J. Geissinger - Shadow’s Edge

“When you’re older,” her mother replied in an eerie, dead tone, still staring at the glass. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

That became a promise that was never fulfilled. And now Jenna was flying like the wind through a forest that once belonged to her father, fleeing from the answer to a question that had gnawed and hurt and grown unchecked like a cancerous tumor for fifteen years.

She covered miles of primeval undergrowth until finally she tired.

Drifting down against the rough bark of a sapling, she pooled, exhausted, in a watery plume into a fork in its branches. She listened to the sounds of the forest, leaves rustling, branches creaking, squirrels chattering, the patter of tiny, unseen feet scraping over the dirt below. A red-throated sparrow alighted on the branch above her and began to whistle, feathered belly expanding sweetly in song.

She couldn’t think of what to do. She could hardly think at all. She had wanted answers so desperately, had felt as if the world would be righted if only she knew all the details of her past, if only she knew the why and the how and the when . But even the small piece of information Leander had given her hadn’t helped her world align in any way—it had only served to throw it even further off its axis.

Execution. A very small box. The thought of it made the sparrow blur into a shape she didn’t recognize, a blob of color stark and sharp against the haze. She reared up against the branch, flattened herself over the peeling bark as she lost her balance. The sparrow flew away with a shriek into the forest.

She surged up through the canopy of branches and looked down over the treetops, spread thick and verdant green for miles around. She spotted a crumbling ruin in the distance, just beyond an outcropping of lichen-covered granite, and angled herself down, heading toward it. It was an old stone cottage, with empty windows and a roof half-collapsed, almost reclaimed by the forest.

Covered in climbing ivy and blue trumpet vine, it looked exactly as wretched and forlorn as she felt.

Jenna funneled down and Shifted to woman beside a low, crumbling wall. She hesitated a moment, her senses surging back. Her heart pumped to life, the scent of wild mint and cedar resin filled her nose. A chill erupted over her naked skin as a cool, misty breeze stole over it.

She put a hand on the rough stone wall to steady herself, leaned over, and threw up.

When the last of the heaving was over and she had finally emptied her stomach, she wiped her watery eyes and nose with the back of her hand and spat into the dirt. She knelt there awhile, staring at a small pile of dead leaves on the ground, feeling slime and mud ooze through her fingers, the dull ache of her bare kneecaps against the cold ground.

She filled her lungs with air, forced herself to do it again, and again. When it began to feel as if they would remember to do it on their own, she hauled herself to her feet and scraped the mud from her hands against the rough wall.

The cottage was dark and even cooler than the forest. When she stepped inside she had to wrap her arms around her nude body for warmth. Grasses and ivy had overtaken most of the stone floor, but in one corner opposite the collapsed roof there was a blackened brick hearth, and beside it were a lantern and a rough blanket, folded atop a pillow. Someone else had found refuge here, but long ago—a fine layer of dust covered everything.

Shivering, Jenna unfolded the blanket, shook it out, and wrapped herself in it. It was coarse and scratchy, it smelled of must and rotting wood, but it was thick and warm and fell past her knees. She sank down on the cold stone hearth and felt like a lost pilgrim in some forgotten fable: friendless, soulless, outcast, and abandoned by everyone and every-thing. She looked around at her sad little sanctuary. The crumbling walls, the mossy stone, the shadowed and lonely interior.

Meager though it was, it would have to do. She planned on staying here awhile.

Morgan watched with mounting amazement as Leander, for the fifth time in four minutes, paced the length of the East Library, spun on his heel, and paced back again. He paused next to an overstuffed armchair, then sat down heavily into it, propped his elbows on his knees and clenched his fingers into his hair.

Holy shit, she thought, astonished. He’s losing it.

After all he’d been through—the grueling strength and agility trials to confirm his Gifts and worthiness for the title of Alpha, the rigors of commanding a pack of unruly and feral beasts, the shocking death of his parents—he’d never lost his composure, had never once allowed a glimmer of anything less than total control to be seen by anyone close to him.

And now this...unraveling. It was as unthinkable as the earth ceasing to rotate.

“She won’t be gone long, Leander, she doesn’t have any food,” Morgan said from her chair at the table. She adjusted her weight against the carved wood back, uncomfortable and uneasy. “Or clothing. How far could she get?”

“And she has an army of the best hunters on earth looking for her,” added Viscount Weymouth, seated across from Morgan. They exchanged glances as Leander remained unmoving in the chair, staring at the floor. He let out a low, guttural moan—a sound that sent something unsavory crawling along her skin.

Definitely losing it.

In the three days since she fled from Leander, news of Jenna’s disappearance—a single day after her much-anticipated arrival—had spread like wildfire though the colony. The daughter of the tribe’s most Gifted Alpha, and its most notorious criminal, had vanished like a ghost.

A ghost that had absolutely no intention of ever being found again.

Along with a cadre of his most Gifted guards, Leander searched every nook and cranny of Sommerley—every low and hidden place, every knell and dale, all the miles of open fields and high bluffs and grass-covered banks of the winding river—but no one found a single atom of her scent to lead them to her.

He was attuned to her, he knew her scent better than any of them, but he found nothing of her in the woods, nothing of her near the road. No trace of her lingered to give him hope that she was still near, could still—somehow—be convinced to stay.

“And what if there is something else out there looking for her as well?” Leander raised his head to stare across the room. His eyes were fierce. There were fine lines around his mouth that hadn’t been there yesterday, an expression of naked anguish he was doing nothing to hide. “She’s alone, unclothed, with no weapons or food—she’s completely vulnerable.”

“We don’t know that the borders of Sommerley have been breached by the Expurgari, Leander,” Viscount Weymouth said soothingly, glancing once again at Morgan. He sat back in his chair and picked up a steaming cup of black coffee.

“We have no proof of that yet. If they are about, it’s highly doubtful they’re inside the perimeter, not with the number of guards you’ve posted, not with the security systems you’ve put in place.” He lifted the coffee to his lips, all the while keeping his gaze trained on Leander. “An intruder would almost have to be invited in to breach our safeguards. I’m sure she’s safe.”

“For the time being,” said Christian, tense and brooding at the far end of the table.

All eyes turned to him.

He too looked worse for wear. He’d worn the same shirt three days running, hadn’t bothered to shower or shave in the last two. He ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a weary breath.

“She’s new to these woods, new to Sommerley as a whole...she has no idea where our borders lie. And if she can Shift to vapor, as Leander says she can,” he ignored Leander’s steely gaze and continued, “she can simply fly away at will. Never to return.”