The room was instantly silent.
“Am I the only one freaking out it—the bone—has a name?” Anders asked.
“No,” Dante agreed.
“Argentina?” Jessa looked up from her place on the floor. Oscar was busy stacking blocks and Diana watching him from her bouncy seat.
“Go on, please,” Finn sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“He was born around fifteen sixteen, the seventh son of a seventh son. There is a myth that probably evolved from his family—or some earlier relative. Under a blood moon he fell victim to bloodlust and killed every member of his family.”
Finn’s jaw locked. He was infected under a blood moon and attacked them. It was a miracle he hadn’t killed them all. Or, as Ellen put it, maybe it was fate.
“He was devastated. The village assumed he’d been dragged off by whatever had killed his family, so he ran, hiding until he’d learned to control his wolf and his ability to shift. Then he went where he was needed.”
“Needed?” Mal asked.
“Call it survivor’s remorse. Even guilt. So many wars were fought since the fifteen hundreds. He championed the weak with everything he had and moved on. Always moving.” She turned to face the map. “Portugal. Spain. Italy. Rome. Then America. America was undiscovered and wild. The Revolution, the Civil War, then west into Indian Territory and met a woman.”
“Of course, he did.” Dante sighed. “So there are other offspring from Pascual?”
“No, he met her after she was married. Her husband beat her, but being a woman of faith, she wouldn’t leave him. He stayed, alone and hidden, to protect her. When her husband saw her speaking to Pascual, he went into a rage and murdered her. Pascual killed him. The woman’s young son stabbed Pascual with his father’s bayonet—silver—and he crawled off to die.”
“He was a good man.” Jessa took Finn’s hand.
Ellen nodded. “A noble wolf. There are still Oteroes left in Argentina.”
Finn looked at her. “Wolves?”
“I’ve searched every way imaginable and keep coming up empty. If they are, they’ve learned how to cover their tracks.” Hollis shrugged. “The myth could have been created to hide their very real existence.”
Finn sat back, his gaze distant.
“Are we going to Argentina?” Jessa asked.
Finn smiled, kissing her knuckles. “Maybe someday. Not while they’re young. Not until after you’ve been turned. Thank you, Ellen, for giving the pack a heritage they can be proud of.”
She nodded. After the pack had peppered her with questions, taken the map off the wall to track the places Pascual Otero had traveled, and read through the entire myth of the seventh son of a seventh son, Hollis had enough.
She was trying hard to hide it, but she was tired.
He crept up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and cradled her belly. “You’re amazing.”
She leaned against him with a groan. “I am,” she agreed.
He kissed her temple. “Enough about Pascual for today.”
She turned. “What do you have in mind?”
“I want to hear more about you, Ellena Vasiliev. And your pack.”
“You do?” She turned to face him, smiling widely.
“I do.” He kissed her, a whisper of a kiss.
They’d started reading the leather book a month ago, not long after the fire. Every evening, the words of her ancestors pulled him into a past he’d never imagined. He admired her scribes, their attention to detail had left a wealth of knowledge for those that followed. Lists of names, places of birth, parents, birthdays, and dates of death. Each had their own narrative. Some included only facts and figures, others included everything from herbal medicine recipes, routes traveled through specific mountain ranges, rites and ceremonies from the old country, to personal observations and anecdotes.
Interesting as it was, some notes mattered more than others to Hollis.