Snakeroot

  But how could Sabine say that to Shay’s mother? Sarah had regained her son only to lose him again in the space of an hour.

  “I could take you to see him,” Sabine offered. “I visit the wolves. Well, I mean I don’t actually visit them. Wolves are skittish around people. You have to watch from a distance, but . . .”

  Sarah bowed her head, and though she made no sound, Sabine could tell she was crying.

  REN HADN’T forgotten who he was.

  Renier Laroche, alpha wolf, who would rule the newly formed Haldis pack with his mate, Calla Tor.

  His path had always been clear. His was the arrow shot straight at destiny’s bull’s-eye.

  But someone had moved the target and Ren had gotten terribly lost.

  And it wasn’t just because he was dead, which Ren understood that he was. He’d lost his way long before the man who had raised him, Emile Laroche—who Ren believed for so long was his father—had snapped Ren’s neck in the library at Rowan Estate.

  In the days and weeks since he’d been taken from the world of the living, Ren had tried to pinpoint the moment where it had all gone wrong. It wasn’t as though he had a dearth of possibilities to choose from.

  It might have been the night he left the house that had been built for him and Calla to live in. The moment he’d turned his back on the Keepers, forsaking the life he was supposed to have for one he never could have imagined. A new life that ended up being much too short.

  Or it could have been when Ren watched Emile Laroche kill the man who it turned out was Ren’s biological father. Ren never had the chance to know Monroe, but at least he’d met Adne. It was no small thing to have a sister. But in the end, she’d been taken from Ren too.

  Another contender had to be the night of his eighteenth birthday. Samhain was a day sacred enough to bear witness to the union of an alpha male and female and the formation of a new Guardian pack. But the ritual had never taken place. Instead, Ren had chased through the dense Colorado forest after Calla, his runaway bride. That she’d left him at the altar was bad enough, but the reason she gave was worse: that everything they’d known about who they were and the history of the war in which they’d fought had been lies. That Ren’s own mother had died at the hands of the Keepers.

  And of course, there was the day that a new student arrived at the Mountain School. Seamus Doran had seemed as inconsequential as any human, but Ren’s first impression of Shay couldn’t have been more wrong. As it turned out, Shay had another name—the Scion—and while the Guardians had been fighting on the wrong side of the Witches’ War, Shay’s destiny was to be the champion of the right side. The Searchers had come for Shay and they’d taken Calla too. Calla and the life Ren wanted, because somewhere between blood and lies and choices, Calla had fallen in love with Shay Doran.

  Ren didn’t like Shay. He would never like Shay. But Ren knew enough to see that his life had been thrown off course by forces greater and much more complicated than his sometime romantic rival’s appearance in Vail.

  Maybe that had been Ren’s downfall—making the battle one between himself and Shay, rather than seeing how much more was at stake.

  He saw all of it too well now, caught as he was between worlds. His state of unrest came with an acute awareness of the unseen forces that hovered around the living at all times, jostling each other as they searched high and low for cracks in the earth’s spiritual armor, hoping to slip in even though they’d been banished.

  Ren was careful not to get too close to the shades he saw passing to and fro. Along with his sense of them, he also knew somehow that he wasn’t one of them.

  He was different. Exceptional. And while that sounded like it should be a good thing, Ren knew it wasn’t. He didn’t belong. He’d been caught betwixt and between, unable to return to the world but equally unable to move past it.

  This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. Wolves hated to be caged.

  Maybe being a ghost wolf wouldn’t have been so tedious if there were also ghost deer or ghost rabbits, but besides the shades of creatures from other realms, Ren only encountered living beings. Having no substance, Ren couldn’t hunt the woodland fauna that populated the mountain slopes outside Vail. Occasionally he had the pleasure of spooking an animal that sensed his presence, even if it couldn’t see or smell him, but he was denied the joy of the chase and the kill.

