by Lish McBride
The soft crinkle of a leaf gave her brothers away. They flanked her without a word, matching her pace as she flew along the stream. Sayer and Roarke ran a little behind, though the dark-haired Sayer soon pulled up on her left. She had always enjoyed their quiet strength and the way they seemed to be able to communicate more in their silence than most people could with their words. The twins were like a buttress to her, holding her straining self above the darkness.
Sean stayed on her right, but it was strange to see him quiet. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him as they ran. His mouth held a straight and stubborn line. She didn’t realize how much she’d counted on his easy smile over the years until she saw that grim expression on his face. His eyes were dark, and he hadn’t shaved. She realized that what was disturbing her most wasn’t Sean’s lack of levity, but the reflection of herself that she was seeing in him. Her hair might be longer, her features more delicate, but that same determined look of grief was there.
As one, they turned away from the stream and started to head deeper into the forest. She didn’t know how long she’d been running or how much longer she would have continued if Bran hadn’t stepped out from under one of the bigger pines. She wished she could keep going. Run until she hit the ocean. Then she would lope across the waves until she hit more land or sank trying.
But with Bran came the reminder of responsibility. She had to think beyond herself and past her grief. She was the taoiseach now. It was her duty.
Bran started to say something but stopped and shook his head, choosing to pull her into his arms instead. Since he was normally serious, Bran was the only one who didn’t seem completely ravaged by the loss of their father. This didn’t mean he didn’t feel the same way, only that he held his grief tight to him, a solitary pain. Her older brother wasn’t very demonstrative, especially for a were. Still, whenever Bran handed out one of these rare offerings, she remembered how comforting they were. An enveloping anchor of warmth, making her feel small and loved, reminding her of soothing moments after skinned knees and heartbreaks. Bran had done his best to fill in for their missing parent when their mother had passed. Now he was going to have to fill in for two. She squeezed him tight. Bran let her get what she needed, and for that she was grateful.
When she finally eased away slightly, he said, “Have you finished your run?”
“Never,” she said.
He nodded, understanding. They all did. Wolves were patient creatures for the most part, but they preferred running, given the choice. “The rest of the Council is here.”
“I don’t know what they’re going to find,” she murmured. “We looked already.”
“We looked as weres. Now they will look with their own eyes. It can’t hurt.”
Just the idea of seeing Sam again was painful. Earlier had been bad, but this would be worse. She’d have to stand apart from him here. No reassuring herself that he wasn’t really gone. With her pack around her, she had to remember she’d said good-bye.
“It can always hurt,” she said.
Her brother leaned back and arched his eyebrows at her. “I know you feel raw, and I know the pack is begging for swift retribution. But you must remember that you are taoiseach, not them. You’re the leader, and they are to follow what you decide, not the other way around. Don’t let your emotions sway you. The pack doesn’t need you armed with a torch and pitchfork screaming for vengeance.”
“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard Bran say in one go, so you better listen,” Sean said. Bran reached out and cuffed him.
“It’s absurd that they think Sam has something to do with it. He’s about as bloodthirsty as a bunny rabbit,” Sayer said from his perch behind her.
Sean snorted. “It’s completely ridiculous.”
Brid turned her head so she could look at him. “Is it?”
“Yeah, it is, and I can’t believe you’re listening to their crap. You know better,” Sean growled.
Brid jerked back, shocked. Sean had never reprimanded her. Not ever. It stung. The pain might be less, she supposed, if her brother wasn’t dead-on.
“You’re right,” she said, “I guess.” She stumbled over the words. “I’m just angry, and Sam is, well, he’s … a convenient target.” And it was so much easier to be angry than heartsick. “So many of the pack are screaming for blood. There’s a lot of fingers pointing in his direction right now, and I can’t say that I totally fault their reasoning.”
Bran kissed the top of her head, ignoring the sweat. “Wolves are vilified for taking down a lamb, but the wolf doesn’t know it’s poaching. He just knows the grumble of his stomach and the whine of hungry pups. You can’t get mad at the wolf for being a wolf.”
