This Broken Wolf: Soul Bitten Shifter Book 2 by Everly Frost

Author:Everly Frost [Frost, Everly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ever Realm Books
Published: 2021-02-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

My human form sleeps, but my wolf form is awake. Cody wants me to rest my mind during the day, but that doesn’t count when my human form needs protection so she can sleep.

I must remain awake and alert to protect myself.

Quietly rising from the floor outside the opaque doorway, I prowl across the corridor to the room opposite my bedroom, treading lightly in the dust that has gathered over untold years.

I didn’t dare stray from my bedroom doorway last night, but today, I edge closer to the room that sits across the corridor.

The writing carved into the floor within its doorway tempts me to enter it.

The Near-Apart Room.

Expanding my senses, I remain alert for any sound or movement along the corridor, using my crimson vision to see through the stone floor and distinguish the power of the supernaturals on the level below me. I’ve been worried about someone spying on me by being cloaked in one of Silas’s spells, but I can sense his presence two levels down, where he’s working on a spell right now. I can distinguish the sparks of his power, and I’m confident I will recognize his power if someone attempts to approach under a spell of invisibility.

Sniffing at the writing on the floor, I inhale the scent of ice and snow. I recoil a little, reminded of Brynjar’s power, but this scent doesn’t seem magical. More like real ice.

Edging closer, I peer inside the room.

It’s as bare as my bedroom appeared at first, a large window on the left-hand side allowing the early afternoon sunlight to stream inside. It’s lined with wood instead of bare stone. Cobwebs float across the ceiling, the floor is covered in dust, but writing is scratched across the wall opposite me.

The writing is jagged, gouged into the wall as if by a dagger, a sequence of sentences forming a rough spiral from the center of the wall down to the floor. Every sentence appears to be written in a different hand, but each is a question.

Where are you? Why did you leave? Who took you? Why didn’t you come back? How did you die?

It’s painful to read. Like I’m listening to the cries of different voices calling to lost loved ones, asking for answers that won’t come.

Stepping into the room, I expect it to transform like my bedroom did.

Nothing happens. Unless I count the dust bunnies that float into my nose. I sneeze into the quiet, a weird sound to my wolf ears.

Warily crossing to the other side of the room, I follow the gouged questions from the center all the way to the floor. Maybe I have to write my own question before the room will answer me?

I shudder away from the wall. I have too many questions, but if this room is a place to seek answers about loved ones—or maybe to mourn them—then there’s only one question I could write.

Only one scream into the dark that might give me enough peace about Tristan so that I can keep going.

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