Page 9 of Destined to the Lycan
“Do not waste your time,” Ulric said in a gentle but firm voice. “We do sympathize with your plight, but none of the packs will partake in this madness. The best we can offer you is to take you to a shaman.”
I opened my mouth to argue but closed it, defeated. There would be no changing their minds, at least not right this instant. I needed to regroup, gather my thoughts, and come up with an alternative that might sway them. The Weaver would not have sent me here in vain. There was a solution, and I would find it.
Despite the non-negligible crowd, I spotted a few free tables still available. Clenching my teeth, I gave the two men a stiff nod then made my way to a booth at the far back of the large room. Before I even settled on the wooden bench, the musicians started playing seemingly right where they left off when I barged in, and conversation resumed as if I’d never interrupted their evening.
It made me feel even more abandoned and unimportant. Who cared about some random human? My passing would make no difference in their lives. And my customers would soon find a competitor to replace me. In a few months, I’d become one of those ‘funny’ anecdotes that guides would share with their clients regarding the weirdest request they ever received. With time, the story would get embellished. They would probably describe me as crazed, my clothes torn half to shreds, foaming at the mouth, walking down the streets made of packed dirt, shouting at the top of my lungs for Ranael to come take me.
Tears pricked my eyes, and my throat constricted. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to wallow in self-pity more than I wanted to yell at everyone here, to call them out for their cowardice andheartlessness. And yet, the rational part of me couldn’t blame them. In their shoes, I’d likely have turned me down as well. But what was I supposed to do?
The Weaver told me to come here. So what am I missing?
Movement at the edge of my vision startled me. I’d been so lost in my grim thoughts that I didn’t notice an elderly woman approaching. She was an Asian woman with electric blue eyes. I vaguely recalled seeing her standing behind the counter when I entered. To my shock, she was holding a tray with a huge bread bowl. She set it in front of me, and the delicious aroma of the thick stew filling it wafted to me.
My stomach instantly growled its approval. I hadn’t realized just how famished I was.
“Thank you,” I whispered, giving her a sad but grateful smile.
“You’re welcome, honey,” she said in a motherly tone that had my chest tightening.
“The name’s Misty,” she said warmly. “I’m the owner of this place. May I sit with you?”
Surprised and slightly confused, I nodded and gestured for her to proceed. She smiled and complied. Despite her slender, almost delicate constitution, Misty wasn’t frail. An undeniable strength lurked behind her wizened appearance. Aside from the unusual color of her eyes, her pointy wolf ears, and her slightly prominent canines gave her away as a Lycan as well. The contrary would have been shocking, considering it seemed to be the main hang out for her species.
“My name is Amara,” I replied as she settled on the bench across the table from me.
“A lovely name for a lovely young lady,” she said gently.
I caught myself smiling. There was something incredibly soothing about the female. To my shock, a powerful desire to have her hug and console me hit me like a ton of bricks. While Iundeniably was a cuddler, I didn’t have random urges to hug and be hugged by strangers.
“I’m sorry to hear about your plight,” she said carefully. “As you likely realized, there is no point debating the matter further with the people here. None will take you. But there is another who might.”
I froze, halfway through bringing a spoonful of meaty stew to my mouth. “Another?! Who?”
“His name is Remus,” she said in a conspiratorial tone.
“Misty! Don’t drag the Cursed One into this!” Rolf shouted.
The elder woman jerked her head towards the alpha to glare at him. “He’s not cursed. He’s merely a sick wolf.”
I froze, my eyes widening upon hearing those words.
“A sick wolf?” I echoed, tension audible in my voice.
She nodded with a grim expression. “Remus was born ‘sick’ although even that isn’t quite accurate. His pregnant mother was bitten by Ranael, the true Cursed Wolf. She died from the venom, which she sadly passed on to Remus. He was born with that same poison coursing through his veins, but it doesn’t affect him. You would never know that his blood is toxic if you saw him walking around.”
“So he’s not actually sick,” I countered carefully. “He just has venomous blood, right?”
She hesitated. “That’s correct 99% of the time. But the poison only grows more toxic when the full moon rises, which also affects his… mind.”
My jaw dropped in sudden understanding. “He becomes rabid on the full moon?!”
She pinched her lips and reluctantly nodded. “Yes. But it’s only that one night. Otherwise, he’s the sweetest male you’ll ever meet,” she added quickly in a reassuring tone. “Remus actually specializes in the type of hard and dangerous missions others won’t take. I have no doubt he will be open to assisting you.”
I frowned, baffled by her obvious eagerness to convince me but also by the apparent flaws in her logic.
“Why does he specialize in dangerous missions? Is he suicidal?” I challenged.
To my surprise, rather than being taken aback or fumbling to find an answer, Misty smiled with approval, as if she’d hoped I would ask that specific question.
