For some reason, it feels like she’s warning me again now. Or maybe challenging me. I’m not sure which.
I let my inner calm crumble for a moment, allowing my beast to surge and taking a chance to speak with my heart, but not aloud.
Within my mind, I growl,I choose you.
Confusion floods her features. I read it in the crease in her brow and the press of her lips, the tilt of her head. Her fingers claw against my chest, becoming hard, and I berate myself for expressing my thoughts as if my words should, or even could, mean something to her.
Quickly, I calm my heart and close off my mind.
Peyton draws back from me, but she doesn’t stop studying me.
Neither does anyone else.
Archer is on her front foot near Slade, while Tansy has remained close to the tree. Jonah is hanging back, his arms folded across his chest.
Vanguard steps aside, and I take his place at the edge of the cliff, extending my hand outward into the air while I’m still standing, testing the location of the shield.
The wind grows strong around my palm, but I don’t feel a barrier. Maybe I’m not close enough to it.
Fuck it.
I drop to my stomach, army-crawl forward until I’m right at the edge, and then I hold my breath as I extend my hand forward.
23. STRIKER DRAVEN
My hand passes over the lip of the ravine and curves down around the edge.
A tingling sensation shoots along the back of my limb and then further along my arm as I continue to reach down the rock face, feeling my way.
I’m conscious of the indrawn breaths behind me, the clear surprise that I did, indeed, get through the shield, although, if it weren’t for my beast’s hearing, I’m certain the soft sounds would be drowned out by the roaring waterfall.
Now that I’ve reached beyond the cliff’s edge, the noise from within the ravine is somehow louder.
Carefully judging the distance down the cliff by feeling alone, I finally stop, my fingertips curling once again around a lip of stone and into an empty space behind it.
It must be the cavity Vanguard described.
Straining forward, I find the side of what certainly feels like a box. I’m not overly surprised that it feels like it’s made of wood. The box that Lady Tirelli kept the White Wand in was also wooden.
Shimmying further forward, I reach in and wrap my hand around the case, preparing to support it with my other hand so I don’t drop it as I pull it up.
Within moments, I’m back on my feet, holding a wooden box slightly smaller than a shoe box, just as Vanguard described. The latch is secured with an intricate-looking padlock, while runes are etched around the box on all four sides.
They’re the same kind of runes that were carved into the container the White Wand was stored in. I recognize some of the shapes. When I first saw them, I assumed they were witches’ runes, but now I’m not so certain.
“What are these?” I ask, running my free hand across the etchings.
“Stories with power,” Vanguard replies. “They are Norse runes carved by the ancient Einherjar, who revered the Valkyrie and sought glory in death. That box is one of only three still in existence, with the power to contain the bones. One of those boxes is now in the possession of the assassin’s Guardian.”
The one the White Wand was in.
I try to sound out the unfamiliar name he used for the ancient people who carved the runes. “Who are these Ein… hair… yar?”
Vanguard nods and opens his mouth as if to speak, but Peyton’s expression has darkened.
“You speak of berserkers,” she snarls, and I imagine she’s recalling the brute that Hadrix transformed into before he died. Berserkers revel in death and blood.
“Fuck, no!” Jonah snaps, stepping forward with a deep furrow in his brow, clearly offended. “Berserkers are abominations who use a twisted version of Einherjar teaching to spill blood and dominate others.”
