Slow Shift Nazarea Andrews (most difficult books to read .TXT) 📖

glare, and he wonders what she would be like if she weren’t a Medusa, if Chase gave her the Bite.

Fierce and possessive and perfect.

“I’m coming back to you,” he promises, the closest either has gotten to professing feelings. Then he kisses her, a gentle brush of lips that steals the breath from her lungs before he’s turning away. He meets his Alpha’s eyes and says, “Take care of them.”

“Take care of yourself so you can come home and take care of them,” Chase orders and Lucas smiles as he slings his bag over his shoulder and leaves the little house in the woods, Stephen at his side.

~*~

Everyone—not Aurora, but everyone else—seems to accept it, without blinking, without even thinking. He doesn’t understand that, because he tore out Chelsea’s throat, and how the hell had that even happened? How was he—

He doesn’t understand and now Lucas is leaving, and he does understand that, the ruthless practicality of him that understands Lucas in a way Tyler never will, recognizes the need and even approves of the Left Hand doing what was demanded.

But the fox in him is pacing, anxious and screaming for the wolf to come back. He wants his Pack here, where he knows they’re safe, where he can scent and touch and protect.

Tyler watches him, his gaze unwavering and devoted, and he doesn’t understand that either.

He shivers in their bed, the scent of Pack and mate and home seeping in, with his magic, the Standing Stones, and the wild fox that feels so foreign yet so much a part of him.

It’s too much, too much power and too much change happening too fast. He shuffles on the bed—and he knows that the Pack will want to him to stay, want to go with him, desperate to be near their Alpha in the same way he’s desperate to be close to his Pack.

But he needs this, too.

He touches a rune on his hip as he strips, masking his scent before he slips out the window and the fox chitters with excitement, Shifting before his paws hit the ground.

~*~

He goes to the Standing Stones.

It’s not the start of everything, but sometimes he feels like it is. It feels like every good and bad thing circles back to these damn rocks, that they’ve carved a place for him that he never would have had otherwise—that it shredded him while carving that place, and the scars it left behind were more than he thought he could carry.

So he goes to the Standing Stones now, quick feet eating up the few miles between the den and the rocks. He can’t feel his magic like this, but his senses are blown wide open, and the closer he gets, the more he can feel something.

Ancient, alien, familiar, welcoming.

He yips and scampers right up to the stone, scratching at it with sharp little black claws. The magic wraps around him and he hears a distant howl—Tyler—before the world slips away.

~*~

Chase blinks, looking at the cave spreading high and immense around him. He groans and pushes to his feet, the sound echoing and pressing close.

He’s in a wide empty space, so dark it’s blinding. The Standing Stones are the only thing in the massive cave, and he pads closer, wary. But even now, he feels safe. Comforted and cherished, like the warm welcome he feels in his father’s home and in the den, and he touches the Stones gently, a brush of his fingers over the ancient rocks.

You’ve changed, Chase DeWitt,  a musical voice says. It sounds like wind in the trees, like birds singing and the slow, ponderous thrum of magic in the forest.

Knew. We knew.

“Knew what?”

You’re special. We knew you’d heal the land, heal the Pack.

“I don’t want to heal anything,” Chase argues stubbornly, and the magic flares hot and amused.

Don’t you understand, little fox? You never wanted anything but your wolves safe. It’s why you bound yourself to us as a child. You burn so bright and beautiful, and you would give it all to them.

“They’re my family,” he says lamely.

We know. You’re special, child. You don’t seek power for yourself. You bound yourself to us without knowing the consequences because you love them. That is the true magic.

“You realize that’s idiotic, right? You’re a bunch of fucking talking rocks. You brought me to this dreamspace to tell me the power of love is the true magic? Love didn’t kill Tripp Cahil.”

Didn’t it? The voices turn teasing, sly. You killed Chelsea to protect your wolf. To protect Lucas. You bound yourself to us to protect Tyler from the witches and threats that would take a ripe, unclaimed territory.

Chase is still, watching, and the magic warms, swirling around him, ruffling his hair.

You believed that you could protect them. Believed you could make them whole again. And you gave everything you had to make that belief real.

“I’m—I’m not special. I’m a kid playing in a world that was never meant for me.”

Do you think we care anything about goodness? We know that you are cold and cruel when necessary. That you will kill to protect, and use the magic we gave you to do it. It’s why we gave you the kitsune.

“I don’t understand.”

You don’t have to. You have the family you wanted and the ability to protect them, and the land is healing. You don’t have to understand anything more than that as of now. You have a lifetime to understand, and your wolves to help you.

“It scares me,” Chase confesses.

The voices sigh, like the winds before a storm rushing through leaves. You’re still fighting it. The Bite—we never wanted that, because you never wanted that. It would have killed you, if we hadn’t intervened. But the kitsune—it’s not something separate living inside you, no more than our magic is. It’s yours. It’s you, brave boy. It is the wild unfettered part of you that will never second guess or question instinct, and will die to protect your Pack.

He feels it stir, a warm preening in his