Rived ©

Chapter One

NOTE: Raven is the prequel to Rived, however, this book can be read first if you so choose. :)

December, 2019

Powerful gusts of wind pummel my ashen fur with frigid tufts of snow. The flurry of icy gale amidst the dark is so forceful, it reaches all the way to my thick undercoat and chills me to my core. Even when I shake the powder and ice from my topcoat, it's quickly replaced by another inch of frozen fluff. I can't stay out here much longer when conditions are like this. As much as I'd like to remain outside, I need to head back for shelter. I must wait out the bad weather or risk dying from hypothermia.

The frozen tundra crunches underneath the rough padding of my paws as I trot through the whiteout with a purpose. Even though it's only around 4:30 PM, the sun has fallen from the sky and any residual moonlight has been swallowed up by the icy tempest. Every paw print left behind is quickly filled in by more snow. I can't see more than a few feet in front of me or utilize my sense of smell in the wind, but I don't need to. I've spent over a year carving out this land with my feet and scouring the skies with my wings, so I know my position. I only need to head east for five miles in order to reach shelter.

It's been over two weeks since the last time I was at the cabin. That's a little longer than usual. I spend about half my time perusing the vast Icelandic terrain as a wolf or soaring though the sky as a hefty Gyrfalcon. I elect to live off the land by hunting small prey to maintain solitude. Isolation is what I desperately sought out over a year ago, so what better place to inhabit than a vastly undeveloped island with a population of less than four hundred thousand. Even then, I avoid cities like the plague, so crossing paths with people is very sparse. Come to think of it, I've really only interacted with one person in the past year and that was completely by chance. If I'd been lucid when he found me, I probably would have ripped his head clean off his fucking shoulders. Or tried to, anyway.

Since I left Washington, my nerves have been hovering in the caustic range. Separating from Reid, my corrupt mate, hasn't done my sanity any favors. The last time I saw him, we made love and bonded while we were doused head to toe in the blood of others. It was a messy way to initiate the mating bond between us and was just as chaotic as our entire dysfunctional relationship. After I learned the truth about him and what he's done, I became a crumbling, angry, emotional mess, just as I knew I would. That's why it's easy to utilize my shapeshifter abilities and forgo living as a human. As a non-mammalian creature, my dreams aren't as disturbing, and my brain gives the illusion that pain is more manageable. When I stay shifted as an animal, it's easier to corral my unpredictability and outbursts are sparse.

When I'm human, my emotions often get the better of me. I'm constantly hanging by a fine thread of stability and the slightest trigger will cut that cord right in half. My mind loses all control and my bodily instincts take over; shifting, attacking, destroying, and wreaking havoc on everything around me. Nightmares paint a sickening, warped picture behind my eyelids every time I sleep. My demented subconscious loves to remind me that this is a consequence of my actions.

During human sleep, I often find myself locked away in a gruesome purgatory. I'm running through the woods with my brother's ghost, only he's not a ghost. He's alive. We sprint until our lungs burn from strain and the snarls of ruthless werewolves tear through a scarlet sky. When we reach the clearing, I panic. The atmosphere is congested with moisture and bathed in blood red moonlight; something's not right.

"You have to go, Raven," my brother Alex sternly barks. I shake my head, desperate to ignore his demand. And in my stalling, a marbled black and white wolf I know far too well lunges from the forest and pins him to the ground. I want to help, but my feet are sinking into the grass like quicksand. The wolf rips out his jugular and tears into the soft flesh of his neck like a hot knife through butter. I scream and cry, but no sounds come out of my mouth. I've been rendered helpless and silent. Alex's lungs gurgle with blood and sanguine speckles blanket his glassy green eyes. Those eyes stare at me with emptiness. They've been stripped of soul and life; they are nothing.