I don’t need Lydia’s gift to know that.
Every inch of my bristles. I’m no wolf yet, but I still feel as if every sense inside me, every instinct, is on fire—begging me not to trust this newfound peace.
This so-called peace.
But then I look at Rory, and Marlowe, and Kaleb … and then to the shaman on the platform. This peace might not last, but this is still my wedding. This is still a moment I’ll remember forever.
It’s a moment that’s about to change everything.
For better or worse, it’s too late to change now.
So, I step up onto the platform with the boys and try to block out how anxious I am. Instead, I focus on them. On their faces.
And I find, just like Romulus with his brother, that everything else seems to melt away.
Nothing else matters but this.
7
Sabrina
Any last questions regarding the wedding and turning ceremony are answered by the shaman as the four of us stand in front of the leathery old man and I allow him to paint the inside of my wrists with a red paint. He uses a thin little brush to draw a complex symbol on each wrist that looks like a moon made out of an eye, or perhaps it’s an eye made out of a moon.
Either way, the symbol marks my wrists—and marks me for turning.
“By the end of this ceremony,” the shaman explains, “you will be bonded in marriage to these three men. You will also have started on the process of turning.”
Process. That’s a bit of an understatement for what the next week holds for me. For what the next few months will entail.
“The wedding ceremony is a symbolic ritual that will bond you as mate to Rory, Marlowe, and Kaleb; and will bond you to Romulus pack and family for the rest of your life,” he continues, the words sweeping over me and washing away any remnants of fear that still gripped my insides.
This is what I have been waiting months to hear. Over a year. It’s what I’ve wanted more than anything.
“The turning ceremony will begin tonight. It will take seven days to reach completion. On the last night of the ceremony, you will experience your first shift,” the shaman says, his eyes raising to the moon slowly growing brighter each night as it nears its monthly peak.
I turn to whisper in Rory’s ear as I feel the eyes of the crowd gathered behind us. I don’t like that the other pack is here, I wish they weren’t. I wish I couldn’t feel their gaze like needles pricking at the back of my neck.
“So, there is a ceremony every night for the next six nights after this?” I ask. I know the answer to this, but I want his reassurance. I want to be sure I’m right, that this isn’t another one of my fevered dreams about to dissolve into nonsensical chaos.
But Rory’s hand is steady in mine. His voice sure, his eyes bright.
“Yes,” he answers quietly to me as the shaman draws a long silver cord out of his satchel.
Before I can get too far ahead of myself, the shaman makes a signal to the boys and suddenly all three of them have managed to bring forth a giant claw out of the fingers that looks more like a wolf talon than a fingernail.
The shaman reaches for my wrists and turns them upward so that the symbol he painted on them is facing the sky. Rory, Marlowe, and Kaleb, each slash their claw into my flesh in one swift swiping motion that leaves a long clean cut stricken against the painted image. It hurts, but I manage to not scream from either surprise or pain. Instead I manage to keep my face composed even as droplets of blood mingled with red paint drip down to stain the front of my gown.
Then Romulus comes to stand in front of me and with his single claw extended, he too makes a slash against the symbol on my wrist—in the opposite direction of the other three.
“This is the first step of your turning,” Romulus says, his voice so low that only I will hear.
I watch as each of them uses their claw in turn to slash a mark into their own wrist and then extend their arms out forward to touch alongside mine.
The shaman takes the long, silver cord that he’s been holding and uses it to bind each of our wrists together. It’s a strange sensation, having all four of their forearms pressing against mine as our warm blood intermingles and my skin burns from the cuts.
The shaman brings a small dish of cool water to each of our lips as we take a sip. I wonder if there was some truth to the wolf-touched water myth, but then he explains that it is water charged by the full moon. Even as he says it, I swear I can feel the water spread like silvery moonlight through my veins.
When the shaman unties us, Romulus pulls his arm out first and then the other boys follow suit. A few words are said, and then he announces that the turning has begun.