The Red Wolf (The Wolf Fey #2) (2 page)

Vistas she did not know she recognized. And yet, when painting, Breena had always turned to me and said: “Logan, when I'm painting, I feel like I'm going home. I feel like these places are so
real
to me; it's like nothing else is real. It's like Gregory is just a memory, and my real life is
there.
”

There in Feyland. There in my home. And yet I could not tell her, could not bring myself to tell her, that I knew the places she painted. That I knew Feyland. That it was my home, too.

The last painting she had done was of a young man – a slender, too-beautiful creature with flashing blue eyes. A face that I remembered vaguely from childhood, and yet could not make out. Someone I had known when I was young? I remembered only that Breena had grown wistful upon finishing that painting; that she had not spoken to me about it as she had done for so many of the others. As if she was ashamed of something. I remembered how she had looked at the painting – with a look of love so strong it broke my heart. I remembered how irrational my jealousy had been – how could she love a man in a painting? A man who did or did not exist, whom she certainly had never met, when there was a flesh-and-blood man desperately head over heels for her beside her?

But my memory of the picture was vivid nonetheless, perhaps all the more vivid as a result of the pain it had caused me. And that was so strange. Earlier this afternoon, the painting of the young man had been on Breena's easel.

But now there was no man in the picture. Now the painting was of a snowy landscape – dotted with rich, virgin snow banks and trees wrapped in snowflakes like so many bundles of lace. A landscape that seemed to be moving. As I moved closer to the painting, I felt a strange sense of beckoning, as if the painting itself were calling me closer to it. The trees seemed to be swaying in the wind; I could almost hear the rush of the air past my ears. I shivered, suddenly feeling cold.

I had heard tell of this – of great fairy painters capable of creating a hole between the two worlds, using fairy paintings as a go-between to enter the Land Beyond the Crystal River from Feyland. But I had never put stock in such tales. Yet as I stared at the painting, feeling the snow lightly brush against my skin, I felt a sense of longing so strong it almost floored me.

Breena had been here
. I knew. She had gone through this painting into Feyland.

But who was the young man who had been in the painting? Had he come for her – or was it Delano?

Well, here goes nothing
. I felt vaguely stupid as I stepped back, poised to take a running leap into the painting. What if I was wrong – if I ended up just tripping over the canvas? What if Delano had managed to take Breena somewhere else and just disguised her scent?

But the painting called to me. I could feel its magic.

Go on, Logan.

I started running, throwing myself at the painting in a single, heavy movement, fully expecting to feel a crash as I collided with the canvas. But I felt no such obstruction. Instead, I was flying through the air, landing softly in a mound of snow. Immediately I felt the chill. I was in the midst of the icy landscape I knew well – the Winter territories. The sky was smooth and white; the mountains were white around me. I could see the footsteps of deer and satyrs neatly imprinted onto the snow bank.

I was back in Feyland.

Breena’s painting was the doorway to this beautiful magical place I knew so well.

I sniffed the air once again. Yes, I thought, Breena had been here. But it was not pixie blood I smelled alongside her sweet perfume. No, it was fairy blood – silver and cold. Delano's scent was gone – but this fairy smell hung in the air, overpowering in its strength.

I looked around in confusion. Feyland was as beautiful as ever, I noted. The trees were strong and noble-looking – deep mahogany and birch wood. The snow was white and pure. The air smelled like fir and pine, filling my nostrils with their sweet aroma. In the distance I could see the mountains, each peak a jagged silhouette against the backdrop of white clouds and pale sun. Its beauty overwhelmed me.

And yet I sensed the sadness. This was not the happy Feyland I remembered from childhood – before the war, before the bloodshed. This was a terrifying place now – a place where slaughter was regular, where men, women, and children hid in their houses to avoid the marauding bands of soldiers and unscrupulous profiteers who made sport of looting and pillaging. I could not remember ever seeing Feyland so quiet, so deserted.

I could sense the mourning in Feyland's magic. I listened to the silence, and in the silence I could hear the ancient magic of Feyland calling out to me, beckoning me, summoning me.

