A Clan of Novaks
Page 21
To my relief, he replied, “Not far.”
* * *
Of course, “not far” was a subjective term. “Not far” to Bastien translated into another two or three hours of this bumpy ride. We traveled primarily through more woodland. I was sure that by the time I eventually returned home from The Woodlands—if I ever got out of this mess—I would be thoroughly sick of forests and trees.
The sun was almost dipping behind the horizon by the time we emerged from the woods into a clearing. We had arrived near the foot of a range of towering gray mountains. Bastien slowed to a trot, his breathing suddenly labored. His eyes were wide again, his ears perked and alert. I could only imagine how traumatic returning to this place was for him.
“Hunters could still be here,” he whispered, sniffing the air. “Though I do not detect them. It’s possible, I suppose, that they have somehow made their scent undetectable to wolves… I know these hunters to be capable of such witchcraft. We must go slowly.”
I wasn’t about to argue with that. Now that he had slowed down, I was able to sit upright and stretch my aching back.
We passed a scattering of clothes, discarded on the ground—clothes that belonged to men and women alike. Pants, dresses, shirts, all of them torn and ripped. This appeared to be a spot where many shifters had transformed into their wolf forms at once. To my surprise, Bastien lowered his head and collected between his teeth several tattered shirts and pairs of pants. Then he retreated with me behind a wide bush.
“Slide off me,” he requested.
I acquiesced, my knees feeling like jelly as my feet touched the ground. I gripped the bush for support.
“Wait here,” he whispered. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
I was frowning as he left me and disappeared around the bush, wondering what he was going to do. Still, I did not follow him. I did as he had requested and waited.
Bastien returned within a few minutes, but not in his wolf form. He stood before me now as a man, and as my eyes roamed his godlike physique, I realized why he had picked up the garments. He had tied them around his body in a makeshift fashion for modesty. He had also fastened a strip of pant fabric around his wounded shoulder.
As he approached me, it felt strange to see him as a man again. It felt almost like he was a different person, disjointed from the one I’d just spent the last half a day with. Now that he was cleaned up by the river water, and he stood before me in daylight, I could better make out his features. He really was… handsome.
Although everything else physical about him had changed in his metamorphosis, the expression in his eyes remained the same; the same look of care, of concern that I still didn’t understand. I was still as complete a stranger to him as he was to me.
I felt the blood rise to my cheeks a little as he reached out his hand for me to take. I slid my palm into his and he pulled me close to him as he led me around the bush and back toward the mountains. We trailed along the range’s border until we reached a large wooden door etched into the stone.
He left me standing a few feet away as he moved up to the door and pressed his ear against it. His eyes narrowed as he listened, and then his lips parted, surprise flashing across his face. I was burning to know what he could hear.
“What is it?” I whispered.
When he backed away from the door and returned to me, his thick brows were knotted in confusion. He took my hand again and led me up to the entrance. Then, balling his right hand into a fist, he banged against the door.
Footsteps sounded on the other side. The iron handle twisted. The door groaned open. Standing before us was another man—another werewolf, I could only assume. He was an older man, his hair speckled with gray, appearing around his mid-forties in human years. His jaw dropped open as he laid eyes on Bastien.
“Prince?” he gasped. He looked like he had just seen a ghost, and perhaps that was exactly what he thought, given that Bastien should have never escaped the hunters.
Bastien did not look any less shocked to see him. “What are you doing back here?” he breathed.
The guard’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. He appeared speechless. “I… I… Let me take you to your cousin!”
“My cousin?” Bastien demanded. “Detrius is alive?”
“C-Come with me,” the guard said, grabbing hold of Bastien’s hand, before realizing that I stood next to him. His eyes had passed over me briefly when he’d first opened the door, but he’d seemed to barely give me a second thought, being so consumed with Bastien.
We entered the mountain, stepping into a surprisingly beautiful entrance chamber. The floors were made of sanded black stone, and rich, deep-colored tapestries hung from the walls. The guard hurried us toward a wide staircase. Even as Bastien harassed him with questions, the guard refused to give any answers, simply telling Bastien that he needed to speak with his cousin.
“Who else is alive?” Bastien growled.
“Just come,” the guard stammered. “Come.”
The guard sped up, and I was no longer able to keep up with them. Bastien grabbed me by the waist and hauled me over his shoulder so they could continue rushing forward at full speed. I was grateful that he was conscientious enough to not bang my ankle against anything.
I couldn’t see much from where I dangled upside down. And the blood rushing to my head did not help my vision either. All I knew was that we were rushing through more halls and corridors and passing dozens of other werewolves along the way. Bastien also called out questions to these people—like, “How are you all still here?” and “What in the name of The Woodlands happened?”—but all of them shied away from answering, deferring to Bastien’s mysterious cousin, just as the guard was doing.
