Chapter One

WYATT desperately wanted to sit down.

To rest.

To curl up on the ground and give in.

But he didn’t dare stop moving.

Wyatt’s purpose in the Aeghrum Forest was vital and he would not fail. He would keep his promise and fulfill his duty to the pack. Or die trying.

So he continued to drag one foot in front of the other.

Over and over.

Pushing forward against the violent wind and icy pellets. Determined not to let the forest and its strange, haunting magic win.

Around him, thunder rumbled through the trees almost constantly, jolting the earth and shaking the trees dangerously. Lightning crackled in its aftermath, illuminating the driving sleet with an eerie, otherworldly glow.

He wished, not for the first time, that he’d risked bringing some of the magic relics Kyn had offered. The forest, however, was notorious for refusing all but the most depleted power objects within its boundaries.

So he had only himself to depend on as he trudged through the storm.

Wyatt’s calf burned with a constant, spreading ache that made every trudging step agony. With his attention so fixated on simply lifting each leg, it took much longer than it should have to recognize what his nose was telling him.

Smoke drifted in a gentle haze beneath the biting scent of cold.

So faint and diluted by the storm, Wyatt would never have noticed if not for the enhanced senses his wolf-shifter gifts granted him.

Despite the pain and cold and desperation, a spark of hope kindled inside him.

Smoke meant fire.

In this weather, it also meant there had to be adequate shelter. Otherwise, the flame would have gone out long before it managed to produce much smoke.

Alongside the hope fluttering in his heart, however, beat a quiet rhythm of unease.

The Aeghrum Forest was infamous for the tricks it played on those who risked breaching its boundaries. Wyatt had already endured the unsettling loss of his sense of direction. He’d found himself walking in circles, disoriented for the first time since he’d become a wolf-shifter.

Along with losing his bearings, Wyatt had stumbled after sounds and scents that didn’t exist. He’d spent days of traversing the Aeghrum’s trails, chasing phantoms and searching for signs of the particular, powerful magic he’d come in search of.

Only to find himself right back in the clearing where his journey had begun with nothing to show for his efforts.

Refusing to give up, he’d turned around and headed straight back into the trees. Only to stumble into the jaws of the hidden trap.

Now an unseasonable storm had blown up out of nowhere. Unusually intense for so late in the winter. Even in northern Glicien.

So the smoke was possibly another of the forest’s tricks.

A trap, luring him toward more dangerous magic.

But Wyatt had no other choices left.

No other hope.

He needed to find shelter and warmth. A place to treat the wound in his calf and rest before he collapsed completely.

As if triggered simply by the thought, Wyatt’s leg cramped with the bitter burn of the wolfsbane sluggishly creeping through his blood.

Weakening him with every heartbeat.

The animal trap he’d stumbled into was one hardship Wyatt couldn’t blame on the forest or its bizarre enchantments, however.

That had the earmarks of the Keres written all over it. More specifically, the diluted potion of wolfsbane coating the painful spikes was their calling card.

Despite the ache and fire in his veins, it was meant only to weaken, not kill.

Nothing like the last time Wyatt had been attacked with wolfsbane poison. That time, a thick, concentrated, much more potent wolfsbane elixir had coated the knife that sliced into him.

The man who wielded the blade had intended for it to kill.

Unconsciously, Wyatt pressed his hand to the right side of his ribs. Where a gnarled scar was a stark reminder of a time when he’d trusted too easily.

When he’d allowed the desire to control his own fate to distract him. To blind him to the warning signs until it was almost too late.

Shaking with cold, body leaden with exhaustion, eyes blurred by sleet and pain, Wyatt found his thoughts growing sluggish.

Until a narrow, towering cottage, blurry and indistinct behind the driving waves of ice and rain, rose up out of nowhere.

One minute, there was nothing but endless ranks of densely packed trees.

The next, Wyatt stepped between two ancient oaks and there it sat. Like something out of a children’s fairy story.

Three stories of wood and stone. Windows glittering with candlelight and welcome. A beacon of warmth and shelter in the midst of the forest’s inhospitable setting.

Wyatt blinked the water from his eyes, more certain than ever it was a mirage. A dangerous trap laid out like a welcome mat in the haunted forest.

And he didn’t care.

If he could sit down and get warm for five minutes, Wyatt would risk the worst the forest had to throw at him.

Stumbling forward on leaden legs, desperate and determined, Wyatt knocked with a heavy hand.

Shoulder pressed against the door, needing all the support available, he listened hard for movement, senses stretched as far as they would go.

Inside, he heard no sound beyond the crackling of the fire. And the scents his nosed teased out were faint and fading.

Impatient and on edge, he knocked again, louder than before.

And still no sign of activity disturbed the hushed quiet of the cottage.

Exhausted beyond the niceties of hospitality and etiquette, Wyatt curled his fingers around the handle and tugged.

When the doorknob gave easily under his hand, he exhaled with relief. The soft breath loosened the tension that had been straining every muscle in his body for hours.

Entering without invitation was both rude and dangerous, but the warmth of the fire beckoned.

Alert, senses stretched, Wyatt forced himself to move slowly, pushing the door open fully with his foot before stepping inside. If ears and nose could be believed, he was alone in the house.

Though, from the lingering scent, the owner hadn’t been gone long.

Caution disappeared beneath his shivering and he rushed for the fireplace. In the balm of its heat, Wyatt sank to his knees on the rug in front of the hearth.

Wyatt ignored the protesting pain of his leg and let the heat wash over him. The flames flicked lazily, mesmerizing him as the ice seeped slowly out of him. And when his eyelids drifted closed, the glow behind them continued to lull Wyatt’s tired mind.

When he finally blinked his eyes open again, he realized he’d relaxed much more than he meant to. Somehow, he’d slipped from his knees to his side. He lay curled up on the thin rug, barely cushioning the hardwood floor beneath him.

It made for an unforgiving bed. But Wyatt had slept in worse places.

Wyatt fought to keep his eyes open, but it was a losing battle.

In spite of the danger, Wyatt found himself drifting in a warm, grey haze as his shivering slowed. In the quiet heat, his body gave into injury and exhaustion and icy cold.