Lycan Legacy (A Soulmark Series Book 5), page 34
“I didn’t know that was possible,” I murmur.
“Because it is not done. Rarely in our history has a witch gone to such lengths to tap into such dark magic,” Aunt Lydia explains.
Silence, thick and worrisome, blossoms in the quaint sitting room we find ourselves in.
“Let me get this straight," Callie says. "All of this time there have been two curses sealed into the moonstone necklace by the caster sacrificing their own soul?”
Aunt Lydia tips her head in Callie's direction, her dark eyes are half-hooded by dark lashes. “You are correct."
"And what does this have to do with our proposal—oh." Callie's eyes widen comically as she rocks back in her seat. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she mutters. “It’s the lycan and soulmark curse, isn’t it?"
I snap my head in Callie’s direction and then to the witches. “That can’t be,” I say hoarsely, rising from my seat only to stand behind it. My feet are unwilling to take me further, and so I grip onto the chair without remorse. “What kind of—pardon my French—fucked-up person makes their victims wear their condemnation like some prized jewel?”
“A very angry witch, apparently.”
“Lydia!” Aunt Mo balks.
Anger and disbelief whirl into a storm inside of me. Callie casts me a worried look.
“How can this be possible?" I ramble on. "How can we not have known? For centuries we’ve had this necklace—centuries. Yet, all this time and no one figured it out?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Aunt Lydia tells me kindly. “If the necklace was left mostly undisturbed and unworn, then how and why would your pack investigate it? Curses are not always contained to an object, and furthermore, back in those times, magic wasn’t as well understood by other supernaturals. Even now it is not. We all tend to keep our secrets close.”
“No kidding,” Callie says on a scoff. Both her tone and scrunched nose attesting perhaps to previous experiences.
My mind is too abuzz to contemplate what they could be. Instead, I reach back into my memories of seeing my mother or grandmother wear the necklace. But only special occasions come to mind.
“I know this information is startling,”—I guffaw loudly, but my outburst does not stop Aunt Mo’s words—“but this is a good thing, child. Can’t you see?”
“No,” I snap. “I can’t.”
Because at this very instant it is impossible to even grasp at the revelation. For centuries lycankind has been plagued with this abominable curse… and all along we've had the very abomination in our possession. The ancient witch had indeed been cruel and devious to have my family flaunt and parade the very thing that kept our wolf spirits leashed this entire time.
I glance Aunt Lydia’s way and notice her tense at my sudden regard. Her spine goes rigid, and she delivers a cool look back.
“Don’t go wolf on us now of all times,” she says.
I don’t register the press of the wolf near the forefront of my mind. It takes in the information with stoic silence, but there’s no denying its obvious interest in the turn of the conversation.
Rarely does the wolf press its will against me, but in acknowledging its presence, it lunges at the opportunity. The wolf wants to be free. Truly free, as it was always meant to be. The curse that binds it to the moon is like a shackle, one that has strained its spirit more than most.
“My apologies,” I manage to get out through gritted teeth. Shouldering back the wolf’s presence takes more effort than has ever been necessary before, and still its will and want wraps around the core of my being. It is a plea, more than anything else.
Callie clears her throat. “Do you think the Wselfwulfs knew about the necklace?”
I am a touch out of breath as I smooth back my hair with an agitated hand, but at least my wolf is back in its place. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. If my family never knew, then how could the Wselfwulfs?”
In unison, the three women form a variation of the same doubtful expression. Their cheeks pulling in. Their lips thinning. Their brows tugging together.
My heart gives a strange flutter at their doubt.
“They didn’t know,” I snap, casting them all a glare. “My parents would have tried whatever they could to reverse the curse. The Blancs bear the soulmark curse as well, atop the moon curse, or have you forgotten? Lifting the curses would have brought the Blanc pack honor.”
Callie flushes and holds up her hands in defense. “Okay,” she says. “It just seems a little strange that they wanted it so badly….”
