Fuck, I love this man.
With that thought, power surges through my heart and down my left arm.
I quickly lift my hammer and press it to the bird’s upper chest, where the flickers of blue lightning dance with every shiver of its wings.
Then I close my eyes and send my impulses through my weapon.
Be whole and live.
I sense the resistance in the metal, not to my impulses, but to the realities of its own form.
Unlike a medallion, this hammer is fixed, not malleable. Even if it doesn’t want to spill blood, it was made for hammering, striking, not soothing. Not molding to the shape of a beast’s heart or its pain.
A moment later, I sense the bird’s breathing stop. Its chest no longer pushes at my hammer with the rise and fall of indrawn breath.
The lightning that danced across my closed eyelids only moments ago has also stopped.
My shoulders slump even further as I berate myself.
I can’t save monsters.
I open my eyes, withdrawing my hammer and looking at Erik, preparing to tell him to place the bird back on its stomach, only to be bowled right over.
A giant, feathery form knocks into my chest.
My back hits the snow, and then I can’t distinguish between the flurry of feathers so close to my face, the playful growls filling my ears, or the sizzling energy suddenly flickering across my vision.
Just as quickly, the thunderbird leaps off me, leaving me staring up in shock at the dark sky.
Erik steps into view, his hand extended to me, a grin on his face and a barely controlled laugh in his voice. “Congratulations, Asha. You created a wolf-bird. Get used to being knocked over.”
“Um… huh?”
He helps me to my feet since it seems I’m too stunned to get up on my own.
I spin to the creature that’s crouched in the snow, only ten paces away from me.
It has four legs. Paws like a wolf. But its wings, body, neck, and face are like a thunderbird’s.
It hunches down, its legs and torso visibly tensing as if it were preparing to pounce on me again.
I point my finger at it. “No.”
It cocks its head at me, blinks for a moment, and then renews its crouch, its eyes bright.
“No,” I say again. “No pouncing.”
Beside me, Erik gives a short, sharp growl. It reminds me of the growls made by the dominant alpha wolf we encountered in the mountains on our journey to find Milena.
The bird’s focus instantly shifts to him.
It gives him a defiant stare, head raising, lightning suddenly visible across its chest.
He growls again, even more sharply this time, at which the bird slumps to the ground with a soft whine.
It looks so forlorn that I feel bad. For a moment. And then I’m simply relieved.
It’s alive.