“What are you saying?”
“Sam can’t help what he is, so it’s not fair to hold it against him.”
“Life’s not fair,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “If it was, Dad would be here.”
Bran loosened his hold and stepped back, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes on hers. “Our people are frightened and scared and focusing on the first culprit they can. Fear, left unchecked, can spread like a virus. You need to stop it and stop it now. Address their doubts, make a show of looking into Sam—doing your due diligence—but don’t let your imagination run off with theirs. There is no proof that he did anything to our father. When farmers fear for their livestock, they take down every wolf indiscriminately—don’t let the pack do that. Maybe someone like Sam did this, but not Sam.”
Sean softened next to her. “Sam couldn’t have done this, Brid. He can’t even kill a bird when he’s supposed to. He’s still bothered by what he did to Douglas, even though the rat bastard tried to kill him. And he liked Dad, you know that.”
“I know,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. Not anymore. “But it doesn’t look good for him. What is a necromancer who can’t speak to the dead?” Being mad at Sam was so easy. A convenient outlet, yes, but that anger masked other things, like her fear, because if she wasn’t mad at Sam, then she was afraid for him. Brid didn’t like being afraid.
Bran squeezed her shoulders. “What good is a taoiseach who does not lead?” He used his thumb to brush away a tear, letting her know that her seconds-old promise to herself had already been broken. “Give him another chance,” Bran said softly. “Let one of the complainers watch over Sam and the Council with us. It will be the quickest way to show the others that you aren’t ignoring them, but you aren’t in the grip of their fear, either.”
“You should have been Alpha,” she mumbled.
“I am your adviser, which is exactly what I should be, and nothing else.” He pulled her back toward the house, one arm around her shoulders. The rest of her brothers followed, a comforting weight at her back.
16
I REMEMBER YOU
Douglas ran one hand over a stack of CDs and the other over a row of vinyl. It had to be in here somewhere. He often moved it around, trying not to keep it in one place too long, and he was sure the last place had been the music library inside the duck figurine.
Minion looked into the fragile belly of the duck for the third time. “It’s still not here, Master.” He shook his head in a slow, confused fashion. “Strange things are afoot at the Circle K.”
Douglas wondered—again—if calling Minion had been the best idea. He closed his eyes and looked out into the room, searching with his powers. He didn’t have all day, either. Sam would come back eventually. The various security measures had ignored him, either because they weren’t set against Douglas—and why would they be since he was supposed to be dead?—or because they weren’t meant to keep out spirits. Or zombies. Minion had snuck in without any problem at all, and Douglas hadn’t slipped the coin around his neck until he’d shut the library door. He was corporeal enough without the coin to manage getting it on, but it took a concentrated effort.
So they had to search and get out before Sam came back from his Council duties. The boy would sense a ghost, s
urely. He grimaced. Of course with Sam, you never could tell.
He opened his eyes, his scan once again finding nothing. Frustrated, he flopped into his chair. Technically, he supposed, it wasn’t his chair anymore. The dead can’t own anything, and all of his belongings were in Sam’s ownership now. Douglas could petition the Council on the grounds that he wasn’t truly dead and get it back, but that would rather defeat his purposes. He could always buy a new chair.
He looked around the library. A feeling of regret filled him. When was the last time he’d felt anything like that? He couldn’t remember. Douglas hadn’t been prepared for how much he’d miss his house. His home or, really, if he was being totally honest, his sanctuary. This was where he should be, not some seedy cabin in the woods with no lab, no music library, no James, and only the idiot Minion for company.
“For heaven’s sake, Minion, put the duck down. Wherever it is, it’s not here.”
Minion carefully set the duck on the table. “What should I do, then? Would you like me to get you something?”
Douglas waved him away. “Keep looking, I guess, but leave me alone.”
He was not used to being at a loss. Usually, he was the gentleman with the plan. Every little detail cataloged and put in its place. But now he had no place, and the details were everywhere.