You must restore us
. I felt the declaration throbbing in my brain.
You must restore Feyland.

This was not the happy childhood I remembered. Feyland lay in ruins all around me. The woman I loved had vanished into the night. I was alone – I felt more alone than I had ever been. With Breena by my side, I felt, I could have withstood it. I could have borne the pain of sensing Feyland's magic so desecrated by war and bloodshed. But without her, I couldn't stand it. The grief was too great. I couldn't stop myself from dropping to my feet, burying my knees in the snow bank. I thrust back my chest, shook back my hair, and let a great and wild howl loose from the depths of my chest.

Aa—ooh!
I cried.
Aa-ooh!
A cry of agony that seemed to split my chest apart.

At first I thought it was an echo – my call coming back to me. To my surprise, I heard another cry, and then another. A wolf was howling at me.

I eyed a tawny wolf bounding towards me through the snow, its tail erect. As it sprang forth it transformed into a man. “Wolf!” he cried.

“Wolf,” I responded. We sniffed each other and decided that we both seemed friendly. “Who are you, friend?”

“I am one who is not interested in fighting any war,” he shot back. “So if you're here to recruit me...”

“I'm here for information,” I said. I sniffed the air again – Breena had definitely been here. “Have you seen a young woman being dragged through these parts?”

“A young woman?”

“About five foot seven, long brown hair. Sparkling eyes – like, the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen. Sixteen years old. Human. Lips like roses.”

He smiled a wry smile. “Someone you care about?”

“Someone who's gone missing. She could have been taken by a pixie.”

“Not a pixie, no,” the wolf came closer. “I saw
something –
but it's risky telling tales in these parts.”

I took a coin from my bag and threw it onto the snow. “Does that give you more confidence?”

He eyed the coin warily before pouncing upon it. “It does,” he said. “I saw the girl you mean – and a lovely thing she was too. Only that was no pixie she was with. That was the Winter Prince.”

“The Winter...” My eyes opened wide. I thought back to the picture – that face that was so familiar to me. The face Breena had seemed to love. A face I must have recognized too – for my grandfather had often told me of the childhood I spent in Feyland, and the missions I had carried out when only a boy for the Winter Palace. I had forgotten those days, but instantly it all made sense. My heart sank.

For I knew what the Winter Prince was meant to do. I had heard talk of him. He was beautiful and cruel – he felt nothing but contempt for those around him. He was the most savage fighter on the battlefield, for he of all the fairies did not crave blood, even the blood of those he despised. He simply cared nothing for it; he would kill a hundred fairies in a single second if it meant preserving his honor. He could look death in the eye and simply shrug. This made him more dangerous than even the most bloodthirsty of pixies. And I knew too that he loved women: that he, like all fairies, loved the idea of seducing women from beyond the Crystal River. That one kiss from his icy lips could turn a mortal mad. Is that who had taken Breena? The Prince Kian, set upon turning my beloved Breena into one of his asylum-bound conquests? I shuddered to think of it.

“They say his kiss kills mortals,” said the wolf, not unphilosophically. “If it doesn't send them insane.”

“I know,” I snapped.

“Then you'd best be on your way after them.”

“Which way did they go?” I sniffed the air. Their scent was getting fainter now.

“I can't quite recall,” the wolf shrugged.

I thrust down another coin and he pointed towards a range of mountains in the distance. “Further in,” he said. “Towards the Palace.”

I gave him another coin for his troubles and, before he could demand another, morphed back into my wolf form, running as fast as I could towards the mountains.

