PROLOGUE
Jinx Whitethorn
The strongest wolf is the one you feed, skinwalker, the whispering spirits had said. Loyalty and desire. That is the food you must give it.
Those were their words of wisdom. They were telling me to choose the white wolf – to nourish the goodness inside me. Not the black wolf because the black wolf represents the addicting dark part everyone has inside them. The part that’s hell to come back from.
I hadn’t truly connected it before.
At first, I had used their knowledge to learn to skinwalk, but I hadn’t understood that this Native American proverb could be used for all aspects of life. Life and death. Morals and lack thereof.
The choices we make are divided into light and dark, but there’s a problem with choices. No one speaks about the grey area in between that’s neither good nor bad but something . . . else. A third option.
When chosen, this third option opens a bottomless hole of self-doubt and what-ifs. It’s brimming with choices where no one can decide if they’re damning or righteous. Unfortunately, the grey area is usually where I stand because, to me, nothing is black and white. To me, the grey is the solid ground where the white and black wolf battle on.
She betrayed me, my aunt. Kaya Whitethorn had betrayed me. I’ve tried to sort out why, and how, someone could do this to another person.
No one does something like this without a reason. I have to believe there’s a reason – whether it’s light or dark or grey because if there isn’t, then this battle between wolves will never end. There will never be a victor.
And for this reason, and this reason alone, I seek the truth from my rivals.
CHAPTER ONE
Jinx Whitethorn
The pond is as still as the night Jacob had brought me here. That was a perfect night, and I associate it with the emotions I had felt when we declared our feelings to one another. It’s a solid constant, a puddle in a vast world that’s extremely complicated and ever-changing. It’s a calm to my sea of numbness. A predictable ebb and flow.
I have this urge to reach out and poke the surface with my fingertips to see if it’s as fragile as I’ve turned out to be. I couldn’t if I wanted to though. I currently have no fingertips to do so. The paws I wear – great grizzly bear paws – feel different than human hands. Rougher, tougher, and scratchier. It wouldn’t be the same if I touched the water. Besides, I should be roaming in this form to get used to the way it moves like I did when I skinwalked to a bird, a doe, and a tiger. But the water . . .
The water. It has stories to tell. Stories of pain and droughts. It has stories of life and disease then life again. The water is wise and captivating yet set in a prison, a pore of the earth, forever damned to be just . . . a pond. Never a stream. Never a river. Never a lake. Only a pond.
Will my complicated life be the same? My mother withheld information about who and what I am. My father died to protect innocent people. And my aunt had betrayed me for reasons I can’t fathom. Will I always be the object of the world’s twisted entertainment? Should I just buckle up and get used to this ride?
I tilt my head to the sky. The plump, churning rainclouds wait to drop their wet burden, and the pond will flood with the influence of heavy rain. Nature will give it hope to be something more, and then the sun will blaze and take away everything the pond thought it gained.
The pond is me. I’m the pond. A prisoner to betrayals. Helpless. Confused. And now, I wear the skins of spirits to feel something. Anything. To feel less predictable than a pond, which can only move when a leaf drops to disrupt its stillness, or a tongue laps at its surface.
I stretch my neck, bear muscles shifting under the heavy coat, which, so far, has been effective in chasing away the chill of the frost.
Maybe my mother didn’t know everything I now do. Maybe she didn’t know about the cursed pendant and what my father had done with it. It doesn’t matter if my mother didn’t know. The fact is I grew up ignorant, and I trusted the wrong people. The only time she thought it necessary to tell me who and where I came from was when I started changing into something she could no longer control nor predict. I don’t fit into her perfect witchy box. I don’t think I really ever did.
All of this is something I’ll have to face eventually. Soon, probably, if I’m to find out my aunt’s true secrets. Kaya Whitethorn had skinwalked. As far as I know, only a union between a witch and a shaman could produce such a child. I need to know if my mother knew. To pull apart and examine all of the pieces at once, once I have them. I need the truth.
Getting on all fours, I lumber to the edge of the pond and stand on the rocks much smaller than my paws. I look at my reflection, white fur gleaming across the flat darkness of the water.
No matter what form I choose, I’m always white. White feathers, white fur, and each strand glows like the moon with all of the magic it takes to wear a spirit’s form. I’ve never seen a white grizzly bear, but it truly is something to behold.
It has been days since my aunt stole my father’s book from Chip’s lab. Three, I think. As the days wear on, it’s getting harder to keep track. At least, it’s easier to skinwalk. Kaya may have left, but I don’t need her anymore. Maybe I never needed her. Maybe all I needed was to find a part of my life where I might belong in someone else’s. And truly, I have that here with the pack. All I needed was the nudge she provided.
It makes me wonder how different it will feel if I returned to the coven. To smell the lavender in a different form, to feel the cobwebs left unchecked, and to listen to the scuff of old and dusty flooring beneath my shoes. I suppose I’ll find out when I do return. Not to stay though. I’ll only be going in search of answers, and truth be told, I’m not sure if answers are going to be the only thing I seek.
As hurt as my heart is, a vulnerable part of me wants to seek a mother’s warmth. Glenda had filled that need for the past three days, folding me into crushing hugs while she promised to seek revenge on my behalf. But it’s not the same.
I look at my paw and the long-jagged claws that scratch at the smooth surface of the rocks. The whispering voices carried on the wind are easier to decipher; easier to weed through the masses than it was before. Out here in the woods, they caress my bear ears, tickling the fuzz that fluffs out from within. I know what to listen for now that silence is filling my head. Silence from an abrupt absence in my life. Silence from a betrayal. I can make out the faint sounds of words or the echoes of animal noises. I’ve spent enough time by myself since Kaya left to work through how to pick and choose which voice’s advice to heed or choose which animal to wear.
I wonder . . . I cock my bear head to the side, and the chilly wind combs fingers through the fur in my ears. I wonder if I can ask them questions. Would they answer? Would they be wiser than me? Would they be biased? Speciesist? Is that even a word? I snort at my thoughts, great puffs of mist curling from my snout.
Lifting my paw, I look at the pads. They’re cracked and calloused, perfect for the brittle brush along the forest floor. I could take one step, and I’d be human. One thought, and the spirit’s skin would be floating once more in the wind. It’s that easy. But . . . would it be just as easy to wear one of my whispering guides’ forms? The thought sends a shiver down my back. Wearing someone else’s – though dead they may be – doesn’t settle well with my own soul. And yet . . . The temptation to try is there.