Semua Bab LUNA'S CURSE; Her Three Messiahs: Bab 111 - Bab 120

Keira POV I step out through the doors, using my elbow to shut it behind me. I tighten my grip around the handles of the wheelbarrow, and taking a deep breath, I start pushing it. The sweat cools on my face as the night breeze flows around me. I have a napkin tied around my nose so I'm saved from the more terrible smells from the … package I'm carrying. The forest is a buzz around me. Crickets chirp, and I can hear the buzzing of cicadas. High up in a tree, an owl hoots, its eyes burning like burnished gold against a curtain of night. The moon is a yellow stain on the sky, and its weak rays slant as they slash across the forest, falling in scattered, filtered patches as they slip through the gaps in the branches. The ground is wet, and dew twinkles on the surface of leaves and plants. Moisture hangs in the air with the promise of rain.As I move deeper and deeper into the forest, I lose the familiar sounds of the camp. The cackle of cooking fire is replaced by the slow sloshing of

Dax POV I yawn. Aya cracks an eyelid to glare at me. How she makes it work is truly beyond me. We're sitting in her cramped apothecary. Crystal bottles line the tables, standing like sentries. There's a large hearth just to my right, and a smokeless, impossibly clear flame burns over glowing coal. The smell of sage, incense, and burnt thornbush is thick in the air. Beads tinkle as they're stirred by the breeze. Outside, the sky has darkened to night. An owl hoots from a nearby tree. There's a vague sensation pressing down on my skin, as if trying to push through my pores. It makes Fenrir uncomfortable, but Aya has been my friend for years now and I'm no longer unnerved by the sensation of her magic.Aya's Circle is artfully done. It's made of two concentric circles drawn in white mud chalk, with palm-sized glyphs occupying the space between the outer and inner circles. There's a smaller circle around me with a single glyph that is in the shape of a tree. The Source glyph. Hours earl

Riven POV I clutch my traveling cloak tighter around myself as I make my way through the town. Night gathers like oily blackness, pooling in the crevices of faces, beneath shades, and in the hollows of alleyways. The moon is a pale orb with a chunk missing. The full moon is only days away now. Inside me, my wolf and my human spirit continue to blend. There are days that I wake up in the forest, not knowing how I got there. Sometimes there's a carcass that I seemed to just be in the midst of finishing. Other times, while I slept, I found my way to the highest hills and just laid there. None of these have been full transformations, but as I draw closer and closer to it, what is man is indistinguishable from what is wolf. I draw in a deep breath, letting me the cool night air expand my chest. I'm dressed relatively poorly. My travelling cloak looks like it's seen several years of use. My shirt has a neck near the collar. My boots, I got from a pawn shop on my way here. The “silver” is

Riven POVThe man sitting at my table slowly cranes his head to look at me with his single pale eye. It's the deadest expression I've ever seen on the face of anyone. His milk-coloured pupil roves in the orifice of its orbit, darting like a ball in a hole. He studies me in a quick, bored look then waves a hand. One of his men salutes then walks out into the night. I wait with bated breath, trying to avoid the faces of the people I danced with. I know what I'll see there — hurt, betrayal, fear — so what's the point? I deserve it. I brought this on them. It's only right that they should hate me. I don't care. But then I see the girl. The freckles on her nose stand out in the dim light, like constellations over her skin. Even bloodied and crying silently in front of me, she's still good-looking. A good wash will get that blood out of her straw hair. It's sad that I can't say the same about the psychological wounds she'll get from this event. The man that walked out returns holding a s

Riven POVI have only a single memory of my mother. My father was the kind of tyrant that couldn't limit his oppressive presence to the pack alone. His family had to suffer as well. I miss him and I loathe that he is dead, but I'm the age where sons understand that they can love a person without having respected them.In the memory, my mother is as beautiful as the sun as it filters through the branches of a tree, turning greens lighter, polishing wood until it shone bronze. Her blonde hair seemed to sparkle as I walked beside her, feeling proud, if of anything, that she was my mother and that I was her son, and content with the knowledge that this was fixed, that there was nothing I could do in her eyes to change that. It was the day she showed me what a shredder did to a human body. The day she showed me the deeds that ensured the safety of the pack.Now as I tear my way through a room of bodies, I can't help thinking of that sound. That horrible mechanical sound, the buzz of powerf