What did he see?
Fionn stood, his stance predatory and similar to a hawk ready to descend on prey. He placed a hand on Cian’s shoulder, the gesture heavy with fate and kingly judgment. “The door will open when the time is right, and the descendant of the Wolf Walkers recognizes his fate. Not before.” Then he turned away, silently dismissing him.
In his head, his wolf was sitting on his haunches, with his head cocked to one side. Like a curious puppy, he tilted it to the other, then back again, as if he too were trying to make sense of Fionn’s decree.
The descendant of the Wolf Walkers.
What does that mean?
Mo Ghrá Croí is human…not a Wolf Walker…right?
He was as confused as his wolf brother.
I don’t know Failinis. You heard Mo Rhí. The door will open when the time is right.
The urge to roar, to smash something, anything, and question everything, slammed into him like a wave from the ocean, but the High King’s word was law, immutable as ancient stone.
He turned on his heel and strode out of the hall. He’d find another way; there had to be a path or a spell, or something that would allow him to traverse the portal without crashing it down around their ears.
You are acting like a child.
We are not childing. We are the warrior guardians.
Inside us flows the blood of the Fianna and the Tuatha de Danann.
We will find a way.
Oh crap. Good things never happened when Failinis used that tone of snarl. He couldn’t worry about his wolf half now, as he gazed up at the vast expanse of white cloud-filled blue sky, a crushing truth settled over him like a shroud: some doors couldn’t be forced open, and some paths had to be walked slowly, one careful step at a time, as you searched your soul for the truth you were seeking.
3
You can’t siton your asshere all day.
Reaper was more than a little grateful that Derek hadn’t called while they were at the house. That would have been a whole lot of conversation, especially with Viper, possibly with Juice too, that he didn’t want to do in this lifetime. He understood that his commanding officers needed to know where his head was at before they spun up for a mission. But there were things that just should remain private.
Derek was one of those things.
As was Cian and his claims of Grá Croí.
Reaper pounded the dirt path back toward Trace’s place. His boots struck the earth with a rhythm that matched the thud of his pulse, steady and relentless, a metronome counting down the seconds until he could bury himself in something that made sense a hell of a lot more than the twilight zone he seemed to be unable to wake up from.
That buzzing thing going on under his skin and the itch on his arm, those had to be because the Dolmen’s magic still thrummed beneath his skin, a low, insistent vibration like the ghost of a tuning fork pressed against his bones. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to leave crescent moons in their wake.
Lock it down.
Bury it deep.
He didn’t have time for this shit. Not now. Maybe not ever.
If what Cian says is true…forever isn’t going to be all that fucking long, now is it?
Despite wanting the quarter mile back to the house to drag as long as possible, it wasn’t long before the cabin-like structure in the open field emerged from the trees.
Run another lap.
Another lap of the property would give him time to gather every emotion that had escaped the lock box deep inside himself, and stuff them all back in. But the smoke curling from the chimney in lazy, gray fingers carried with it the rich, greasy scent of bacon and the sharp, bitter tang of coffee. His stomach twisted, and a traitorous growl rumbled up his throat.
Stupid fucking hunger.
