Chapter 218

Iris

I’ve been staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror for several minutes now, searching for any hint of gold in my eyes. Nothing. They’re back to their normal honey-brown color now.

For a moment, I wonder if Arthur and the hunter imagined it; maybe it was a trick of the light. Either way, I suppose it doesn’t matter. My eyes are not glowing, and the wolf is dead. Arthur was right; she was just a wild animal. These things happen. It sucks, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

But even now, hours later, I can’t shake the hollow feeling in my chest. It’s as if something vital has been ripped away, leaving an empty space that aches strangely. I didn’t even know this wolf, not really. I saw her once before, months ago, and then again today as she died. That’s it. So why does it feel like I’ve lost someone important?

I splash cold water on my face, hoping it might snap me out of this strange grief. It doesn’t help.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Arthur is waiting in our bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s built up the fire in the hearth, and the room is warm and cozy, especially now that the snow has turned into an all-out blizzard outside. It’s probably a good thing he came and got me when I did, otherwise I’d been riding in this.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, reaching for my hand as I sit beside him.

I shrug. “I don’t know. Sad, I guess. Which is stupid. It was just a wolf.”

“It’s not stupid,” Arthur says gently. “She was a beautiful creature, and you felt connected to her.”

“But why?” I ask, shooting him a sidelong glance. “She was a wild animal. I barely knew her. I only ever painted her and saw her in visions.”

Arthur is quiet for a moment, considering. Then, he offers, “If you saw her in visions, then maybe you’re more connected than you thought.”

It’s possible, I suppose. But it still doesn’t make any sense. Why would this wild animal feel like a part of me?

“These things happen, Iris,” Arthur says after another moment of silence. “Hunters make mistakes. Animals die in the wild all the time. It’s sad, but it’s a part of life.”

I know he’s trying to comfort me, but his words just make me feel worse. I stand and grab my cardigan that’s hanging on the bedpost. “I need to paint,” I say, then turn on my heel and leave. Arthur doesn’t follow me, knowing that I just need some time to myself.

I make my way to my makeshift studio in the small sunroom at the back of the cabin. It’s nothing like my studio back home, but Arthur made sure there was a space for me to paint when he bought the property.

I set up a fresh canvas on the easel, squeezing paints onto my palette without really thinking about colors or composition. I just need to paint.

My hand moves almost of its own accord, sweeping across the canvas in broad strokes. Gradually, a shape begins to emerge—a rocky ridge covered in snow. Empty. Peaceful. No sign of a wolf standing in the distance, no blood, no people, no horses.

As I work, the hollow feeling in my chest begins to ease, replaced by a strange warmth. The room around me seems to fade, the sound of my brush against canvas becoming oddly muffled.

And then, suddenly, she’s there.

The she-wolf sits at the edge of my vision, so faint at first I almost miss it. But when I turn, I’m met with golden eyes and twitching ears. She’s sitting in the corner of the studio, watching quietly.

Surprisingly, I don’t startle at her presence. I just lower my brush and look at her, really look at her, for the first time. The realization doesn’t hit me like a brick wall, but rather a soft caress.

“You were meant to be mine, weren’t you?” I whisper, setting my brush aside. “My wolf.”

She makes no sound out loud, but in my mind, I hear her voice.

“Yes. And no.”

The wolf moves closer, circling me once before sitting on her haunches. She glances at the painting, then back at me.

“I was drawn to you from the moment you were born,” she continues. “Your spirit called to mine across the years. But I could not answer that call fully.”

I tilt my head. “Why not?”

“I am too wild. I didn’t want to bind myself to you.”

The admission stings a little, but I manage a soft, “What about now?”

The wolf’s form shimmers slightly, like heat rising from pavement on a hot day. “Even now, I refuse to give myself entirely to you. I’m going to the Moon Goddess’s domain instead, to be free for all eternity.”

A lump forms in my throat. “So I’ll never truly have a wolf?”

“No. You won’t. And you will have no more visions once I cross over. I’m sorry, but even if I wanted to, my spirit is simply too wild to bind with any human—even you.”

The hollow feeling returns in full force now. That explains why I’ve never shifted, why I was viewed as a human for so much of my life.

The wolf then tilts her head.

“My pup, however, found his match.”

“What?”

“My youngest. He died when he was barely more than a newborn. When your son’s soul entered this world, my pup recognized a kindred spirit and joined with him.”

“Miles has… your pup’s spirit?”

The wolf bobs her head, and I swear there’s something like affection in her golden eyes. “Yes. That is why he sees more clearly than you do. His wolf is young but strong, and growing stronger with each passing day.”

I’m surprised to find that I’m actually glad to hear it; even if I’ll never have a wolf of my own, and my visions won’t return once the she-wolf passes over, Miles will have it all. The knowledge that my son, and hopefully someday my daughter, gets to have all the things I never got to have replaces my sadness.

But with that sadness also comes a sense of apprehension and terror. Because if my mother and the she-wolf are right, Miles will indeed be a strong Dreamer. Which also means that he might be in danger.

As if reading my thoughts, the wolf goes on, “You must protect him in the ways I could not protect my pup. There are those who would use his gifts for their own purposes.”

“I will,” I reply without hesitation. “With my life, if necessary.”

The wolf nods, satisfied. Her form is growing fainter now. I’m afraid to blink, because I know that if I do, her visage will be gone when I open my eyes again. I want to savor her, even if only for a moment longer.

“Thank you,” she says. “For staying with me at the end. For never trying to trap me or bend me to your will. And for releasing me from the painting.”

Right. The canvas I destroyed in a fit of rage, the one depicting the she-wolf with a crimson serpent dangling from her jaws. I’d ripped it to shreds without really understanding why at the time, but now I realize that it was her way of trying to escape. Even then, deep down, I knew that she shouldn’t be bound to any cage, whether that cage is a canvas or my body.

“Will I ever see you again?” I ask softly. Of course, I already know the answer. I just want to hear her say it.

The wolf is barely visible now, just a shimmer in the air. “No,” she says simply, and somehow the single word, so firm and certain, fills me with a sense of unexpected peace.

And then she’s gone.

So it’s true; I’ll never have a wolf of my own. I’ll never shift, never experience the world through those senses, never have the full power that comes with being a werewolf. To the eyes of many, I’ll still be nothing more than a human, or perhaps even worse to them—a werewolf whose wolf abandoned her.

But somehow, that knowledge doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.

The she-wolf chose freedom, and I can’t fault her for that. It’s what I would have chosen too, in her place.

I turn back to my painting, seeing it with new eyes. The ridge is emptier now, but infinitely more peaceful. I feel as if I could step into it and disappear along with the wolf.

I’m so entranced that I don’t hear the door open behind me, don’t notice Arthur’s presence until he speaks.

“Iris? Are you okay?”

I turn to face him, and it’s only now that I notice the tears streaming down my cheeks. But despite them, I’m smiling.