* * *
Of course, “not far” was a subjective term. “Not far” to Bastien translated into another two or three hours of this bumpy ride. We traveled primarily through more woodland. I was sure that by the time I eventually returned home from The Woodlands—if I ever got out of this mess—I would be thoroughly sick of forests and trees.
The sun was almost dipping behind the horizon by the time we emerged from the woods into a clearing. We had arrived near the foot of a range of towering gray mountains. Bastien slowed to a trot, his breathing suddenly labored. His eyes were wide again, his ears perked and alert. I could only imagine how traumatic returning to this place was for him.
“Hunters could still be here,” he whispered, sniffing the air. “Though I do not detect them. It’s possible, I suppose, that they have somehow made their scent undetectable to wolves… I know these hunters to be capable of such witchcraft. We must go slowly.”
I wasn’t about to argue with that. Now that he had slowed down, I was able to sit upright and stretch my aching back.
We passed a scattering of clothes, discarded on the ground—clothes that belonged to men and women alike. Pants, dresses, shirts, all of them torn and ripped. This appeared to be a spot where many shifters had transformed into their wolf forms at once. To my surprise, Bastien lowered his head and collected between his teeth several tattered shirts and pairs of pants. Then he retreated with me behind a wide bush.
“Slide off me,” he requested.
I acquiesced, my knees feeling like jelly as my feet touched the ground. I gripped the bush for support.
“Wait here,” he whispered. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
I was frowning as he left me and disappeared around the bush, wondering what he was going to do. Still, I did not follow him. I did as he had requested and waited.
Bastien returned within a few minutes, but not in his wolf form. He stood before me now as a man, and as my eyes roamed his godlike physique, I realized why he had picked up the garments. He had tied them around his body in a makeshift fashion for modesty. He had also fastened a strip of pant fabric around his wounded shoulder.
As he approached me, it felt strange to see him as a man again. It felt almost like he was a different person, disjointed from the one I’d just spent the last half a day with. Now that he was cleaned up by the river water, and he stood before me in daylight, I could better make out his features. He really was… handsome.
Although everything else physical about him had changed in his metamorphosis, the expression in his eyes remained the same; the same look of care, of concern that I still didn’t understand. I was still as complete a stranger to him as he was to me.
I felt the blood rise to my cheeks a little as he reached out his hand for me to take. I slid my palm into his and he pulled me close to him as he led me around the bush and back toward the mountains. We trailed along the range’s border until we reached a large wooden door etched into the stone.
He left me standing a few feet away as he moved up to the door and pressed his ear against it. His eyes narrowed as he listened, and then his lips parted, surprise flashing across his face. I was burning to know what he could hear.
“What is it?” I whispered.
When he backed away from the door and returned to me, his thick brows were knotted in confusion. He took my hand again and led me up to the entrance. Then, balling his right hand into a fist, he banged against the door.
Footsteps sounded on the other side. The iron handle twisted. The door groaned open. Standing before us was another man—another werewolf, I could only assume. He was an older man, his hair speckled with gray, appearing around his mid-forties in human years. His jaw dropped open as he laid eyes on Bastien.
“Prince?” he gasped. He looked like he had just seen a ghost, and perhaps that was exactly what he thought, given that Bastien should have never escaped the hunters.
Bastien did not look any less shocked to see him. “What are you doing back here?” he breathed.
The guard’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. He appeared speechless. “I… I… Let me take you to your cousin!”
“My cousin?” Bastien demanded. “Detrius is alive?”
“C-Come with me,” the guard said, grabbing hold of Bastien’s hand, before realizing that I stood next to him. His eyes had passed over me briefly when he’d first opened the door, but he’d seemed to barely give me a second thought, being so consumed with Bastien.
We entered the mountain, stepping into a surprisingly beautiful entrance chamber. The floors were made of sanded black stone, and rich, deep-colored tapestries hung from the walls. The guard hurried us toward a wide staircase. Even as Bastien harassed him with questions, the guard refused to give any answers, simply telling Bastien that he needed to speak with his cousin.
“Who else is alive?” Bastien growled.
“Just come,” the guard stammered. “Come.”
The guard sped up, and I was no longer able to keep up with them. Bastien grabbed me by the waist and hauled me over his shoulder so they could continue rushing forward at full speed. I was grateful that he was conscientious enough to not bang my ankle against anything.
I couldn’t see much from where I dangled upside down. And the blood rushing to my head did not help my vision either. All I knew was that we were rushing through more halls and corridors and passing dozens of other werewolves along the way. Bastien also called out questions to these people—like, “How are you all still here?” and “What in the name of The Woodlands happened?”—but all of them shied away from answering, deferring to Bastien’s mysterious cousin, just as the guard was doing.