  It wasn’t all bad. Though he knew he was a ghost, Ren felt much as he always had. He could shift from his wolf to human form at will, but he never grew tired or hungry. His heightened Guardian senses remained intact, plus he’d gained surprising extrasensory perceptions. In addition to his new connection to realms beyond the earth, Ren found that he could locate people from his past simply by reaching out with his mind.

  He’d discovered that he could travel anywhere he wanted at will, instantly. Well, not quite anywhere. His teleporting ability seemed to be tethered to his life. He could only go places he’d been before he died, which made him doubly glad he’d gone over to the Searchers at the end of the war. When Vail became too painful, Ren slipped off to the Mexican jungle or the coast of New Zealand.

  Of course, each place wasn’t entirely without bad memories. It all reminded him of what was lost.

  But none of it compared to how Ren had felt when he’d encountered the pack outside Haldis Cavern.

  He hadn’t been looking for them. At least Ren told himself he hadn’t been. He’d simply been following the patterns of his old life, roaming the mountain slopes in his wolf form.

  When Ren realized how close he’d ranged to the cave, he couldn’t resist taking a look. He’d even wondered if the carcass of Logan’s giant spider pet was still rotting in the cavern depths.

  Ren never had the chance to find out. He came to a startled halt a few yards shy of the cave’s opening. A place of the dead Haldis was not. Ren had reached the mountain heights just before sunset and the pack was gathering for a hunt.

  With yips and playful barks, the wolves dashed in and out of the trees. Nev, Mason, and Ansel tussled, jumping over each other and battling for lead of the group. Bryn stood a short distance apart, wagging her tail as she watched them roughhouse.

  Instinctively, Ren rushed forward, barking to announce his arrival. But the wolves continued their play as though he’d made no sound at all. Ren halted and barked again. Then he noticed the movement of the pine trees and realized he was upwind of the pack. They should have caught his scent.

  I am a ghost, Ren reminded himself, though accepting that made him feel like he’d died all over again.

  That was when they emerged from the cave. A white wolf with golden eyes and a brown wolf with green eyes. Calla and Shay.

  The pack rushed to greet their alphas, showing deference by staying low to the ground, licking at their muzzles. It was a scene of pure joy.

  And Ren knew he would never be a part of it again. Lifting his muzzle, Ren let out a howl of rage. A howl that no one heard.

  What had he done to deserve this kind of punishment? Trapped between worlds, he was alone. It made him furious.

  Ren had avoided Haldis after that day. At first he’d stalked through the forests under the moonlight, trying to menace game and restore some sense of his former self. But like his packmates, the beasts of the forests paid Ren no attention.

  So instead, he’d turned to shadowing his sister. Ren had thought seeing Adne, even if he couldn’t truly be in her life, would give him something of a chance to know her. He’d expected to find her happy. After all, she’d finally captured the game she’d been chasing for years: Connor—the Striker with a roguish manner and an inappropriate sense of humor. That last quality somehow made Connor both endearing and irritating; the former quality inspired Ren to track the Searcher’s movements along with Adne’s. Maybe animals couldn’t sense ghosts, but all the lore about spirits suggested that humans certainly could. The idea of haunting Connor appealed to Ren—it was certainly one way to keep his sister’s paramour in line.
br />   But the solace Ren had sought vicariously in observing Adne’s new life proved elusive. Adne didn’t appear to be happy at all, and despite Ren’s best efforts, Connor didn’t notice he was being haunted by a wolf. Connor’s obliviousness didn’t trouble Ren, but Adne’s disconsolate mood did. A lot. Ren wasn’t sure what hindered his sister’s bliss, but she seemed . . . troubled. Deeply troubled.

  Thereafter, the purpose of Ren’s watch over Adne shifted from the hope of knowing her better to the need to protect her. Something about Adne’s sorrow frightened Ren. In his disembodied state, Ren could see the emotion follow her, swarming about her like a plague of locusts. It wasn’t natural, and while Ren didn’t know what he could do to keep Adne from harm, he was determined to try.