“It was probably just an excuse they used to justify the attack,” I argue back. I tame my voice into something more subdued but no less firm. “Lucy dropped hints about the necklace while staying with us. Maybe she’s the one who passed along the idea to my parents or the Wselfwulfs themselves.”
“Motives aside… this discovery is pivotal in our ability to determine the components of the curses," Aunt Lydia says. "The effort will be exceptionally taxing, so rather than attempt something now, we will wait until tomorrow’s witching hour.”
Aunt Mo hums her agreement, then gives an additional nod of affirmation. “The strength of the waxing moon will be behind us. With it we can draw what we want most to us—information.”
The two witches go off on a tangent at that, listing off supplies and names of people. They rise slowly from their chairs, and Callie and I look to one another, unsure if this is a dismissal or not.
“So tomorrow at the… witching hour?” Callie asks, breaking into their conversation when they both mean to take a breath.
The witches look surprised to see us still standing there. Aunt Lydia frowns at us.
“Yes.” Aunt Lydia looks to Aunt Mo in exasperation and walks from the sitting room, muttering under her breath choice words. Aunt Mo lingers, her eyes tired but holding a flicker of anticipation.
“There’s nothing for you to do here today, but get in our way,” she teases kindly and ushers us toward the front of the house. “I’ll call your alpha and let him know what we intend to do. None of us can afford to be left out of the loop. Besides, I have a feeling he will take the news better coming from me.”
A frown decorates my forehead. “Are you sure that’s best? It might come better from Callie.”
“I’m sure,” she states. “Now, off you go. There’s much work to be done in a very small amount of time, and we may require you in the next day or so. You don’t need anything else, do you?”
We shake our heads, going obediently to the door and putting on our things. Aunt Mo waits patiently near the door, ready to see us out when an idea strikes me.
“Aunt Mo, there is one thing you might be able to help me with… if it’s not too much to ask.”
Both women look at me expectantly, and I do my best to keep the flush of red off my cheeks.
“Of course, what is it?”
“I need some flowers.”
++
The bouquet Aunt Mo conjures for me prickles my palms the entire way home. Callie drops me off, but she doesn't bother to follow me inside for Atticus will be back soon, and there are wolves still on watch.
By the time I deposit the flowers into a vase of cold water and scrub my hands pink, the crunching of snow under car tires reaches my ears. I’m tempted to run and hide—more than tempted if I am being honest. Facing Atticus after he left without a word this morning makes me nervous.
What if he chooses not to face me at all?
I’m still at the sink when the door to the garage opens, and the distinct sound of boots tapping the doorframe rings familiar in my ear. Even with the subdued bang of the door shutting and the soft sliding of fabric reaching my nuanced lycan hearing, I almost hear none of it due to the erratic beating of my heart.
For a lingering moment, the house seems so still.
Can he hear my heartbeat? Can he smell my anxiety? What of the magic and flowers?
Will he come?
The floor creaks with the pressure of his approach. I dry my hands with a dishtowel nearby, searching for my courage only to find it long gone. Atticus stops, the floorboards holding back their predicted groan, and I turn to face him.
I expect to see him lingering in the kitchen's entryway. He’s not.
“Atticus?”
The footsteps continue until he fills the entryway. I inhale deeply and catch his scent, greenery with touches of lavender, oakmoss, and musk. The scent fills my lungs and acts as a balm to my nerves—at least what is left of them.
Atticus doesn’t look my way.
It might be for the best. I take in his profile from half-lowered lashes and drag my gaze over the lines of his face caught in shadows and meager light. He didn’t shave this morning.
I can see the stretch of dark stubble hugging his strong jawline and over the cleft of his chin. My sights linger on his lips. They hold no tension to them. A long, slow breath passes from my mouth as I relax minutely. Atticus is completely composed. There is no hint of a wrinkle or crease to betray outward feeling near his eyes or across his forehead.
