Page 39 of King of Moon and Claws

He’s used black magic, Serife replied. The kind that has been banished from our realm for centuries. He’s made himself into something completely unknown.

Bastian stared at the awful brute, reminding him of a decomposing tree blended with the ancient lore of a wendigo. Bastian had no idea whether the latter was real, but he didn’t have time to make such considerations.

“Now, you will be the one to pay!”

His voice boomed through the forest as the creature bent down to grab at the king like he was some toy. But the movement was languid, giving Bastian enough time to dodge the crushing grip.

He leaped over the giant fingers and hurried toward the cabin. He spoke to the witches in his head, out of breath and desperate.

Serife, what kills a wendigo?

Serife, the magnificent enchantress, did not skip a beat in her response.

According to Algonquin mythology, you can use silver, a specific ritual, or fire.

Perfect.

It was just as the Wolf King had hoped.

Iagan tromped at a leisurely pace, following Bastian toward the cabin. The ground shook under the wolf as he darted inside, more thankful than he had ever been for the shaman’s home. He grabbed hold of a flaming log between his teeth, ignoring the searing heat that sparked across his lips. He shouted orders in his head before going into the storm.

Cast a protective barrier around me! I need to keep the fire lit!

The witches did as he asked without question and cast an invisible bubble around him as he raced toward Iagan. With the torch flickering flames in his mouth, Bastian found the end of the shaman’s cloak and touched the fire to its threaded ends.

Elora and Serife widened the protective bubble, blocking out the rain so Iagan could become engulfed in the firelight.

It ran up his cloak, which was tiny on his mammoth form, and began to smolder in a belt-like shape around his waist.

He screeched and tried to stifle the flames with his hands. At the same time, Bastian dropped the flaming piece of wood to bite into his ankles.

He screamed and stumbled through the forest. In his panic, he finally fell with a sublime and echoing thud that blared into the next dimension.

You might want to close the link, ladies. You don’t want to see this.

He did not feel their presence escape him as the Wolf King picked up the blazing piece of wood, dashed up to Iagan’s throaty howl, and stared deep into the moon eyes of his enemy.

He stopped screaming to utter one final sentence, pining for his life.

“My Dear King…”

Bastian shoved the torch into the shaman’s mouth, pushing it deep enough so it was lodged into his throat like a stuck piece of candy. His caterwaul was visceral and insufferable.

But he choked on the fire, searing its way through the narrow walls of his throat. The moons stared up, vacant and dull.

The king had done what was his solemn duty.

TWENTY-THREE

ELORA

Elora did not close the telepathic link when Bastian suggested. She stayed locked in, a spectator to the deafening shriek streaming from the hellish mouth of the shaman traitor. She didn’t gain any pleasure from it, which was reassuring. Deep down, she kept thinking about the war witch book, the traits of diabolical men and women more terrifying than any nightmare.

But she wanted to be a part of Bastian’s world. He was a king, after all, and it was his duty to do the dirty work that others shied away from.

Nevertheless, the sound made her wince. She was glad Serife still had her hands on her forearm. Her energy was comforting.

He’s dead, Bastian relayed. Can you expand the link again? We need to stop the war.

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