Silence Fallen
Page 32
But leaving Mercy behind when he’d just found her was painful. And whatever the old witch had done to allow him to contact Mercy, now that their brief conversation was over, it had left the werewolf magic, both his pack ties and his mate bond, in a state of outrage—a painful state. The combination of loss and pain left him unable to speak in Russian or English.
He closed his fingers around the necklace and drew a deep breath. When that wasn’t enough, he shut his eyes and rested his head against the back of the airplane seat. His wolf was fighting for control in a way it hadn’t since he’d been very new—and had been pretty much since Mercy had gone missing.
He’d forgotten how tiring it was to fight the beast to a standstill. He’d had decades to become complacent, to believe that he had a handle on just how bad things could get. As the hours had passed, and Mercy was no closer than she had been, the wolf had fought and fought and fought.
When his mating bond had found Mercy again, faint though the signal had been, just after he’d gotten on the plane, he’d thought he would be back to normal. But once the wolf figured out just how far away Mercy was, how poorly the bond was functioning . . . He’d found a quiet corner in the plane designed to please the kinds of people who rented private jets as a matter of course and had been trying to meditate to keep his beast under control when Elizaveta found him.
She’d sat down on the floor next to him with an ease a woman of her age shouldn’t have had and handed him a small bottle of Russian vodka.
He’d handed it back. “Thank you, but not right now.”
She took the bottle and took a long drink before capping it and tucking it away somewhere in the layers of her clothing.
“To break a werewolf’s mating bond,” Elizaveta said, “this is something very difficult—but to block it?” She laughed gently and patted his cheek. “Such a thing is child’s play to such as I. Witches like me and werewolves like you have existed in the same places for centuries. Much werewolf lore has been passed down in my family and others.”
She spoke in Russian, and the wolf quieted as he let himself be comforted by the way it brought back childhood memories of his mother sitting beside him and explaining how the world worked to him in much the same voice.
“I have a book written by my great-grandmother,” she said. “It is all about werewolves. A whole section of it deals with mating bonds and pack bonds—which are different aspects of the same magic. I am sure that many witch families have copies of this book—or one like it. She tells us that a specific kind of circle of warding, one that does not let magic pass in or out, will block the bond. With a day to work, I could put together something that could do it for a few hours. Give me a week and the right ingredients, and I could block it for longer.”
“So the fact that I can feel her now is only a sign that whatever they have been using to block our mating bond has burned out?” he asked.
“A sign that something has changed,” Elizaveta said. She pursed her lips and nodded to herself. “Perhaps we could ask her.”
“I’ve tried,” Adam told her. “I think that our bond is working fine, but we are just too far away. Without the pack for me to draw upon for power, we might have to be in the same city to make real contact.”
Elizaveta snorted. “Adya, you underestimate me. If you have something of Mercy’s, I can use your bond to give you a few minutes to talk.”
In that moment, he’d have given her his heart, dug it out of his chest in order to hear Mercy’s voice. But that would have been dumb, and in the end, all Elizaveta had needed had been Mercy’s necklace.
He wasn’t stupid, so he made her work her magic in the biggest of the rooms in that huge plane so that the vampires and Honey would be there if something went wrong and he lost control.
Elizaveta had come through for him again, as she always had.
So now he knew that Mercy was alive.
Eyes closed, heart pounding, Adam pressed his body back into the leather chair. Mercy had even rescued herself from the monsters. But now she was lost and alone somewhere in Europe. Both he and his wolf found that unacceptable—but much, much better than knowing that she was bleeding and taken by vampires, which was all he’d had before.
The monster inside him didn’t want to fly to Italy and treat with a vampire. It wanted to go to Italy and kill all the vampires. All of them everywhere. Then find Mercy, take her home, and barricade her in their home so that no one else could take her from them. Part of Adam’s trouble in bringing the wolf under control was that he pretty much felt the same way. Only his intellect could see how disastrous that might be. Still, his heart fought on the side of the monster.
Elizaveta—he knew because he could smell the faint whiff of her scent, a blend of tea-tree oil and herbs—kissed his forehead. Then she stood up and said, “I am an old woman, and this has tired me.”
“And hurt you,” he said, opening his eyes to look up at her.
Witchcraft was powered by pain, the witch’s or someone else’s. She had dug a knife into her scarred forearm and cut a slice of skin. When she’d burned it in the incense, she’d had to grit her teeth—as if burning her flesh had done even more damage to her.
“I’m sorry,” he told her.