Chapter 2

T
hings were worse than I thought. If Delano had taken Breena, I could have relied on both my wolf compatriots and select fairy friends of the family for support. Those in my clan would have supported me, and the fairies who owed us favors – and there were quite a great number of those – would have been happy to pitch in if it meant pulling one over on the hated pixies. But if the Winter Prince had Breena, things were trickier than that. No wolf worth his salt would be willing to make a hasty decision about where he stood on the Fairy Wars, especially not to rescue some girl. It was hard enough trying to get wolves to commit to fighting in the War when it meant joining a wider clan army; no individual wolf was stupid enough to risk entering fairy politics simply because I had asked him to. As for fairies, they would be equally reticent to do anything that could worsen the hostilities between Summer and Winter. As Winter Prince, it seemed, the Ice Prince Kian could do what he wished with impunity. He could go beyond the Crystal River, take whatever woman he wanted, make her fall in love with him, make her insane...

My heart ached at the possibility. Could Breena really let herself be seduced by such a rake as Kian? No! She was too brave, too headstrong, too powerful to turn into just another simpering mortal at the drop of the proverbial hat. But I thought back ruefully to Breena's paintings. For years I had seen that man's face upon her canvas; for years I had watched as she lovingly traced the contours of his cheekbones, or dropped dabs of blue paint onto his irises. I had feared then that this man might be the Winter Prince, trying to solidify his hold on her from across the Crystal River, but I had discounted such fears as paranoid. But now I knew it was true. Whatever danger Breena might be in from Delano and the pixies, it was nothing compared to the threat Breena faced from the Winter Fey.

And I had failed to protect her. I had failed to keep her safe.
Some Wolf Prince you are,
I told myself, scowling inwardly.
If you can't even manage to keep the woman you love safe from harm, how do you expect to rule a whole clan of wolves.

Why hadn't I realized the threat sooner? Why hadn't I fought harder against Delano? Why didn't I just tell her that I feared her paintings were of the Winter Prince, that the love she felt for him was no doubt the result of his dark magic, that her dreams would – with him – turn to nightmares?

You fool, Logan. You're responsible for her now. If anything happens to her, it's on you.

I ran faster and faster through the snow, ignoring the cold. Normally, when I transformed into a wolf, I was able to push human concerns out of my mind. I was able to focus on the immediate, the sensual, the animal. The wind in my ears. The snow against my fur. The smell of the sap pouring out from the pine trees. But not this time. My worry seemed to circulate through me like blood through my veins.

At last I approached the mountains the other wolf had pointed out to me. The cliffs rose above me, jagged and austere. It would be an arduous climb up, I knew, but I had no choice. There was only one path into the mountains, and if the wolf had been telling the truth, that meant that Breena was at the other end of it. Alive or dead.

I bounded up the mountain path, keeping close to the mountainside as the ridge grew narrower and steeper, snaking up and down around the side of the cliff. I nearly lost my footing three or four times, scrambling to avoid plummeting to my death on the rocks below, but I kept on running. This was no time for fear. I had to keep going.

At last I reached the top of the mountain, but as I stepped forth, my heart sank. The path forked here, left and right diverging so wildly that there was no way I could test both paths without wasting hours of time. Breena's scent and that of the Winter Prince were gone by now; I would have to go on instinct.

If I was right, I was sure to find her.

But if I was wrong...

Suddenly, I thought I heard Breena's voice, echoing like a bronze bell inside my head. I bowed my head to the earth, my ears pricked back, overwhelmed by the power of the sound.

Logan, help me. I'm in this house – it's by this mountain with pink snow on the top. You have to help me. I don't know what's going on. I've been kidnapped...

And then the voice went silent.

I looked up in confusion. “Breena?” I called, shouting wildly. “Breena, where are you?”

There was no sign of her. But to my left, in the distance, I could see a mountain covered with pale snow, the color of a first blush. Was this what Breena had meant? Or was her call to me only an illusion?

I reckoned I didn't exactly have much choice. I might as well listen to my instinct.

I turned left and headed further down the path.

A few miles later, as the pink mountain gleamed in the distance, I thought I heard footsteps alongside me – the first sign of life I had seen in these wild and barren parts since the wolf I had left behind.

I whirled around quickly, but nobody was there.

“Hello?” I called warily. I wasn't sure if I wanted to meet the bearer of the footsteps – in these war-torn parts, there was a fine line between friend and foe. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

My answer was a sharp blow to the head.