I read on.
Loki’s son.
The monstrous wolf.
Of all the ridiculous—
Every indication points in only one direction. A terrible truth. We are Vargr’s descendants, and a dreadful curse follows our blood.
I snapped the book shut so hard the sound cracked through the library.
“My God,” I hissed under my breath.
Fenrir. Curses. Bloodlines.
Superstitious balderdash.
The old man had been driven mad by this remote, windswept purgatory—and now his delusions had been bound into leather and ink, waiting to infect whoever read them.
I scrubbed a hand over my face.
No wonder the thing in my chest was acting up.
This land was getting to me.
This house was getting to me.
And that girl—
No.
No.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping across the rug.
I would not allow some dead lunatic’s scribbles to take root in my mind.
I was not cursed.
I was not a monster.
And I certainly was not—
My pulse kicked hard beneath my sternum, a sudden, violent thud that forced me to grip the edge of the table.
“…tainted,” I muttered, shaking my head.
Absurd.
Every word of it.
I slipped the key from my pocket, the metal cold against my fingers.
My time in hiding was over.
Cowardice didn’t suit a Wolverton.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I strode to the door.
