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Wait. What?
Daxen groans. “The Fae aren’t real. They’re fairytales. Stories told around campfires with absolutely no basis in reality, let alone proof they existed.” He leans forward. “And while we’re at it, demons and angels don’t exist, either, and religion is something I’ve refused to discuss since 1648.”
Soren leans over me and mutters to Caelan, “What happened in 1648?”
“Thirty Years' War. Don’t get him started or we’ll be here for the next thirty years, and not even the fucking apocalypse will save us.”
Branwen pins Daxen with a narrow-eyed glare. “I thought you had learned your lesson regarding what you think you know, but apparently the adage about old dogs and new tricks applies to both canines as well as vampires.”
Before Daxen can respond, I cut in, trying to prevent this from devolving further. I can’t take any more arguing tonight. I just can’t.
“What do you mean, Fae? Like little fairies? With wings like butterflies?”
“Not quite,” Branwen replies. “Not in the way you’re imagining them. The Fae were—”
“Not real,” Dax grumbles under his breath.
His continued denial is steeped in the hit he took to his pride today, and that’s clear enough that even I can see it. But after spending two weeks having him deny every word out of my mouth, something about his childish insistence rubs me the wrong way. I have no idea if the Fae—something I’ve only read about in books—were real or not, but his sullen attitude irritates me. My chest warms as the flame flickers to life. I’m already speaking before I’ve made the conscious decision to do so.
“I’d still like to know what the difference is between what I’ve read about in stories and the creatures they’re referring to. If this has something to do with those journals, it could help explain things.”
Caelan’s palm falls on my shoulder, a warm weight, silently reminding me that he’s here.
“I’d be interested to hear what Branwen knows as well,” Riven adds. “I’ll admit, the most I know of the Fae are stories connecting them to a species of beings who were born possessing innate magic. Like vampires who can perform blood magic, but on a much grander scale.”
Riven catches my eye. His mouth curls in a small, warm smile.
My chest fills with a different kind of warmth. Slowly, it occurs to me that for the first time since I designated and my home turned into my prison...
I have… friends.
My own smile is wobbly, but he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes soften in understanding as I blink back tears, determined not to let them fall.
“Aye, some wolven can do something similar,” Kane says, responding to Riven. “I did ‘nae think tae mention it, but Soren kens the stories just as well as I. The Elders pass them tae every Alpha and his kin.”
Gavran frowns. “But you’re not a Pack Alpha. Or a member of his family.”
“Nae, but I grew up in Scotland. We have our own tales o’ the Fae.”
I look to Soren, who nods. Squeezing my neck once before leaning forward, he braces his forearms on the old oak.
“Kane’s right. It’s part of why I left to meet with him this morning.” His eyes dart to me, shining with guilt. I know he feels awful about leaving this morning, but I wish he wouldn’t. I told him to go, after all. I knew he couldn’t just cut off all contact with his Pack and the outside.
It’s not his fault that Cage had clearly been waiting to get me alone.
I give him an encouraging smile, wishing for the dozenth time that I knew how to send my emotions through the Bond the way he and Caelan do.
“Our Elders keep records of our history. We don’t share them outside of the Pack,” he continues. “However, as I explained, these are… extenuating circumstances.”
I can see the way he hesitates, and I know his decision to continue is no small thing.
“While Idril was recovering, I kept revisiting the stories I was told as a pup. It was decades ago, and I was struggling to remember most of them. So this morning, once Idril was well enough for me to leave for an hour or so, I met with Kane. Asked him to reach out to my dad.”
He huffs out a laugh.
“Turns out, Kane didn’t just already know them, he’d also already reached out to my father, who confirmed the stories he was told are the same—or very similar—to those passed down in our family.”
Gavran stands from his chair, stretching to work out the kinks in his back before making for the alcohol cart. He picks up a bottle of whiskey and a stack of glasses, and returns to the table.
