Rabid (Kingdom of Wolves #6) - Ivy Asher Page 0,18

lifts his hands as he begins to weave two planes together for the night. His fingers move like he’s plaiting invisible strands together that represent our world and the world of the spirit wolves we’re meant to harbor and protect.

I can’t say that I feel any different right now than from previous Fluxes during the spirit calling, but I have a deeper appreciation for the Totemic shifter culture and the beliefs of my people tonight, because it was supposed to be my night. The night I finally inherited my wolf.

I close my eyes and sway to the gentle beat of the Weaver’s feet as they start to dance across the hard-packed dirt. I invite his song to move through me and tilt my head back, feeling the blessing of the rising moon. Everyone else sways with the chanting and the rhythm of heavy footfall, bodies moving with the wind.

I rock back and forth in place, wishing that my mom were here and that everything hadn’t gone to shit. I feel the loss of her so deeply in this moment that it tightens my lungs and makes it hard to breathe. She always loved nights like this. The magic always renewed her in a way that nothing else could. Right now, she should be dancing alongside me in the moonlight, beautiful and strong, everything I’ve always wanted to be.

I think of my dad, of my parents slow dancing in the kitchen late at night and sneaking kisses and winks whenever they got the chance. I think of his hugs and the way he always saw me, all of me, all the parts I tried to tuck deep and hide. He always understood and nurtured those bits, and I was lucky for that. This place holds so many beautiful memories and yet so much tragedy all at the same time. I can feel the love here, but I can also smell the blood. Too much blood. It’s old and stale and stains the grounds of this pack like a warning.

I tear my eyes open, ripping myself from the moment. The Weaver is calling to the sky, arms outstretched, and a stream of omega females file past the congregation in a line. They’re wearing revealing dresses as a mark of their fertility, and a line of blood is drawn down their foreheads. They all carry heavy platters of food together, at least two omegas per tray. The kappas were obviously hard at work this year, because the offering is impressive. Fresh kills still bloody from the woods have been prepared in true Twin Rivers custom, the scent of the slain prey permeating the air.

There are skinned rabbits and muskrats delicately arranged on a platter topped with fresh sage. Then a deer, its removed antlers set above its butchered meat like a cake topper. But then more omega females stream past with the meat of an entire elk. All of it is placed around the bonfire in a perfect circle, arranged accordingly, the raw meat an offering to the wolf spirits.

With their hands now free, the omegas start to dance. Sheer dresses sway with their movements, their bodies undulating in a practiced performance of sensual virility. While they twirl around the bonfire, the Weaver sprinkles some sort of powder over the food, grunting and growling and chanting too low beneath his breath for me to hear.

Pack members begin to line up, eager to lay the gifts they’ve brought at the base of the spirits’ feast. I can almost smell the competition in the air as wrapped packages are set down, the givers wearing smug looks as they go, certain that they’ve brought the best prize. I try not to roll my eyes at the display. As if this crap will make the spirits look more favorably down on this pack. Not with an alpha like Burke, he just claims every single present for himself.

The growls, yips, and barks of wolf-speak grow louder, Weaver Yaromir’s sounds so steady they’re almost a thrum, one that feels like it’s controlling the beat of my heart. The omegas dance like they feel the frenzied pull of music, and the crowd feels it too. There’s a vibration in the air, and I’m all too aware of how my feet are planted on the ground, of the press of my pack members’ bodies around me. So much smoke rises into the darkening sky that it consumes my senses. The Weaver pulls at the air, hands moving through the smoke like