. And this isn't one of my average blackouts. This is true hell. My head throbs and my vision blurs and my muscles spasm, their tender flesh reeling. I feel as though I'm being trampled by a herd of wild elk, then being run over by a steamroller. Between the spasms, there are voices.

"Skye!"

"Can you hear us?" A woman's smooth voice is almost drowned out amongst the cacophony of my inner mind. A low rumble ensues, and I'm not sure if it's real or purely imagined.

I flinch, my ears stinging with the sudden stimulation. I raise my hands to ease the clamour, but I can't quite reach. Forcing my eyes open, I get a glimpse of my surroundings. Something warm covers my body and I struggle to make it out. Its colour is a harsh grey. In fact, everything's a shade of grey. Even my wild mess of hair has lost its lustre.

"Listen, Skye. You're okay. You're alright," a man's voice gently declares. My mind races through the chaos of its recent memories. "Allow the transformation to run its course. Stop fighting it."

Transformation?

I blink twice, hoping my vision will return. My muscles shriek with agony; I'm splayed upon some kind of rock-hard surface. A flash of silver crisscrosses against my eyelids. Moments later, an oppressive boom of thunder reverberates through my aching joints, causing my bones to shake violently. The storm is growing.

"That's it. Stay calm and you'll be fine," he says soothingly as if I'm five years old again and merely recovering from a nightmare.

David.

I attempt to converse with my uncle, but nothing comes out. I'm going to fall back under. The void is waiting for me with open arms. How I despise its dark embrace.

Forcing myself to sit up, I clear my throat and try again, and this time a muffled whine escapes my lips. I can't form the words. I take a deep breath, struggling to think. Another whine reaches my ears.

Max? Is that you? Are you with me, boy?

Yes, Skye, Dream Max tells me sincerely. Always and forever. Just throw me a treat every now and again and I'll be peachy.

The dog's golden fur begins to blur, making way for dusky skin and caramel eyes...

Wake me up, Max. I am going insane. I.N.S.A.N.E.

The dream world yanks me along relentlessly, forcing a childhood memory to resurface.

"Why is it always a wolf, Skye? Try something else sometime."

Margo's forehead was creased with worry as she pursed her lips, taking in my latest work.

"I keep having this same dream," I told her, shrugging. "I just wanted to capture its essence. Why does it matter, anyway?"

My aunt sighed, giving me a hug, and I wrapped my arms around her, careful not to get any paint on her fuchsia shirt – she'd kill me if that happened. She disappeared into the kitchen and I let out a long sigh, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment of reflection.

Pulling my toque off, I balled it up and threw it onto the armchair across the room. I lifted up the edges of the painting, careful not to smudge the moist areas. The noble face of a beautiful white wolf had gazed back at me from its abode among the trees, its eyes shining in the sun's warm gaze. Taking one last glimpse of the animal, I reached down and scrunched it up with both hands, feeling the thick paper crunch cruelly against my palms as the colour had seeped through.

I glanced down at Max. The retriever had been lounging happily at my feet until we'd disturbed him. I smiled apologetically, staring into his soft features.

"She's right, Max. What's wrong with me?"

The dog trotted over to the armchair and snatched up the wad of paper and acrylic. He gently deposited it in front of me, searching my eyes with his innocent topaz ones.

My mind raced, panicking as I realized that all the hard work I'd done had been for nothing. The animal on paper was brought to life only to be crushed under the weight of a broken spirit. What was I doing?

I gasp, my eyes flying open. My fleeting mind flickers back and forth between the conscious and the unconscious, and I feel another blackout coming on. Another bout of thunder rolls across the hills and forces its way into my throbbing spine.

"H-elp," I sputter.

"Don't worry," David's voice soothes me as I fade back into the dream world. "It's natural for a Lycan to go through this amount of pain. Don't fight it. Don't fight the Shift."