The Werewolf's Bride
This was against something older than flesh.
Darius’s smoke-form drifted closertendrils reaching toward Lyra.
Elara snarled, stepping forward, placing herself between the shadow and her daughter.
“You will not touch her.”
The smoke laughed again, soft, intimate, as though speaking directly into her mind.
“I already have,” he whispered. “A fragment of me entered you in the grove. It sleeps in your blood now, waiting. When the dark moon rises in two nights, when your daughter’s power fully wakes, I will rise through her. And through you. The Second Dark Moon will not be prevented. It will be born.”