That is what happened between Maurice and Njáll, spurred on by the fact that Maurice once had his own magic, and thus his fae blessing is far stronger than that belonging to anyone else.
Asher will not have to worry about it so much, and I think he understands that, which is why he is less angry now. He is a wolf’s mate, and they have their own bonds, too. He and Quinn have one between them, but they will not perform the rites to cement it for some time yet, I believe. It matters little. Asher’s blessing is the most tumultuous of all of us, being as he was once a wolf himself, and fae and wolf magics are—supposedly—inherently incompatible.
But Jeremiah? He is a vampire. Paxton a human. Both carry the Huntsman’s blessing, so he need not worry that Paxton will have the same lifespan he would have endured without, but… It is still limited. A vampire’s is not. And they love each other; I am not unfeeling enough to misunderstand that.
Maybe it is born of all the time they spent watching over a wolf pack, but I know Jeremiah wants some tangible proof of what they mean to one another. Knowing that a bond has always been possible and that I kept that information from them…
I sigh and steel my shoulders as I approach the door. I understand his anger. I sympathise with it. I should have told him, but the reason I kept this all to myself is that when the Huntsman told me, I was struggling with a new bond of my own.
The one that connects me to Grant.
I am not one to lie to myself. Grant immediately looks in my direction when I slip through the warehouse door, and the small, lost way he appears in his oversized hoodie tugs something deep in my stomach.
I am in love with him, of course. As much as I can be sure that it is even something I can feel.
But him? I have given him only the semblance of a life these past fifteen years. My attempts to protect him have left him lonely and angry, and now he might be trapped because if the Huntsman has decided he is one of us, then there is no escaping it at all.
I am no blind fool, the way the others sometimes believe I am. I know Grant feels more for me than a turn usually does for their sire. I know, too, that he is a grown man and knows himself well. But it would be foolish of me to ignore the way I turned him, as well as to ignore everything that has taken place since then.
He relies on no one other than me. At first, that was for his safety. I told the Huntsman not long after I turned him, but the others… I did not know how far I could trust them. Perhaps not Asher or Paxton, but the vampires?
We are ruthlessly territorial when we feel the need. Adding fae magic to that mix does not make things easier.
“What was that little chat all about?” Jeremiah asks. He leans against Paxton’s side, body language easy, but tension coats his voice.
“The Huntsman would like us to train Grant.”
All my focus is on Grant when I say it, who I know would like to train just as the rest of us do. He and Asher have already discussed it. If I were to find out they have been training in secret, I would not be surprised.
Here and now, Grant pales and pushes his hands into the pocket of his hoodie again.
“Sounds good.” Asher pats Grant on the shoulder. “We’ll get you set up soon, okay?”
Grant tilts his head back and blinks up at him. “Yeah,” he replies, voice dull. “Okay.”
Three months later.
“Again,” I say, and Grant groans as he pushes to his feet.
Our living room has not been the same since the high fae tore through into our realm. We made it into Grant’s training room upon our return to the base. Truth be told, we need somewhere larger, but although Njáll has offered use of rooms in the clan house, I am loath to take Grant to a place so unfamiliar to me.
“I’m not going to get it.” Grant pouts.
He has been excited about training these past few months. I think it takes his mind off of everything else that has been going on—we have captured two of the high fae so far, the Huntsman taking them back through the veil himself, but there are still many more out there.
Grant saw five or six pass through. The Huntsman’s visit to the Otherworld revealed at least a dozen high fae missing. They should not have been able to tear through the veil again, not without our knowing about it, but I am not convinced that even that number is correct.
“You will,” I say. “Again.”
Grant sighs but shifts his weight into a more stable stance. The blessing passed to him through me is very different to what the rest of us carry. Trying to tame it is proving difficult. Grant has used it before, guided it before, but when I ask him to use it purposefully in moments like this, it usually results in nothing.
My fangs extend as I drop into my own ready stance. The point of this is not for me to hurt him, of course. I want him off-balance so that his magic has to compensate for what his body cannot manage.
I run at him, and Grant leaps aside at the last second, narrowly avoiding my tackle. I do not feel the brush of his blessing and my own flares in frustration. Grant gasps when he feels it. He whirls on me, dodging my first clumsily aimed blow. My blessing flares again, and when it seizes Grant, he goes still and surrenders.
I growl. “What are you doing?”
He blinks big, dark eyes at me. I don’twantto hurt him. I do not believe I ever could. It would also be negligent of me to disobey the Huntsman and expect Grant to face any of this untrained.
