Page 87 of Blood of Wolves

His gums were bleeding.

The sweat that slicked every inch of his body gave off a familiar, musky scent that Erik had only detected in furs cut away from a fresh kill.

He was delirious and mostly unconscious in a way that reminded him all too much of Oliver in the grips of marsh fever. Of his brother dying in a bed of his own sweat, twisting and writhing in soaked sheets.

His heart beat hard and fast as a warm drum.

They’d cleaned the wound, and wiped him as well as they could with handfuls of snow, trying to bring down his temperature. But they were in the middle of nowhere, with miles more to go. They’d wrapped his wound, and bundled him into one of the sleighs. Then Erik had taken off at a canter and challenged the rest of the party to keep up.

The sun had reached and surpassed its zenith. From here, it was a race against the dark.

He knew they couldn’t reach Aeres before nightfall, that they would have to spend another night in tents, that it was a night to which they might lose Leif. Still, he spurred his horse faster.

Until he heard the screaming.

Erik reined up, and twisted around in the saddle. Another scream rent the air, anguished, wet–

Leif.

He cantered back to the lead sleigh, aware of Birger, Magnus, and Lars following him. The sleigh had halted, by the time he reached it, the guard driving it gaping down at Leif, who thrashed on the seat, dislodging the furs tucked around him. His eyes were open, mouth yawning wide, face twisted up with pain.

Two things struck Erik like physical blows.

The startling brightness of his eyes, as if some inner light pulsed through them.

And his teeth. His canine teeth that looked likefangs.

Erik scrambled down out of the saddle. “Leif. Leif!” He gripped his shoulders and tried to shake him, but Leif twisted, snarled like a beast, and swatted him away. “Leif!”

He tumbled out of the sleigh, face-first, and caught himself in the snow on his hands – hands tipped with claws, hands crawling with black veins.

Erik had never felt more helpless.

“Gods preserve us,” Birger breathed, sliding to a stop beside him. “How – what is–”

“Don’t you know the stories?” Oddmarr asked, reining in his short, shaggy pony alongside them. Leif snarled at the animal and it danced aside, snorting, rolling its eyes. Oddmarr gripped the reins in expert hands and said, “The old stories of the origins of the Úlfheðnar? Your own people, lad.”

Erik darted a glance toward the Beserkir chief, brought up short by the man’s sad, knowing expression as he gazed down at Leif.

Leif who clawed up the snow, and breathed in ragged, growling stutters, long strings of saliva dripping from new-formed fangs.

“Stories? Those are – those are only myths. For children. What are you–”

“Gods!” Birger shouted.

Magnus said, “Fuck – bloody fuckingfuck.”

Cracking sounds filled the air, pops and wet, sucking noises like the working of a lung punctured by a rib.

Oddmarr said, “The elders had magic – real magic. ‘Wolf-shirt’ wasn’t just a title. It meant something. Your cousin’s been dabbling with those shamans, and he’s figured out how to bring that magic back.”

Leif threw his head back, andhowled. The sound held nothing of a human voice.

“Your family’s got the old blood,” Oddmarr said, grimly. “And Ragnar, the bastard, has turned your nephew.”

The howl tapered off, and Leif, four-legged, shaggy, and wolf-shaped, regarded them all with bright eyes, and a lolling tongue.

“He’s…” Birger began, voice faint – old, suddenly. The paper voice of a frightened old man.

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