Page 61 of The Buck Stops Hare

Whatever mark of power left on me had transferred to Banks.

Though he was conceived before my poisoning, Banks was half of me, half of Cliff, and a small additional part of him met the waters of the land, a bridge for us.

River’s Banks.

I choked a breath and closed my eyes, relishing the feeling of hot tears. “Thank you, old friend. May you return to us soon.”

Epilogue

Brook

I sat on the dock by the river that butted our small home on Bainhill pack land, listening to the cries and whoops of children playing happily off in the distance.

A lone crane wading the shallows by me took a step and dipped his beak into the waters, searching for little fish. I dipped my feet in by him and stirred the water lazily as it flowed past, cold as sin coming down the mountains.

My phone beeped at me, earning a wary glance from the crane, his mask furrowing over too-blue eyes. “River, Cliff’s having his baby.”

I should have been sad, jealous, or something else, but I had my own guilt about what had happened, what I still needed to talk to River about. Admittedly, in that form, he’d been able to talk about nothing. He owed me an explanation.

The crane tilted his head. A ululating call, however brief, came in response. He did that sometimes, small notes of clarity. It gave me hope that he’d come back faster. Though, I wondered who he’d be when he did. We lay in silence, watching the morning morph into the warm rays of midday.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me you had that soul, still?” I glared at River and earned a sheepish aversion of his gaze, head dipping back into the water, though he wasn’t searching for food this time.

So many years ago, when I’d barely known River, our mating still fresh, our lusts had ridden a rough spring through a vicious flood.

And in those torrential waters, a half-caste child had been swept away, pulled into the depths, his cries for his mother swallowed by the cold. River rushed to him and pulled the boyfree, but a drowning river does not give life. He does not save life. And try as he might, the boy’s life slipped away, River holding onto his soul, begging our mother to help.

A red-haired child, paler than the native peoples of our land and darker than my own freckled, ruddy milk. The child of a Viking warrior and a native mother. A witch.

And so, unable to do nothing, the witch cursed River, poisoned his waters in a way not dissimilar to what the boars had done to Buck, and left him scarred inside.

Our people always dwindled, despite how successful we made them in other ways.

Death and destruction continued in our waters.

But Bainhill had been different. After Delta had been named, many other children had been conceived, some born already. Growth and life.

A lonesome cry trilled from River’s beak; eyes turned to me hauntingly once more. A whisper of thought touched my own for the first time in six months.I couldn’t let him die.

“He’s given life, now.” I trailed my feet through the water and slanted my gaze. “It was bringing you pain, but I think… We both knew Cliff was likely carrying. I think that soul took host.”

River’s head swiveled and wings fluffed with an excited squawk that made my heart warm.Really?

I nodded. “None of that curse lingers on him. And it’s not on you, either. You’re free of that pain, my love.”

River flitted his wings and barreled toward me, flying into my chest as his nibbling beak preened and nipped at the side of my face, filled with little strange noises. I held him gently, his bird form resilient but not unbeatable. “Will you ever forgive yourself?”

I’d never thought about death until then. Her cries haunted me, and I pray I can bring her spirit peace. Finally.

As River wallowed and squawked against me, he went rigid and gasped, the tremble in his throat cut short as power, pure and overwhelming, coursed its way through him.

In the vision of his form, the cursed crane once blamed for the floods and ill omens of the river’s tide shifted in a flashing array.

It started with those blue eyes, widening and spacing, dark lashes pushing forth.

Skin a shade paler than he’d been before, but more akin to members of the Bainhill pack spread as the shape of a man filled my arms. A mess of wild, dark hair fell back over River’s head, like a plume of feathers, thick and glorious, with a silky feel that I couldn’t help but hold as full, much fuller than before, lips pressed into mine.

He weighed more, a heavier, sturdier frame than he’d previously had, but still willowy like his crane namesake. Tall and lean.

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