  And the pattern of Ren’s days and nights had formed. He followed Adne when she was at Rowan Estate and occasionally to the Roving Academy, though since she’d made a habit of passing her nights in Connor’s room, Ren decided against keeping an eye on her while she slept . . . or didn’t.

  Ren supposed there were worse ways to spend one’s afterlife, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something more should have happened. He wasn’t the only Guardian to die in the last battle, but he seemed to be the only one still around.

  There had to be a reason for that. There had to be.

  Ghost or not, he was a Guardian alpha. No one could take that from him. Ren knew he’d lost his way between life and death, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find his way back. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep fighting.

  MINUSCULE CLOUDS of white mist appeared as Logan’s breath mingled with the cold winter air.

  “Can’t we do this closer to the house?” Audrey complained, twigs snapping under her boots as they trudged through the woods. “It’s freezing out here, and the farther we walk, the longer it’s going to take to get back.”

  “We’re going to try to open a channel between our world and an alternate dimension,” Chase scoffed at his sister. “Do you really want to see our house get sucked into an evil vortex?”

  Audrey’s eyes widened, then she glared at Logan. “You never said that could happen.”

  Chase laughed and Logan shot Audrey a derisive glance. “It can’t. Chase is just winding you up.”

  Logan squared his shoulders and pressed on through the tangle of brush and leafless trees. Truthfully, he didn’t know what unintended, possibly disastrous consequences could result if the spell the trio planned to cast proved successful. The young Keepers could claim no experience with the type of magic they were about to delve into.

  Chase, Audrey, and Logan each had some familiarity with Nether magic, but the spells they’d used in their lives had been easy. They’d been taught at a young age to summon lesser Nether minions: imps, gargoyles, pixies, and as the Keepers grew older, incubi and succubi. The summoning and command of wraiths came later, only after one could demonstrate enough willpower to keep a wraith in check. Chase and Audrey confessed that they’d made games out of pitting various smaller creatures against one another in combat. Logan was relieved they’d had enough sense never to try such a foolish thing with wraiths.

  There were other spells. Silly things that amounted to little more than parlor tricks: glamours and memory charms. Audrey, of course, had full command of this superficial magic. Logan wished she’d cared more about harnessing the power of the Nether than guaranteeing her hair maintained a diamond-like sheen.

  But Logan knew all of their power, great and slight, derived from a single source: the Nether itself. The small damage they could do as petty warlocks was nothing without unlocking the gate to that ultimate darkness. And access to the Nether had been offered to the Keepers in exchange for their oath of fealty to Bosque Mar. When that fool Shay Doran had banished Bosque and sealed the Rift at Rowan Estate, the well of magic Logan and his peers had always taken for granted was suddenly dry.

  Magic itself, however, remained in the world and what Logan deemed the best course required old-school spellwork. Once he’d gotten Chase and Audrey on board, his research time had doubled. It should have tripled but for the fact that Audrey spent half her “research” time complaining or offering disgusted commentary on the spells’ ingredients.

  Logan didn’t disagree with Audrey’s reticence when it came to the grit and grime of real spellwork, but his impatience made him quickly irritable toward her. He was fairly certain she’d come around with time, just as Logan himself had.

  Chase, for his part, was making much more of an effort toward bringing his skills in line with Logan’s. The two boys had taken to staying awake into the early morning hours, poring over books of shadow and the “traditional” occult codices that warlocks and witches relied upon to draw the dark before Eira had made the first blood pact with Bosque Mar.

  And with each spell cast, their power grew and their knowledge increased. Even without the abilities they’d once taken for granted, Logan and Chase were on the verge of working magic that could do serious harm. But that was small comfort in the face of what lay ahead.

  Since the closing of the Rift, Logan had spent many hours retracing his steps, reexamining his choice, and had come to the conclusion that he’d been a bloody fool. He’d viewed his life, the war, the Searchers, and especially Bosque through a narrow lens of the present when he should have taken a long view.

