by Woods, Erica
And then I was drowning.
Drowning in the scent of fear.
Drowning in the thrill of the chase.
Drowning in the millions of new impressions bombarding me from all sides.
When I came to, everything was back to normal, but nothing would ever be the same. Curled on top of my little brother’s broken body at the bottom of the stairs, useless, despairing cries ripped up my throat and fell around us like bitter tears.
No one had to tell me he was gone. I knew. The spark that had once lit up his sky-blue eyes with humor and warmth and love was gone and his body had grown cold.
I killed him. He loved me, trusted me, and I killed him I killed him I killed him I killed him!
Sobs burst from my chest like gaping wounds. He couldn’t be gone. He just couldn’t.
I pressed my ear against the place right above his heart, knowing the steady beat had been silenced forever but hoping with everything I was that I was wrong, that every instinct howling in grief was mistaken.
But there was nothing. Nothing but a dead hush and skin that should be warm but wasn’t.
The sound of the front door opening behind me barely registered. The tormented shriek rising in the air might as well have come from me. I didn’t notice another person until my mother’s hand squeezed my arm in a punishing grip, and her voice screamed in my ear, “What have you done?! You evil little monster, what have you done?!”
My voice was unnervingly steady while I told the story. It never broke, never wavered, and though my face was wet and my eyes burned, the grief shredding my heart never made a sound.
I felt it, though. Laying stone after stone on top of my chest until I couldn’t breathe, until I was being crushed, until I was dying.
Once there was no more heart to shred, it moved down to my lungs. Then my stomach. It demolished everything, ate everything, destroyed everything. Until I was hollow. Hollow, but heavy. Nothing, but still there. Sick to my stomach with grief laden poison that wouldn’t, couldn’t be purged.
When I finished, when I’d relived the memory for the first time since the day it happened, felt every emotion, every sensation with brutal clarity, the guys all wore similar expressions of rage and disgust, and I knew . . .
I’d lost them.
You evil little monster.
You evil little monster.
You evil little monster.
What had I done?
67
Ash
The shackles containing my beast groaned. Creaked. Threatened to break.
I forced a breath. Then another. And another still.
Breath. Spirit. Body. Where one is calm, the others will follow.
But each inhale carried her scent. Each thought echoed with the words of her dam. Each heartbeat bled for all she had endured, all she still endured with the quiet grace of one who held the world blameless despite all the cause she had to rage against its cruel injustice.
“Your dam said what?”
Ruarc’s roar shattered my concentration and broke the lethal silence that had descended with the end of Hope’s retelling. She startled, but she never lost the devastating expression of acceptance that should never have crossed her face. Acceptance, not of her past, not of the monster she spoke of, but of what she believed would be our imminent rejection.
This time, it was not shackles that creaked but my spine, wanting to burst from my back in mighty spikes of wrath and vengeance.
Find the dam . . . A cold, cold whisper through my mind. Find her, and destroy her the way she destroyed her pup.
“That’s . . . that wasn’t really the point of the story,” Hope stuttered, and the creak turned into a snap that became a silent roar.
“What is her name, sweet one?” Words that would have never made it past my guard had my control not been frayed formed in my mouth, leaving behind the taste of fire and ash. “Tell us, and she will meet her end at the edge of our claws.”
Our little bird paled, and that, coupled with her wide, wary eyes, charred the edges of my vision.
I breathed, slow and quiet, pictured my mother’s dark stare. Even as she mourned my father, she had been adamant I not follow in his footsteps. Hours and hours had been spent recounting his every mistake; learning what he had refused, remembering what he had forgotten.
I emptied my mind, allowed each breath to fill all corners of my being, and turned my eyes inward. We clashed, the beast and I, locked in a silent battle where only one could emerge victorious.
You are not in charge, I told it, reminding him who I was. What I was. The part of me that was not fully human, not fully wolf; the part that ruled our bodies and made us one . . . That part was alpha. Forged by flames and screams and death, hardened by centuries of training and a will that had been tested until it resembled the iron shackles of old—the only shackles to ever hold a full-born fae. That was the part I called on, and that was the part the beast respected.
Its eyes flashed blue, gold, a ghost of two shapes wavering together until one retreated, leaving only the scent of earth and forest and pack behind.
“I am sorry, banajaanh,” I said when I could speak and be sure my voice was the only one that would be heard. “I did not mean to frighten you. Your dam . . .” I held her gaze, tried to see past her pain, her shame, her despair, to the wound that should have been healed years ago. “What your dam said was unforgivable. I cannot imagine any she-wolf who would condone such speech.” For those words . . . those words were a knife that had impaled our little bird’s fragile heart and stunted its growth. Not her capabilities to love others—our Hope had that in abundance—but her ability to love herself. To forgive herself. To learn, as all children do, that while some mistakes can change the course of a life, they are also a part of it. No wound, no matter how deep, was meant to be open and aching forever.
“I . . .” As though hunting for proof of the rejection she had been expecting and not understanding its lack, she stared. And stared.