Where could it have gone? James would have mentioned Sam finding it. Maybe one of the others? There were simply too many unknown factors. For a second he was tempted to just kill them all. It would be so much simpler. But then all his plans would go to waste, and he couldn’t have that. You can’t rule a kingdom with no one in it.
Douglas closed his eyes and drifted. He was in a field. Somewhere in the South. He couldn’t remember where. They moved around a lot when he was young and still training. But the air was hot and sticky in a way he wasn’t used to, he remembered that. He was … what? Ten? Twelve? So long ago, he could only register it as young.
Shiyomi and Auntie Lynn were across from him. Shiyomi was his age, a tiny girl they had purchased somewhere. He didn’t know before then that you could buy people, and though he’d never seen anything so gauche as money changing hands over the deal, he understood that they owned her now.
She was petite, like a bird. He wondered at her, her black hair, shiny in any light. Her skin was a little darker than his—tan and soft looking. Often, he found himself wanting to reach out and touch her. To see if her skin was as soft as it appeared. Shiyomi didn’t smile much and said even less. She’d broken down to the power of the fates long ago. All the fight was gone. They had a lot in common.
After she’d traveled with them for weeks, he found himself taking care of her. Making sure she ate, brushing her long hair and tying it with ribbons. She was his responsibility now, and he found himself enjoying his task. But he really hadn’t understood her purpose.
He’d helped her pack that morning, filling the small bag that came with her. There wasn’t much: a change or two of clothes, a hairbrush, a tired-looking cloth doll. And the egg. That was a newer purchase. Douglas had caught her eyeing it—where had they been? The East Coast? He didn’t remember where, only that the store had been enveloped in the smell of dust and incense. The jade egg was tiny, not much bigger than a quail’s egg. Beautifully carved cherry blossoms trailed down the sides, swept up in an imaginary wind. He’d picked it up then, felt the cold of it in his palm.
He held it out to her.
At first, she didn’t move. With his palm slightly cupped, he moved it closer to her. Hesitantly, she reached out for it. She smiled at him, and it made something in his chest loosen. He smiled back. Then he used his pocket money to buy it for her.
They’d become friends after that. Never really speaking—her English was either poor or nonexistent—but enjoying the silence together. Sometimes, when she was really scared, she’d hold his hand. Feeling her frail hand in his made him realize how much he missed touching another human being. Auntie Lynn wasn’t the comforting type.
And in Shiyomi’s other hand, the one he wasn’t holding, was always the jade egg.
But that morning in the field, she’d had only the egg. Douglas was across from her, too far to reach. Auntie Lynn had her hand resting on the girl’s shoulder. A sluggish wind was pushing at his aunt’s hat and curling Shiyomi’s skirt around her calves. Wind does not discriminate—it touches everyone, everything. He liked that about wind.
In his hand, the one that was now used to holding Shiyomi’s, was his aunt’s spare ritual dagger, her athame. He should have known or understood as soon as he’d stepped out onto the field and felt it. Old death. This was all overgrown grass now, but it had once been a burial ground—he knew that as soon as his feet hit the soil.
Auntie Lynn held Shiyomi. His friend wouldn’t look at him, but she didn’t shake or stare at him accusingly. Like him, she’d been broken and given herself over to the quiet space where no fight remained. Or not like him. Where he’d thought there was nothing, a small spark stood up and weighted his arms, his feet, his heart. He couldn’t move, and his aunt was getting angry.
“What did you think she was for? A living doll for your amusement? She is as much a part of the ritual as the knife in your hand, and just as replaceable.” She laughed then. Auntie Lynn’s laugh was joyless and unpleasant, sickly as winter grass. He wouldn’t move, and he wouldn’t cry, but he couldn’t stop that laugh from crawling inside him and squatting.
