elite.
Jace could have scoffed. Elite? I’ve never been elite at anything, except maybe killing werewolves.
The man spun to face him and stepped forward. As tall as Jace was, his spirit guide towered over him. You are elite in your birthright, not in your profession. Killing werewolves is a travesty. You’ve dishonored your bloodline for many years.
Goose bumps prickled over Jace’s skin, but he ignored them. If you think I have an elite bloodline, you obviously never met my father.
The shadow man stepped over the shadow of a fallen tree and continued. Your father chose a dark path and used his gift for his own twisted enjoyment. He was not worthy of the Berserker name.
The questions flooding into Jace’s mind were overwhelming. His thoughts raced. The trees and brush of the forest thinned as they continued forward. Another clearing lay ahead.
When they stepped through the curtain of the trees, Jace’s eyes widened. Before him stood seven stone statues, each one three times his height. Each depicted a Viking-like warrior dressed in animal skins. The warrior in the center stood tallest—a spear in his hand, and the pelt of a wolf covering his body and head.
The Berserkers, the shadow man said.
Jace couldn’t tear his eyes from the stones. These statues were ancient. What is a Berserker?
The shadow man moved closer to the stone replicas. We are Norse gods— Skinwalkers.
We? Jace pointed to himself. No, you’re wrong. I’m no god.
The shadow man stared up at the face of the wolf-skin warrior statue. You are a Skinwalker by birthright, a Berserker by fate. A remarkable creation.
Jace couldn’t wrap his head around any of this. What do you mean? There’s nothing remarkable about me. I’m a half-breed werewolf. I’m not good enough for either side. He remembered what had led up to this. The brawl with his fellow hunters, the fight with Alejandro. Now both sides are against me.
Walking toward him, the shadow man examined him carefully. You are no ordinary werewolf. You are a Skinwalker. You have the ability to shift like the werewolves you hunt, but you are set apart from them. They are wolves at heart, but you are a man, a man with the power of a wolf. He gestured to the statues, before he continued.
We Skinwalkers can shape-shift, but we’re not limited in our choices as the werewolves are. When you come into your full power, you will be capable of channeling the power of any spirit animal you choose. He pointed to the statues again, each man covered in a different animal: the pelts of a wolf, a bear, and a wild dog; the mane of a horse, the skin of a serpent, the feathers of an eagle and finally, the tusks of a boar.
Jace shook his head. This was so messed up. But why do I have the characteristics of a werewolf?
You can shift into a wolf because that is where your lineage lies. Your family’s spirit guide has always been the spirit of the wolf. The creature swept his arm out toward the wolf-man, the head warrior. It’s time you learned.
Strolling between the statues, the man ran his shadow fingers over the stone surfaces. In the time of the Vikings, the Berserkers were an elite group of Norse warriors who devoted themselves to nature. It was their belief that by wearing the pelt of an animal, they could harness the power of the beast they imitated.
As generations passed, their belief became a reality. They became Skinwalkers. The male descendants of the original bloodlines were capable of shifting form to match their family’s heritage, to match their spirit guide. For you, that is the wolf.
Jace glanced at the statue of...his ancestor?
The shadow man continued. But an even more select group rose above the other Skinwalkers. They became the true descendants of the Berserker warriors, not simply by blood but by merit. You are a Skinwalker, Jace, and it is your fate to become a true Berserker, a god of the ancient Norse people. Someday you will assume your rightful place in Valhalla, the heaven of the fallen warriors.
Jace wasn’t sure how to react. The foundations of everything he knew began to shake and crumble. His full power? He thought of Robert, of the women the bastard had murdered. He had to find a way to beat him. What do I have to do?
The shadow man’s expression turned even more serious, almost sad. In exchange for power, a sacrifice must be made.
Jace glanced down at himself. A large hole formed where the shadow of his body had once been. His panic rose, but he had to beat Robert. What kind of sacrifice? he thought.
You must kill one of the male members of your family. His blood must be shed as a sacrifice to the spirit animals before you can gain your full power.
The shadow man faded into the cerulean shadows, which melted together, blurring until the man’s image disappeared into the twilight. But his voice echoed inside Jace’s head. This is your fate, Jace McCannon. Embrace your abilities and you will conquer your enemies.
* * * FRANKIE’S HEART POUNDED in her chest, and all her fur stood on end. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.
A loud howl of pain tore from her throat.
David’s gaze snapped toward her. “Frankie, are you okay? Frankie?”
His words barely registered in her mind.
Focusing on the symbol glowing between Jace’s shoulder blades, she found herself back there again.
The smell of blood permeated the house, and the stench hit Frankie’s nose with the force of a freight train. She ran up the stairs and bolted into her parents’ bedroom.
There was blood everywhere. So much blood.
The red liquid had splattered across the walls. Frankie dropped to her knees and screamed. Her mother and father lay across their mattress, their bodies limp and tangled in the bedsheets, which were stained garnet from their blood. Their throats... Someone had slit their throats.
Faintly, she heard the sounds of sirens in the distance. Hot tears poured down her face, but her vision didn’t blur. Rocking back and forth on her knees, she wrapped her arms around her body and tried to hold herself together. The only sound she heard was her screams, and even when she closed her eyes, the only thing she saw was their dead bodies.
All she could see was the way her mother’s arm dangled off the side of the bed, her eyes wide open and her other arm reaching for Frankie’s father. Her father hadn’t seen it coming. He lay propped on his side, his face staring at the ceiling as if he’d only seen his attacker seconds before his death.
A loud sob tore from her throat as she found herself hoping they’d died quickly, without feeling the pain.
Frankie was too engulfed in her shock and mourning that night to take in the whole scene. She’d been paralyzed with grief. Her parents, their blood and their bodies were all she could remember, and she cursed herself every day for it, for not being able to recall more details for the authorities.
But how many times had she seen the police photos? The pictures of the blood smeared on the walls by human hands. No, not human, someone subhuman and sadistic.
Her eyes refocused, and she stared at the symbol on the skin of the man she loved. The same symbol painted on the wall by her parents’ killer.
* * * JACE WAS WRENCHED back into reality with a gasp. He toppled forward, his torso hitting the platform. A