The predator pushing against my skin responded to the challenge of her gaze with the need to subdue, to conquer and claim. But my response was one of fierce pride. My female would always be able to meet my gaze. She was strong enough, and even had she not been, I would have allowed it for the simple reason that she was mine. My equal in every way—except those where she exceeded me.
She trembled. “That . . . but I—”
“But nothing,” Ruarc snarled. “Had your first experience as . . .” He jerked his chin, stared down at the grief-worn female huddled in his lap. “Whatever supe you are. And she condemned you for it.”
“S-supe?”
“Supernatural, love,” Jason explained. “What you described . . . it sounded an awful lot like a first shift.”
It did. Her story was eerily similar to that of my first shift. Had not so many things told a different story, it would have convinced me she was like us. Wolf.
Be sure . . .
As I had done a million times before, I let her scent wash over me while recalling everything. No supernatural being had ever been able to disguise their scent as human. Not without magic, and magic came with its own costs and limitations. But though her human scent was inexplicable, it was her lack of shift, lack of animal form through her entire adulthood, through all the full moons, that convinced me she was something else.
Something we did not have a name for. Something we did not recognize.
Even halflings shift on the full moon.
Not a lycan then, but another form of halfling. One that had no scent, who hid in plain sight, who seemed all too human to be anything but.
And yet . . .
“I’m not . . . I’m not a supe.”
“You smell human,” I admitted. “But the Hunters do not target their own. It seems you may be some kind of . . . halfling.”
“None of that matters.” Her voice was steady but her gaze was averted. “Like my mother said, I’m a monster. I . . . I wouldn’t have done what I did otherwise.”
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I forced my hands to lie still upon her knee, to not clench or stiffen or otherwise give life to the anger burning like flames in my throat. Our Hope was no monster, but there was darkness in her. Guilt grown out of all proportion. Shame that stained the soul and left scars and scorched flesh behind.
The pale arch of her neck that was forever bent; the beautiful, kind gaze that always seemed a little bruised; the hunched shoulders; the shaking hands; the swell of grief that had left its taste on her skin, its tremble in her voice, its mark upon her soul . . . All of it proof that the female who was as kind as she was sweet, as selfless as she was giving, as good as she was strong, believed herself inherently lacking.
“You are no monster,” Lucien snapped before anyone else could. “You were playing and your brother took an unfortunate spill down the stairs. It is tragic. It is terrible. It will always be sad. But . . .” He drew in a deep breath and gave her such a hard look that she could not help but hold his gaze. “It will never, never, be your fault.”
68
Hope
Lucien’s harsh tone, his absolute conviction that I wasn’t to blame . . . It wreaked havoc on my mind.
You evil little monster.
It will never be your fault.
Two distinct voices, two completely different narratives. My mother, someone meant to love and protect me, and Lucien, a man who never saw the best in people and always found their flaws.
And me.
My guilt. My shame. My throbbing conscience.
A niggle of doubt sprouted and was quickly squashed.
I couldn’t linger on the thought, didn’t have the strength to dwell. If I did, I would be forced to re-examine everything. Every choice, every scar, every thought after that fateful day. And that was not a task I had the strength for.
Not now. Not when there was still so much to tell.
“Can we . . .” At the small, fragile sound of my voice, I finally broke Lucien’s stare and looked down at the hands wringing themselves in my lap. “Can I continue? We can talk about that . . . that thing some other time.”
The stiff muscles pressing into my back didn’t ease, and though I felt him nod, I knew Ruarc was as furious as I’d feared he would be. But . . . the fury didn’t seem directed at me.
Tears filled my eyes and a mix of awe and love and blinding, terrifying hope filled my chest. They hadn’t turned away. None of them. Not even Lucien.
Their faith, their loyalty, their unwavering support . . . it gave me the strength I needed to continue.
“After . . . after he died—before his funeral—my mom packed my bags and brought me to the Hunter compound.”
Electric silence filled the small cabin. The hand on my thigh tightened until the faint, white scars Ruarc had never explained blended in with his white-knuckled grip.
The feeling of several pairs of eyes burning into me was nothing compared to the tension rising with each loud breath I expelled.
And then, before I had the courage to meet any of their stares, Ruarc erupted from his seat, storming past, and I toppled sideways into Jason.
Shards of glass exploded in the kitchen, accompanied by loud snarls and a roar that was so loud, so chilling in the agonized fury it carried, that I pressed my shivering body into Jason’s in search of comfort. But for the first time, he had no warmth to offer. He felt cold, his touch clammy when he gripped my hand. “Six,” he whispered. “Jesus Christ . . . Her own mother . . . The Hunters . . . Six years old!”
“I—”
“Where was your dad?” The question was hoarse, raw, like his vocal cords had been dragged across shards of glass and were now bleeding out.
“D-dead.”
Jason sucked in a sharp breath, face ashen, but before he could speak, Ash moved. He climbed to his feet as though he felt each century he’d lived like crushing weights around his neck, spine straightening one vertebra at a time, head tilting slowly, so very slowly until he captured me with a single look.
A storm raged there. It swelled, lashed at the air, devoured all light.
I couldn’t look away. I was trapped by that lethal darkness. Lost. Drowning. Then Ash yanked his gaze away and followed the sounds of destruction to the kitchen.
