Chapter 8 Lycan

Lyra

Shit.

I had to hide the book.

I quickly tucked The Book of Werewolf History into one of Granddad's old drawers, closed the trunk, and pushed it aside.

Then I turned off the light, kicked off my boots, and slowly opened the door to my grandfather's bedroom.

Outside, whoever had entered had turned off the lights too.

Smart.

"Astra, get ready to shift," I whispered.

Silence. Not even a growl.

"Astra?" I nudged her mentally.

Still nothing. I couldn't even feel her panic. Instead, I sensed a weird, creeping eagerness.

That was strange.

I slipped into the hallway barefoot, keeping close to the wall. I listened intently, but the cabin was eerily still. Wind brushed against the windows, and snow slid softly from the roof outside.

I inhaled cautiously. Old wood, brick, pine. Nothing alarming. I took a couple of slow steps toward the living room and breathed in deeply.

There it was. The smell of burning flesh. Faint, but distinct.

I sniffed again. It was gone. Then, a moment later, it returned—stronger this time.

It was pungent enough that I wondered how I hadn't noticed it sooner. Then it hit me. Whoever this was had been hiding their scent.

Lycans.

Ordinary wolves couldn't mute their scent like that.

My heart began pounding against my ribs. Was a Lycan here to kill my father?

Then I heard a faint groan from the dining area. I crept toward the corner and peeked around it.

A man was leaning heavily against the table.

He was undeniably tall even though he was hunched down. Broad-shouldered. His pitch-black tactical uniform was torn in several places, the fabric shredded from what looked like a brutal fight. A dark ballistic mask covered the upper half of his face.

But it was the blood that made me gasp. It wasn't red.

Glowing, gooey silver liquid seeped from a massive wound in his chest, literally sizzling and smoking where it touched his skin.

Liquid silver. The weapon of the Supreme Alpha Council's elite executioners.

The man lifted his head, his breathing rattling in his chest.

"Stay..." His voice was a rough, agonizing growl. "...back, wolf."

I felt his aura press against me.

His words weren't a warning. They were a command. And he delivered it with such force that an ordinary wolf should have dropped to their knees.

But I didn't. Neither did Astra.

In fact, she remained completely silent.

"Lycan, who are you?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"How do you know I am a Lycan?" he rasped, choking through the pain.

"That isn't important. Why are you here? What do you want?" I asked. "And most importantly, why do you have a wound with liquid silver dripping out of it?"

"I need help," he gasped, stumbling away from the table toward me. "I need the antidote—"

Suddenly, his legs gave out.

He crashed forward, and before I could even think, I locked my knees and caught his massive, heavy-as-hell body against me, fighting to keep us both upright while making damn sure none of the silver dripping from him touched my skin.

"Oh, no, you don't," I said. "You have got to stay awake until you get to a bed. You're too huge for me to carry."

His head lolled into the crook of my neck, his hot breath tickling my skin.

"My... wolf..." he whispered, his voice dropping into something unintelligible. "Told me... come here... help..."

Then, he went totally limp.

"This is fantastic," I muttered. "Astra, do you have any brilliant ideas on how to get him to the bed?"

"You're an Alpha," she said. "You can drag him there."

I rolled my eyes. Now she speaks.

"Yeah, sure. Let me do the heavy lifting," I scoffed. "And after that, we'll tell my dad. Or the pack doctor. They'll know what to—"

"No, Lyra," Astra said. "You must help him on your own."

“What?” I exclaimed.

In my surprise, I accidentally let go. The heavy man hit the floor with a loud thud.

“Now look at what you made me do.”

Silence.

"I don't know why I even ask you for help," I grumbled. "Because you never seem to help me."

I looked down at the unconscious man, then up toward the sky.

"Why me?"

He was too heavy to carry, so I grabbed him firmly by his tactical shirt and dragged him backward across the floor. Gritting my teeth and using every ounce of my Alpha strength, I hauled his massive dead weight all the way into the bedroom and hoisted him up onto the mattress.

I ripped his shirt down the middle to see the damage. Although there were tattoos over the whole of his torso, I could see the liquid silver was burning its way through his body.

Granddad always said that ordinary healing couldn't counter it.

When my grandfather was still with us, this cabin had served as his small brewing area, where he produced medicinal elixirs. He kept a small herbal garden in the back and collected rare herbs from distant places.

What the pack doctor couldn't cure, my grandfather did.

Lyra, think. Silver 101.

Wolves needed a Moonroot Elixir to neutralize the silver, followed by a moonstone to help the wound heal.

I looked at the shelves in my grandfather's room. Bottle upon bottle of elixirs, potions, and brews stood in amber glass. Above them sat semi-precious gems and stones in different colors, shapes, and sizes.

I quickly read the labels one by one. Then I sighed in relief.

There. A small amber bottle of Moonroot Elixir.

Above it sat a small wooden bowl filled with moonstones. Granddad had always said moonstone was like a sponge for lunar poison. Whatever the elixir couldn't neutralize, the moonstone would absorb.

I rushed back to the bed.

Using a dropper, I carefully placed two drops of the blue liquid onto the wound. Then I gently pressed a flattened moonstone against the wound on his chest.

I thought I was helping him when a horrific, agonizing scream tore from his throat.

I instinctively stumbled backward, frightened by the sheer force of it.

His back arched so violently off the mattress that the moonstone was propelled across the room. It struck the window with a sharp crack, sending a spiderweb of fractures across the glass.

His hands clawed at the sheets, twisting the fabric into tight fists as his entire body convulsed.

Oh, Moon Goddess. I've done something terribly wrong.

Watching him writhe in agony made my stomach twist. Sweat trickled down my forehead, along my temples, and over my collarbone as panic and helplessness consumed me.

He was going to die. And I couldn't save him.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, he collapsed back onto the mattress.

One arm rolled over the edge of the bed, hanging completely limp.

He didn't move.

Oh no.

Did I just kill him?

I stared at his massive, tattooed chest, searching for any sign that it was rising and falling.

I couldn't tell.

I had to check.

I moved toward him, wiping the beads of sweat from my nose and upper lip. Then I leaned over and held my finger beneath his nostrils, desperate for any sign of breath.

For a moment, I felt nothing.

Then suddenly, he drew in a long, trembling breath.

I nearly sagged with relief.

He was alive.

I started to pull my hand away, but his fingers suddenly snapped around my wrist.

I froze.

“Don't move, she-wolf."