“Don’t fret, Adya,” she said. “A little pain, and it is gone. Pain and I are old friends. I am going to go use one of the back rooms and sleep on the couch.”
He closed his fingers around the necklace and drew a deep breath. When that wasn’t enough, he shut his eyes and rested his head against the back of the airplane seat. His wolf was fighting for control in a way it hadn’t since he’d been very new—and had been pretty much since Mercy had gone missing.
He’d forgotten how tiring it was to fight the beast to a standstill. He’d had decades to become complacent, to believe that he had a handle on just how bad things could get. As the hours had passed, and Mercy was no closer than she had been, the wolf had fought and fought and fought.
When his mating bond had found Mercy again, faint though the signal had been, just after he’d gotten on the plane, he’d thought he would be back to normal. But once the wolf figured out just how far away Mercy was, how poorly the bond was functioning . . . He’d found a quiet corner in the plane designed to please the kinds of people who rented private jets as a matter of course and had been trying to meditate to keep his beast under control when Elizaveta found him.
She’d sat down on the floor next to him with an ease a woman of her age shouldn’t have had and handed him a small bottle of Russian vodka.
He’d handed it back. “Thank you, but not right now.”
She took the bottle and took a long drink before capping it and tucking it away somewhere in the layers of her clothing.
“To break a werewolf’s mating bond,” Elizaveta said, “this is something very difficult—but to block it?” She laughed gently and patted his cheek. “Such a thing is child’s play to such as I. Witches like me and werewolves like you have existed in the same places for centuries. Much werewolf lore has been passed down in my family and others.”
She spoke in Russian, and the wolf quieted as he let himself be comforted by the way it brought back childhood memories of his mother sitting beside him and explaining how the world worked to him in much the same voice.
“I have a book written by my great-grandmother,” she said. “It is all about werewolves. A whole section of it deals with mating bonds and pack bonds—which are different aspects of the same magic. I am sure that many witch families have copies of this book—or one like it. She tells us that a specific kind of circle of warding, one that does not let magic pass in or out, will block the bond. With a day to work, I could put together something that could do it for a few hours. Give me a week and the right ingredients, and I could block it for longer.”
“So the fact that I can feel her now is only a sign that whatever they have been using to block our mating bond has burned out?” he asked.
“A sign that something has changed,” Elizaveta said. She pursed her lips and nodded to herself. “Perhaps we could ask her.”
“I’ve tried,” Adam told her. “I think that our bond is working fine, but we are just too far away. Without the pack for me to draw upon for power, we might have to be in the same city to make real contact.”
Elizaveta snorted. “Adya, you underestimate me. If you have something of Mercy’s, I can use your bond to give you a few minutes to talk.”
In that moment, he’d have given her his heart, dug it out of his chest in order to hear Mercy’s voice. But that would have been dumb, and in the end, all Elizaveta had needed had been Mercy’s necklace.
He wasn’t stupid, so he made her work her magic in the biggest of the rooms in that huge plane so that the vampires and Honey would be there if something went wrong and he lost control.
Elizaveta had come through for him again, as she always had.
So now he knew that Mercy was alive.
Eyes closed, heart pounding, Adam pressed his body back into the leather chair. Mercy had even rescued herself from the monsters. But now she was lost and alone somewhere in Europe. Both he and his wolf found that unacceptable—but much, much better than knowing that she was bleeding and taken by vampires, which was all he’d had before.
The monster inside him didn’t want to fly to Italy and treat with a vampire. It wanted to go to Italy and kill all the vampires. All of them everywhere. Then find Mercy, take her home, and barricade her in their home so that no one else could take her from them. Part of Adam’s trouble in bringing the wolf under control was that he pretty much felt the same way. Only his intellect could see how disastrous that might be. Still, his heart fought on the side of the monster.
Elizaveta—he knew because he could smell the faint whiff of her scent, a blend of tea-tree oil and herbs—kissed his forehead. Then she stood up and said, “I am an old woman, and this has tired me.”
“And hurt you,” he said, opening his eyes to look up at her.
Witchcraft was powered by pain, the witch’s or someone else’s. She had dug a knife into her scarred forearm and cut a slice of skin. When she’d burned it in the incense, she’d had to grit her teeth—as if burning her flesh had done even more damage to her.
“I’m sorry,” he told her.
“Don’t fret, Adya,” she said. “A little pain, and it is gone. Pain and I are old friends. I am going to go use one of the back rooms and sleep on the couch.”