  Wealth and influence, which the surviving Keepers still had, were well and good, but Logan knew that, having been cut off from the Nether, those aspects of his life had been placed in jeopardy as well. Without Bosque, the Keepers were no more than socialites with ties to old money . . . very old money. They were no better than the politicians and financiers they’d become accustomed to commanding.

  It was only a matter of time until someone challenged the Keepers’ stranglehold on one thing or another. A new player would inevitably appear, someone who didn’t believe the rumors of the strange and explicable demises met by those who’d thwarted Keeper wishes in the past. And when that fresh challenge came, the Keepers’ bluff would be called. No wraith could be summoned to torment the impudent. No Guardian could be ordered to maim for the sake of making an example.

  And it would all be over.

  That realization made Logan willing to head into the Long Island woods in the middle of a moonless winter night.

  “Here.” Logan stopped, surveying the small break in the trees. He looked up at the ink-dark sky, speckled with only a few stars. “This should work.”

  “Finally.” Audrey dropped her pack onto the ground, shivering.

  Annoyed, Logan told her, “Unpack the supplies.”

  Audrey gave him the finger, but she knelt beside the pack and did as Logan said.

  “What should I do?” Chase asked.

  “You can set up the altar.” Logan jerked his chin toward Audrey. “The stones are in her pack.”

  Chase laughed. “You made her carry a bag full of stones?”

  “There are only three stones,” Logan answered, too tense to share in Chase’s mirth. “One for each of us. Put them in the center of the clearing.”

  Logan didn’t move to assist them, but not because he deemed the work beneath him. Far from it. Logan’s days of entitlement were behind him. He knew, however, that young Keepers like Chase and Audrey had long been accustomed to hierarchies. Democracy, discussion, collaboration, consensus: all were viewed by his kind at best as weak, at worst as deadly. If Logan wanted to pull off his new scheme, he could show no doubt and had to take command of his peers.

  “Audrey, put the contents of the pouches and vials into the mortar and pestle and grind them into a paste. Then use the paste to draw a circle around the stones, but draw it counterclockwise. That’s pivotal.”

  Audrey sighed, but began emptying dried herbs—and dried things that were much less pleasant than herbs—into the stone mortar. When she uncorked the first vial, she gagged.

  “Oh my God, Logan,” Audrey choked. “What is this?”

  “You don’t wan
t to know,” Logan answered. In truth he didn’t know what substance had turned Audrey’s stomach. It was too dark to see what vial she’d opened, but given that it could be bile, asp venom, or the crushed eyeballs of a raven, Logan figured Audrey was better left ignorant. If she vomited into the mixture, the whole spell would be ruined . . . or possibly enhanced, but Logan couldn’t be sure.

  Chase returned to Logan’s side.

  “There’s a jug of water,” Logan said, pointing to the earthen container—thinking to himself that magic was tediously rustic; just once it would have been a refreshing change to see a spell call for a rare vintage bottle of wine decanted through artisanal Italian glass. That sort of thing would have been a snap for Logan to procure.

  When Chase picked up the jug, Logan said, “Go pour it over the stones. A continuous stream until the jug is empty, no pauses or breaks.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Audrey turned her face away from another vial she’d opened. “This is so gross.”

  Logan was glad the darkness hid his expressions; it was too much fun watching Audrey squirm not to smile.

  She turned to look at Logan. “It’s ready. What do I paint the circle with?”

  “Your hand,” Logan said, struggling not to laugh.

  “I. Hate. You.” Audrey joined her brother at the stones.

  Logan called after her, “Don’t forget. Counterclockwise.”

  On her hands and knees, Audrey painted the circle around the cluster of stones. When she finished, she threw a withering look at Logan.

  “It’s done. Can I at least wipe my hand off on the ground?”

  Logan was tempted to say no, but he didn’t want to push Audrey to the point where she’d tell him to screw himself and refuse to help. “Go ahead.”

  “You could just lick it off,” Chase offered.

  “Go to hell.”