Ash’s usual soothing voice had been infected by that deadly storm. When he spoke to Ruarc, I could feel the tearing of that voice in every harsh exhale, every clipped word, every cut off sentence.
Shivers increasing, I darted a glance over at Lucien. He didn’t look back. Didn’t speak. Just sat with his head in his hands; silent and unmoving.
“J-Jason,” I whispered, but when I met his gaze, all my questions died.
No humor.
No warmth.
No Jason.
Just grief. Grief, and so many shadows I wanted to dive in and pull him out before they destroyed him.
He shook his head, blinked a few times, swallowed. “Sorry, love,” he said hoarsely. “You took us by surprise.”
“With w-what?” Before he could answer, I shot a nervous peek at the two males arguing in low, angry tones. “Are they okay? What do you think they’re talking about?”
“When to kill the bitch,” Lucien muttered.
“W-what?”
He lifted his head, cold, green eyes sweeping over me before his expression settled into an impassive mask. “There is no need to fret. Nothing will happen without your permission. Not yet, at least.”
“You’re . . . you’re not talking about my mother?” No matter what she’d done, I didn’t want her dead!
“Of course not,” Lucien said, tone devoid of emotion, before calling over his shoulder, “She’s getting upset.”
Ash stilled; Ruarc whipped around, stalking back to us with Ash following stiltedly behind.
“Sorry,” Ruarc gritted out through a granite-hard jaw and drew me into his side, squeezing me between him and Jason. A strange scent filled the room, bitter and angry with a tang of something furiously destructive. “What happened after?”
I fidgeted, bit my lip. “You . . . you weren’t discussing doing anything to my mother, were you?”
His jaw jutted out like he was eating something sour. “No.”
I relaxed.
“Wasn’t discussing anything.”
“Ruarc . . .” Ash warned before I could demand to know what the hell that was supposed to mean. Then he looked at me, midnight black pupils expanded and chasing away the blue fires of his irises. “What happened next?”
“I—But, my mother?”
“Safe,” Lucien said.
Was I being paranoid or was a ‘for now’ silently tacked on at the end?
“Okay . . .” I fiddled with my sweater. I’d thought after speaking about my brother, the next part would be easy but . . . talking about what had been done to me meant remembering, and there was a reason those memories had been locked away in coffins and buried beneath a mountain of dirt.
My heart gave a jerky thud and slammed against my chest.
“You’re safe, love,” Jason whispered in my ear. “We won’t judge you. We won’t think less of you. How could we?” He tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear and gazed down at me with an expression so raw it hurt. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”
Against my will, my gaze flitted over to Lucien.
He recoiled. “That is what you think?”
I tried to shake my head, but something in his expression kept me frozen.
Lucien’s hands clenched, knuckles turning white. “It is agony knowing you believe me capable of judging you for what you have been through, what you have endured.” A pained grimace contorted his features, the grim line of his mouth curled down at the corners. “But it is worse to know that I nurtured that fear. When you mentioned the Hunters . . . it caught me off guard. But I never meant to imply what you thought. The very notion of something that vile . . .” A hard swallow. “It is abhorrent to the very nature I have come to admire. To your kind heart and bright soul. And whi
le I cannot undo the damage I have wrought”—his eyes glowed—“know I will never use your past against you. Not even should you decide to betray us in the future.”
During his speech, I’d frozen. My limbs were stiff and inflexible, my toes curled against the floor, refusing to unbend. My chest ached, screamed, cried out with the need to throw myself into his arms, to offer love and forgiveness and anything else he might want. But another part—a wiser one, maybe—held back. I knew he meant these raw, bleeding words, knew he wanted to make amends. But earlier he’d promised he wouldn’t hurt me again, and he still had.
A breath hissed between clenched teeth, and the green glow of his eyes intensified. Reading the emotion behind it was impossible, and it hurt to look at, so I didn’t.
I couldn’t afford to be distracted. If my mind was pulled in any direction besides the past, I wouldn’t be able to answer their questions, and it was time they learned everything.
After . . . if they still wanted me; all the ugly that came with, all the scars, all the horror . . .
You evil little monster.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but my mother’s voice swelled, joined by another, one that was harsher, darker, and so cruel it stole my breath even as it only fired a single word . . .
Broken.
Not a taunt, not a lie, but the truth.
I was broken.
I could feel it, feel all the little pieces that used to be me scattered across the Hunter Compound. Some had been left in my cell, abandoned but not forgotten. Others occupied the cell across from me where Matthew had been tortured while I’d watched and said nothing. A good portion huddled in the basement, moaning and crying and gasping for breath on the table where my body had been picked apart and picked apart and picked apart.
But the quietest pieces, the ones I hurt for, that I desperately missed but never dared look for, those were the ones left at the bottom of the stairs of my old home.
Their loss would never stop aching.
“At first, it wasn’t so bad,” I told them, skipping straight past the bone crushing loneliness, the guilt, the strangled feelings of abandonment, betrayal, rejection. “I . . . I knew how to read, and they gave me books. And movies. Even some puzzles.” But never what I longed for.