But if I could see into his eyes, would it be different?
“Where did you get these?”
Just breathe, Winter. “Maureen Clybourne.”
A drawn out beat and then his curt response. “How?”
“Callie and I went to the Elder Triad's house,” I say carefully. His jaw clenches in the dim light, but still, his eyes remain forward. I rush on to explain. “When Callie and I were cleaning up, we came up with a sort of crazy idea that turned out to be not so crazy at all.”
His silence prompts my continuation.
“My necklace, or rather, the moonstone, is cursed,” I tell him. “But it’s not just any curse—it’s our curse. The one that holds our kind to the moon’s whim and the plague on the soulmark for the Blanc pack.”
“We’re supposed to be focusing on Zoelle," Atticus says. "Xander is shutting himself off to all emotions just to keep going and resting more and more responsibilities on my shoulders to carry the pack. We can’t have our attention split like this,” he finishes, managing a biting tone regardless of the fatigue that so clearly plagues him.
“The aunts think it’s meant to be,” I murmur.
“They don’t know everything.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, opening them only once I’ve captured a lungful of air. Breathing it out entirely, I take a step toward Atticus. His gaze flickers, and for the first time, he tenses visibly. My fingers curl into my palm at the slight, steadying my resolve.
“They’re wallflowers,” I tell him.
The cherry red and orange petals are out of place among the cold and callous tension riding the walls of the home. But their presence and meaning will override it—at least I hope they will.
Another step forward and I begin to curl around the kitchen island. Atticus's spine goes rigid.
“They mean faithful. I know the sentiment might be too little too late, but I need you to know. I’m going to make this right. All of this. And I swear to you that from this moment on, I’ll be faithful to you and to this pack. I won’t let myself be misguided by my family anymore.”
Nothing.
No twitch. No sound. No reaction.
But he doesn’t leave either, and that alone stifles the awful ache ticking in my heart. Slowly, Atticus turns his head in my direction. The weight of his regard halts my advance.
As I succumb to the depth of emotion swirling in his eyes, a familiar tugging pulls at my center. The need to be closer to him rouses inside of me. Something far beyond the soulmark’s will, but one I now know of as my own true want. I want to be in the circle of his arms and never leave.
With or without the soulmark tying us together, I know without a doubt I will always be drawn to Atticus.
And I dare to think I see in his eyes the same recognition of the undeniable force between us. Slivers of gold emerge in his gaze, and my own wolf draws forward to meet its match. The floor does not creak or whine as I shuffle forward, but the world around us comes back into dizzying focus when I do.
My movement shatters the spell.
The gold vanishes from his eyes, and Atticus fights to rearrange his features into something bland and unrecognizable. He leaves once the look is mastered, and pain lashes out at my heart.
I will make everything right, I vow vehemently as hot tears rush down my cheeks. I will.
The Witching Hour
Chapter 20
The peak witching hour is at three in the morning.
It is a fact I learn over the phone late the following evening with Atticus. Aunt Lydia laughs merrily at my ignorance after I confess my assumption that the witching hour is at midnight.
Atticus’s displeasure about the upcoming night’s events is evident, but it softens when Xander arrives to pick us up.
“Lucy said the tonic would only last a few days, right?” Xander asks as I reach for my seat belt. My movements slow exponentially, and I nod as I catch his green eyes in the rearview mirror.
“That’s what she said,” I confirm.
“Good, good,” he mutters under his breath.
Xander tosses an arm over the back of the front passenger seat, where Atticus resides, and backs out of the driveway. Swiveling his gaze from front to back, he glides the car out into the street without a hitch. Xander changes gears, his movements less fluid and more abrupt.
“One of Diana’s brewers thinks they have something to wake Zoelle sooner. They’re trying it tonight as well.”
"That’s good news, man,” Atticus rumbles, his hand claps onto Xander’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. Xander nods. His intent focus on the road is undisturbed by his beta’s reassurance.
