Page 19 of Fate Promised

He wasn’t the boy she’d known—he was a vulk. And she really wanted to get to know him all over again.

She shook her head. This was ridiculous. He was only here because he was chasing a necromancer who’d raised the vanishing isle. He was doing what he’d said he’d do in his letter—protect Ulterra. His presence had nothing to do with her.

Triska frowned and pressed a hand to her chest. Except it did. Their rune had reawakened on the beach, giving her a clear choice this time.

The lightwielder hears the call of the sea,

Beckoning her to flee.

Her life has never truly been her own,

Will the right path for her be shown?

A lightwielder? Fergal had never named her type of magic, but it made sense. Her magic was silvery, like the moonlight. And the rest of the poem was true too. In one way, she and Juri were similar. They’d both learned things about their true selves after they’d parted. Her life wasn’t truly her own, but she didn’t need her path to be shown. She knew exactly what was going to happen; she just hoped she had as much time as possible before it did.

Whatever the rune mark was on their chest or what it truly wanted, nothing was going to change. But she could help Juri with the necromancer, and she could make sure Juri’s link with her was safe, as Fergal said.

Maybe that meant they’d have to spend a month together while the rune was active and waiting. A frisson of pleasure threaded through her at the thought. An entire month with Juri. A chance to get to know him again.

She smiled to herself. Gulping in a deep breath, she descended from her loft bedroom down to the kitchen to start dinner.

8

“You gotta be shitting me.” Kyril’s eyes flashed scarlet as he glowered at Juri. “Vulk aren’t hired guards.” He pounded his chest with a fist. “We’re the elite. The few. We tell this town we’ll take care of the necromancer problem our way. Actually, we don’t tell them anything. We just do it.”

Night had fallen along the quiet lane where a few houses nestled behind small hedgerows. It was a peaceful place in the southern part of town, where lanes ran back toward the forests and fields, away from the bustle of the boardwalk and the market. Here was where he’d always picked the best blueberries in early summer.

They stood in front of the smallest cottage along the lane. Triska’s place. When he’d lived in Ryba, it belonged to Mags, an older lady who loved to invite him in for tea and also yell at him for nicking her strawberries.

Juri only half listened to Kyril.

Kyril plowed on. “You’ve broken at least three rules.” He lifted a finger. “You spoke to humans.”

Vulk protected from the shadows. They rarely spoke with magicwielders, and they avoided humans altogether. Juri shrugged.

Kyril raised another finger. “You’ve returned home, although you’ve been breaking that rule for ages. Uit, your mother still has a bedroom set up for you.” He’d snuck to Ryba often and checked in on his mother whenever he could. It was verboten for him to return, but before his ma met her now mate, she’d been alone. Every visit, he considered sneaking in to see Triska, too, but he’d always decided against it. He had nothing to offer her. The vulk had no souls, one of the sacrifices his kind made for their immortality and strength in order to kill the leshak—the souldrinkers. If he had no soul, how could he truly connect with anyone? It was yet one more reason why the vulk didn’t take mates.

He wasn’t the boy she’d befriended any longer.

Another finger. “And you’re interested in playing patty cake with some human female.”

“She isn’t human. She’s as old as I am, and humans don’t have a lifespan this long.” Both of them were one hundred and eighty-seven. As a kid, Triska hadn’t gotten a pelt or magic, so he’d assumed she was human. Until Briony told him last year that humans didn’t live as long as peltwalkers and magicwielders did, he hadn’t realized most humans lived shorter lives. Growing up in Ryba, most of the humans here had a touch of demi-immortal blood, or they mated one of the demi-immortals and took on their extended lifespan, so he’d never realized there were humans out there who didn’t live as long. Clearly, Triska had magic, so she had some demi-immortal blood in her line.

“It doesn’t matter if she’s human or whatever she is. She isn’t yours. Besides, there are better things for us to do tonight. Like catching necromancers.”

Juri ran his hand over his head. “We have a plan for tonight.” Before they’d left the beach, they’d come to an agreement with the magicwielders in town to halt all magic unless they were fighting off an attack again. That way, if the vulk sensed magic in use, they would know it was from necromancers.

“Yeah, an agreement that includes Hazel. How do we know she isn’t working with the necromancers? This is the sorcerer who took Zann.” His claws extended to their full six inches.

“Spellcaster,” Juri said.

“Pah.” Kyril waved a hand. “It’s all the same.”

“You know it isn’t.” There was a strict hierarchy in the magicwielding community: sorcerers, spellcasters, and enchanters. The necromancers weren’t a separate class of magicwielder; they could be from any of the other three. They simply delved into darker magic, steeped in death.

“I know, and I don’t care. Each and every one is a pain in the ass.”

“Hazel helped us destroy Morana, and Hans and Zann haven’t gone after her. We have a sort of … truce with her.”

---