Page 56 of Whisper Woods

I let out a snort of disagreement and click my tongue to get going. He sets off at an easy run, with Wolf-Seff keeping pace beside Rickets and Nimra.

So far, I reassure myself as we race over the grassy fields, it’s been easy. With the blessing of the Gods, it’ll stay that way.

Rafe

Three Years Ago

The air is thickin the Woods tonight. Thick with sultry humidity and lustful tension permeating the air, making it near impossible to breathe. Travelling home on the full moon, at the height of summer, is never my first choice, but the Gods care very little for our plans. So here I am.

For the past two weeks I’ve been in Loqueaur City meeting with a contact of a contact—an extraordinarily demanding witch who required ingredients only sourced in Tathys. She was willing to pay my price but only after extensive negotiations. There were other trades along the way, and I was further caught up in following up some political information along with Joa, the Tavisher assigned to Carconnois.

It has been long and tedious, and I am more than ready to return home to wash away the itch of the city's electricity and modern technology. But before I can do that, I need to make my way through the Whisper Woods.

And tonight, of all nights, they are not amenable to my cause.

Perhaps it’s the excess of magical energy in the air that is making them so contrary, or perhaps I’ve done something to dishonour the Spirit of the Woods. That is the only reason I can think as to why the paths are behaving as they are—splitting and diverting, circling back and leading me on a fruitless and wandering journey.

A journey I do not have the physical or mental fortitude for.

Thick storm clouds conceal the night sky, adding an extra layer of mystery and chaos to the Woods. Tittering sprites offer the only light for any being still foolish enough to be finding their way. Mostsensiblebeings were already either with their mates or on their sacred grounds celebrating the full moon and takingadvantage of the libidinous energy in the air.

Glamour only works so far and despite my outward appearance still being put together, I’m sweltering underneath my linen shirt and pants. The humidity has already done horrendous things to my hair, I had to tie it back within minutes of stepping foot into the trees, but it feels as if it is draining the very depths of my body.

When the path turns again, shifting before my very eyes, once again taking me further away from the portal home, I cannot contain my frustrated roar of outrage. The sound echoes through the trees, creating a ripple of answering noises as creatures scatter in fear. Including a gathering of sprites in the undergrowth nearby, who rise as one glowing puff of light, near blinding me in retaliation.

Shielding my eyes, I take their harried abuse as they flutter around me, accepting their angry stings and barbs as my punishment. I’ve broken a sacred rule of the Woods—do not upset the sprites. The tiny beings are beloved by the Gods—there is some speculation by the Orun that the sprites are able to communicate with the Gods directly—and they are always regarded as such.

Satisfied, they leave me to follow my newly directed path in the dark—the way so black I can barely see even with my superior eyesight. The dark is not a reprieve from the heat. In fact, it gets worse. The electric sizzle of the impending storm is almost reminiscent of being in the city. It’s the storm that keeps me moving. I hoped to be on the other side of the portal before it breaks, but the Woods seem to have other ideas and so I’ve given up on such wishful fantasies.

I have well and truly lost track of the time when I hear the first sounds of life. The damp air must have limited the scent from carrying but it’s like a smack to the face once I reach it.

Wolf—and lots of it.

It appears the Woods have diverted me to the wolf shifter pack grounds. The knowledge revives my ailing spirits, my growling, huffing displeasure evolving into a hum of excitement. I try to tamp the feeling brewing inside me, but it persists nevertheless. It bubbles and brews within me with each step closer to the wolves’ pack grounds. The stench is too dense to discern any individual wolf. And even if I were able to, it would be foolish to think that he’d be here.

Or that he would be alone.

A vicious stab of anger slices through me at the thought of Seff with another. The burning flash of jealousy brings me to a stop. On the one hand, it is unreasonable to feel possessive of a man that I have laid eyes on twice. On the other hand, I’m quite confident that I could happily eviscerate any being I witness touching him.

Reason bludgeons me over the head, leaving me stranded in indecision. Dare I take the risk of approaching? My blood feels sluggish, pulsating in my veins with a thick thumping beat and I find my feet moving closer—my instincts making the choice for me, curious to know why the Woods brought me here, of all places.

The wolves’ party is loud. Tonight is the peak of the moon, meaning not every member of the pack is here. Those too young to partake in the festivities are cared for by those who are older or who do not wish to join the wild gathering. While mated pairs often choose to celebrate the energy and magic of the full moon in the privacy of their homes.

Howls pierce through the air, and with each step I can hear more. Their music, their laughter, the cheers and thuds from the fighting ring. The shifters here in the Mundane lack the ability to harness their magic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. It radiates from them, weaving a binding lascivious spell over their grounds, unleashing their more primitive drives. It is the spirit of the night, the pull of the full moon.

It infects me as I approach the clearing, inflaming my already heightened emotional state. My lungs lock when I draw close enough to spy upon them. I stick to the shadows, praying that my scent is masked by the magic in the air.

It takes long enough to find him that my stomach has tied itself up in knots—a knot that tightens painfully when he reaches out with one of his magnificent, big hands to stroke the cheek of the shifter leaning over him. Seff is splayed casually upon the steps of the shifter’s altar, with the other wolf stretched over him.

Acidic bile rises in my throat, my claws lengthening within my clenched fists, stabbing my own palms. I cannot turn my eyes from the scene before me and aferal growl rattles my chest before I can clamp it down. Once again, I find my feet moving of their own accord, slipping between the trees to get closer to the pair.

I can feel myself changing to the beast. It’s easier to move, easier to hide.

Easier to rip the wolf's head from his shoulders.

My fingers twitch, my elongated teeth baring when I hear the other wolf's laughter. I can’t tear my eyes off them. I catalogue every touch. The way the wolf straddles Seff’s thigh, allowing his own to tease the bulge in his ridiculously tiny shorts. The way he strokes Seff’s chest, the playful flick of his nipple.

Another growl escapes me, louder this time, when the shifter lowers their face closer. Whether from the shifter's action or because he hears me, I don’t know, Seff bristles, shrinking back from the affection, looking towards the shadows.

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