“I’ll drop you two off at Lydia’s sister’s house and pick you up after it’s all done. Just give me a call, Atticus. I’m going to see Zoelle and speak with Diana about my talk with Irina.”
The steady drum of fingers against the steering wheel is an odd noise to coalesce with Xander’s bizarre tone. His words come across with their usual strength weaved about them, but there’s an unnatural cadence to them. His fingers continue to tap-tap-tap-tap.
“Sounds like a plan,” Atticus remarks, passing his closest friend and alpha a sidelong glance. “When did you talk to your sister?”
Tap-tap-tap-tap
“After Maureen called me yesterday to let me know your plans.” Xander’s eyes flicker to the rearview mirror to find mine. “I asked her for a favor.”
His eyes dart back to the road, and he releases a somewhat shaky sigh. When the car rolls to a stop at the next intersection, Atticus squeezes Xander's shoulder again. The drumming stops, and Xander turns his attention to Atticus.
“What’d you ask for? You gotta keep me in the loop here, Xander. We can’t afford to be out of sync.”
Xander nods, the movement echoing down his body as it rocks slightly forward. The car plugs onward, but at a far slower pace than necessary. At least there is no worry of causing traffic with our slow speed at this hour.
“Jax is coming.”
Atticus frowns, his regard still trained on his friend. “The sorcerer?”
“Yes.” The clipped response makes Atticus flinch, but Xander doesn’t seem to notice for he barrels on. “I want the coven’s focus entirely on Zoelle, tonight is a one-time exception.”
Well then… I turn my eyes out the window, avoiding whatever looks either man might deem to send me.
“You sure that’s a good idea? Isn’t he associated with the Stormrow clan of sorcerers?”
“He is.”
“I don’t think Diana is going to appreciate having a Stormrow sorcerer on their turf. Not after what happened last year.”
Xander remains silent, and for a time, I do too. And then my curiosity wins out.
“What happened last year?”
Atticus cranes his neck over his shoulder to look at me. His lips are set into a firm line, and I can see the argument he has with himself mentally. To share or not to share?
He sighs. “The coven attempted a trade last year with the Stormrows. To say it didn’t go as planned would be an understatement. You've seen Maureen’s scars?” I nod reluctantly, stomach twisting. “I’ll give you one guess where she got them from.”
I suck in a sharp breath even as Xander shoots a glare at his beta.
“He might be from the Stormrow clan originally, but he’s a Vrana now. If Irina says he can help and she trusts him, then I do. She says he can get on a flight within the next day or two.”
“But Diana—”
“We'll deal with it,” Xander cuts in savagely. “We both want what is best for Zoelle and the baby, and that means having the entire coven attending to her. Tonight the witches will look into the past as much as they can… but when Jax arrives, he takes over this project. No questions asked.”
The underlying steel in Xander’s voice leaves no room for argument, and the rest of our drive is conducted in painful silence. Being so near the two top wolves in the pack as they butt heads is uncomfortable, but I make no attempt to complain.
“Remember to call me when it’s over, and I’ll come to pick you up,” Xander says as he pulls up in front of a small two-story house.
“Of course,” Atticus replies easily, the tension evaporating from the car as he reaches over and gives Xander a one-armed hug. “Everything’s going to go over well tonight, man. Breathe easy, brother. With all of us working toward a solution, we’ll make one happen.”
Xander claps his hand roughly on Atticus’s back, and the two stay locked for a moment longer in their embrace. When Atticus pulls back, the nervous energy thrumming through Xander lessens.
“Thanks, man,” Xander says quietly. Seeming to have gathered himself, Xander looks to the both of us with firm resolve. “Make tonight count.”
The air is particularly crisp at this time of night. Every breath clouds in front of my face, and the cold immediately bites at my cheeks and nose. The car drives away once Atticus, and I are on the sidewalk.
