Fenrir Nightshade's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Fenrir Nightshade crouched at the edge of the borderland, and the scent of a rival hunter filled his nose. He had crossed three ridges to reach this ground. Beyond it lay the pack that drove him out as a pup, sickened by his blue eyes. He meant to walk back and take the alpha title from them. But the open flats between were not empty anymore. A huge gray predator paced the far treeline. It had marked every stone with its scent. Fenrir counted its stride and knew the truth. If he ran, it would run him down in the open. He was fast. This thing was faster. He backed into the pines and found the trade post there, its timber walls hung with dried pelts. Inside, a woman sat sharpening a curved blade shaped from a jagged fang. She did not look up. "You smell like trouble I already sold to somebody else," she said. Kira Voss slid the fang dagger flat on the counter. Fenrir had traded with her once, years back, for a meal and a lie. She still wore the same worn jacket, still watched the door like the law might walk through it. "There's a killer on the flats," Fenrir said. "I have to cross." Kira laughed once, short. "You and everyone. That beast's held the border a full moon." She tapped the dagger. "But I've crossed it. There's a dry creek bed, north side. Runs low under the wind so it can't catch your scent." "Take me," he said. "I don't guide for free." Her brown eyes moved over him. "You want the path, you carry this." She pushed the dagger toward him. "Cursed thing. Won't sell. Maybe a wolf with strange eyes can use it. Take it, and I'll draw the creek." Fenrir gripped the handle. Cold climbed his arm, wrong and heavy, like the blade was watching back. He took it anyway. They moved out at dusk. Kira led him along the dry creek, bent low, boots silent on the stones. The gray predator's scent hung thick above them. Halfway across, the wind turned. It shifted hard against Fenrir's back and carried straight to the treeline. A roar split the dark. The beast came fast across the flats. "Run!" Kira shouted, and broke for the far bank. Fenrir did not run. He set his feet in the creek bed and turned. The predator leaped. He drove the fang dagger up into its chest. The blade drank deep and the cold in his arm flared into something starving. The beast dropped, dead, its blood black on the stones. But the dagger would not let go. It clung to his hand, warm now, pulling at him. Kira stared from the bank, no longer running. "That's not how it usually goes," she said quietly. The border was open. The pack lay ahead. And the blade in Fenrir's fist had begun to feed on him.