Wild Wolf (Shifters Unbound, #6)(79)

“Don’t ask me.” Misty rubbed the top of Kyle’s head. “But if this works, I don’t care.”

“Crazy Fae shit,” Dougal said. “How about we worry about it after we find Graham? Start twirling.”

“Clockwise.” Misty held Kyle more firmly and turned to her right. Once, twice, three times. “Y-T-S-I-M.”

She stopped. The air conditioner clicked on with a rattle. Another light flickered. But they remained in place, flowers scattered around them.

“Is that all?” Dougal asked.

Misty checked the book. “Yes.” No. Names, those were important, the book said—the difference between what a person was called, and her true name.

Misty closed the book and did the turning again. “A-S-S-I-L-E-Mmm . . . Holy crap.”

She’d stopped moving but seemed to be still spinning in place. The flowers lifted around her, circling her, petals leading stems. Yellow, blue, violet, yellow, blue, violet. Faster and faster, making her dizzy.

In the blaze of petals and scent—rose, violet, rosemary, forget-me-not—Misty reached out and latched her hand around Dougal’s wrist. Xav shouted. Misty felt Xav’s warm fingers on her arm, and then they slipped away, disappearing.

The whirlwind increased, the vortex sucking them somewhere. Misty couldn’t think or see, hear or smell anymore. She could only feel the steel strength of Dougal’s arm under her hand, and the warm body of Kyle against her chest.

The whirling dropped away, the flowers falling at once. Dead, petals and leaves brown.

But scents and color lingered. Misty was in a cave with a smooth black floor, covered in vines of colorful flowers, their scents so strong they were sickening. The fountain she remembered burbled enticingly in the center of the cave.

Other than that, all was quiet. No one was there, not Oison, not Graham. Xav was gone too, left behind. Misty’s hand remained on Dougal’s arm. He moved closer to her, Matt whimpering.

“Where is he?” Dougal’s whisper was loud in the relative silence.

Misty looked around the cave. It was dark, but again lit from above, as though cracks opened to sunlight. If she found the entrance to the cave, would she emerge in the hot Nevada desert? Or someplace strange to her?

“Matt,” Dougal said frantically. “Son of a bitch.”

Matt had wriggled hard out of Dougal’s arms. Kyle kicked free of Misty at the same time and landed on his paws, running as soon as he hit the ground.

“Kyle, Matt!” Misty yelled. “Wait!”

She ran after the two cubs, who were loping off into the darker part of the cave. She jumped over ropes of flowers she swore reached up to grab her as she passed. Dougal came behind, his human snarls changing to wolf’s.

The cave went on for a long way. The daylight faded, the only light a strange glow from beneath the fountain’s water.

Misty heard Matt and Kyle’s yipping ahead. She kicked at a Lady Banks’ rose vine trying to wind around her foot, and kept going.

She found Matt and Kyle pawing at a huge mound of flowers. Ropes of stems wound tightly around themselves, topped with vibrant flowers that shone in the eerie light.

Kyle and Matt pawed vigorously, little bodies moving as they tried to shove aside the vines. Whatever was under there, they wanted it.

“Will you listen to me if I tell you to leave it alone?” Misty asked them.


No response. Frantic digging. Yipping that turned into wild howling as soon as they made a hole in the vines.

All Misty’s breath went out of her. She fell to her knees, shoving aside the flowers Matt and Kyle had loosened.

Beneath them was Graham’s face. His eyes were closed, his skin pale, the scars and shadow of dark beard stark on his bloodless skin.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





"No!” Dougal shifted back to human even as he dropped beside Misty, his big hands scrabbling to move the vines. “Uncle Graham. No!”

His last word ended in a long wail, which held the pathos of a wolf’s howl. Dougal lifted his head and cried out to the echoing cave, then he put his hands over his face and bowed his body, rocking in grief.

Misty, her heart pounding until it ached, pulled at the vines over Graham. Graham—this strong, amazing man—couldn’t be dead. Couldn’t. Seeing him unmoving, not breathing, was a knife to her heart.

“Dougal,” she said sharply, trying to cut through his wails. “Help me uncover him.”

Dougal raised his head. His face was red and streaked with tears, and he sniffled, unashamed. He unfolded himself enough to pull at the vines.

The flowers were tough, and they fought back. Misty had spent years cutting flowers and sticking them into vases or baskets, where they’d last a while, then wither and die. She had the sickening feeling that the plants were taking their vengeance for all those flowers Misty had used.

“Harvesting flowers helps the whole plant,” Misty said firmly to them. “Reinvigorates it, makes more buds.”

The vines didn’t care. They reached for her, wrapping around her hands and arms, trying to drag her away from Graham.

Dougal, with amazing strength, ripped them away. He growled as he changed into a wolf, a black beast, like Graham, with silver eyes.

Dougal’s wolf tore the vines, dragging them out of the way. He revealed Graham’s torso, his neck with its Collar, his naked chest, his arms bound by the vines, which followed the lines of his tatts.