Page 37 of King of Moon and Claws

“Patience,” Serife said, rubbing her arm. “Believe in yourself. I believe in you."

Elora narrowed her focus. Bastian wasn’t listening to her. His mouth watered with the lust for blood. She called out to him even as he dashed through the rain like an arrow dead set on a jeering bull’s-eye.

He kept going, opening his jaws wide enough to crack the bone. Thankfully for Vasilis's sake, he was a coward, snapping into bat form and disappearing into the night.

Fuck! Bastian roared in her head.

You are not yourself, my love! Elora said, not pleading but blunt. Iagan has set you up!

They watched as Bastian panted just outside the main clashing of paranormals. Elora alerted the cadence of her inner voice to that of something close to bewitching but not quite. It was a faint whisper, nearly sultry in timbre.

Bastian, I want you to think for a second. You told me that I am your mate. You said shifters cannot live without their mates. You said they could not physically allow a mate to leave them. But you did, Bastian. Why did that seem so easy?

She could see that the king was now hearing her, his tense body relaxing slightly.

Iagan, Bastian responded, sounding lightyears calmer. Why did you mention him? Why do you think it's a setup? He has nothing to gain from such a deception.

Other than separating you from me, perhaps? Elora suggested softly. You moved so quickly into a full war after all your plans to avoid it as long as possible.

Elora could see Bastian musing and then came a flash of something that happened while Bastian had visited Iagan in the cabin.

It was quick, but all three of them—Elora, Serife, and Bastian—caught it. All at once, they saw the king sitting with Iagan, a fire crackling between them. Bastian was holding a mug of something in his hands as he spoke, as was Iagan.

Elora felt immediately suspicious.

With their combined powers, Serife joined together and peered into the mug that their king held. They were able to smell it through Bastian’s memory and picked up a crucial ingredient through the weaving of the various herbs that did not belong there.

“Catmint,” Serife said aloud. “He fused Catmint into the teapot.”

“What's that?”

“It is said to entice the fierce and quarrelsome side of the gentlest soul,” Serife said, continuing to stare into the bowl. “That would be why our king is acting so out of character."

Angry and alarmed, Elora peered back into the water. She spoke to Bastian, who appeared to have put two and two together himself.

Bastian, he put something in your tea! Something called Catmint. It's an ancient herb meant to influence your character.

Bastian did not respond. Elora knew that he had heard her and felt a suffocating sorrow take her over. She was empathizing with him quite literally, watching him contemplate his warped decision. Watching his men die in his name.

He did. You’re right, Elora. I thought there was something off about the taste, but I didn’t think he’d ever do such a thing. Thank you.

Bastian, my darling, come home.

She was pleading then. Serife squeezed her arm while the fight raged on.

But Bastian did not come home to her. Instead, he charged on and zigzagged through the forest as thunder cracked above.

“What’s going on?” Serife asked.

Elora knew exactly where he was going.

TWENTY-TWO

BASTIAN

The Wolf King felt like he had awakened from a dormant state. Maybe it was Elora’s sweet, enchanting voice in his head, or maybe, it was because the truth was finally exposed. He had been blinded by his trust in the shaman, built over years and years of discussion and strategic council. The wool had been pulled over his eyes, but Elora had torn it away.

His anger rose like a boiling kettle, the top ready to blow. He still felt the influence of the Catmint, the herb that Iagan used to delude him into letting Elora leave and ignite a potentially population-shattering war, but it was wearing off. It was starting to feel more like a bee sting in his mind, the swelling deflating in its strength and impact.

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