The laughter died when he continued not to move. She pursed her lips and stared at him. Not angry. You have to have passion to be angry, and Auntie Lynn was a cold, calculating thing. She sized him up and cocked her head. Then, quick as a snakebite, she had her own athame out and had drawn it across the girl’s throat. A thin shallow line blossomed on that fragile skin before Auntie Lynn released her and let her crumple to the ground. Then she cleaned the knife off on Shiyomi’s faded dress.
“Because of you, her death will be without purpose. We will raise nothing today. I do hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
Then she turned and went back to the car.
Douglas was left standing, his knife still in his fist. He walked over to the girl, leaned down, and brushed back her hair. Shiyomi, his Shiyomi. He held her hand and said nothing. It took her a while to die. Auntie Lynn had left the cut shallow. Had Douglas done it himself, her death would have been much quicker. Still, he stayed squatting until he felt her life leave. And he cried.
It was the last time he would ever do so.
When it was done, he closed her eyes, and he took the egg from her loose grasp. He asked the earth to open, to take what was hers. He couldn’t leave Shiyomi to the scavengers, so he tucked her into the soil as he had tucked her into bed so many times. Under his breath, he sang an old song—an almost-forgotten lullaby his mother used to sing. When he was done, only the empty field could be seen. He hoped that, in the summer, flowers would grow there. But that was beyond his control. Douglas couldn’t create life and make things blossom. He only had power over the withered things.
Sticking the egg into his pocket, he walked slowly back to the car. Auntie Lynn sat unconcerned, cold and waiting, behind the wheel.
The next time he got a girl, he did the cut himself. No one cried, and Auntie Lynn took him to dinner afterward. She’d been proud of him. He cut his steak into little bites and felt nothing. The spark was gone.
*
Douglas came to with a start—Minion was leaning over him, concerned and confused. Had he been sleeping? Could he even sleep now? He didn’t know. But it was time to leave. Time to return to his cabin. The egg wasn’t here. It must be somewhere else in the house, but he couldn’t look for it now. He’d have to be patient and come back another day.
Minion held up a random CD. “How come you don’t have any of mine?”
“I like myself a little too much for that.”
“Oh,” he said. “Okay. We’re leaving now?”
Douglas nodded. Yes, they were leaving now.
17
HELLO, IS IT ME YOU’RE LOOKING FOR?
After the meeting and a couple of phone calls, we all left the Tongue & Buckle and headed over to the Den, except for Brid, who’d left early to prepare the pack. We carpooled, making us the oddest entourage in the history of the planet.
It was hard, standing in that clearing, knowing that was the last place Brannoc had been. Everyone from the Council, as well as many unhappy pack members, watched me as I stood there, which made it even harder. Now that we were all here, I wasn’t sure what to do. Ramon stood off to the side with Dessa. He’d talked me into letting him swing by and pick her up. She was a seer like her mom, though I didn’t think she was nearly as sensitive, which would be a good thing in such a charged area. Her mom might be overwhelmed. I’d argued at first, despite this, but Ramon felt she would bring something sorely needed to the table, and I ended up agreeing. So it was all hands on deck.
Some of the wolves weren’t friendly. I could feel their animosity from here. Well, standing and doing nothing wasn’t getting me anywhere. Everyone else was moving. Ariana was walking through the field slowly, touching the occasional patch of grass. Pello was off to the side, talking to a tree. Hopefully, the tree was talking back and Pello wasn’t crazy. Ione was muttering to herself in what I also hoped was a constructive manner. Aengus and Dunaway were talking to Bran, Brid, and the rest of her brothers. The weres appeared shell-shocked. Sean, especially, since I wasn’t used to his face looking so sober.
James stood near me, his arms behind his back, looking very unconcerned. I knew him well enough to know it was an act. He was keeping too close an eye on the pack to really be that nonchalant. True, it was his duty to watch over me, but I liked to think there was some genuine concern there.
Kell stood off to the side, analyzing the crowd as much as the scene. I’d been surprised when he joined us. I kept expecting to see him burst into flames or collapse into ash, or whatever happened to vampires when they encountered sunlight. Instead he stood, somewhat anticlimactically, under a strangely masculine parasol.