by Alex Kidwell
Victor blinked at her in surprise. “Why? You clearly don’t like me. That’s completely understandable, but you hardly need to call me up every once in a while.”
“You have my memories.” She narrowed her eyes at Victor. One long, graceful finger nudged gently at his temple. “There are a lot of people that want to know what I know. Now that you have that information, you would be considered the easier access point for that knowledge.”
“Oh. Right, then.” Victor really didn’t like the sound of that, but there was nothing to be done about it. He couldn’t exactly purge the memories from his mind.
“And, Victor? Don’t go spreading around what you saw about the future.” With that, the Gray Lady left, her retreat as silent and regal as her appearance.
Unfortunately, she had just left Victor with yet more things to think about.
VICTOR SPENT two more days at the camp before he went home. The wolf children had been glad to hear the end of the story and sad to see him go. He’d gotten enthusiastic good-bye hugs from a few of the wolves, even though they barely knew him.
The pack needed the van far more than Victor did, so he enlisted the help of Mallory to drive him to the airport. The flight was awful, as usual, and Victor spent the whole time drinking as much red wine as he could to be able to deal with the turbulence. No more drinking to excess was a wonderful thought, when both of his feet were on the ground. Horrid flights demanded alcohol. Baggage was a nightmare, though at least getting a taxi didn’t require too much waiting.
He arrived home with much relief.
Victor lived two blocks from the college he taught at. The area was the nicest in the city, full of old mansions and modern townhouses. Victor’s house wasn’t a house. It was a two-wing mansion complete with gardens, a groundskeeper’s house at the far edge of the lawn, and tasteful dark wood mixed with light stone.
The house had been in his father’s family for six generations now. It was stuffy and drab, dusty in corners Victor never bothered to go into, with floors that creaked and groaned from age. He’d hated coming here on holidays from boarding school, and he had hated it even more when it was passed down to him after his parents’ passing.
What was he supposed to do with all this room? Even when his grandmother had been alive, the place had hardly been filled with light or cheer. No, it was stodgy with Rathbone tradition seeped into every plank and board. They’d visited here once a year while Victor had been growing up. When he’d been off to school, his grandmother had passed, his grandfather had slowly curled in on himself as the madness took hold, and his parents had moved overseas to care for them.
Then the house had been the thing looming during every break. He’d sat in the library and read; he’d haunted the rooms, promising himself he’d never be stuck there.
And yet, here he was. The last of the Rathbones in the great, rattling Rathbone manor.
To be honest, he still loathed the place, though not quite as passionately. These days he just hated that he only regularly used about five rooms when there were forty-one of the damn things, and he had to bring in maids every month to keep it in shape.
The rooms he didn’t use were mostly kept closed off, the furniture covered in protective sheets. The paintings were similarly covered, and all the antiques were locked away in dust-proof cabinets. Every day, Victor walked down the hallway that was filled with portraits of his family line, and every day he winced at the fact that he would be the last of the bloodline. He had no interest in having biological children. More to the point, the opposite sex held no appeal for him at all.
But now, as he walked through the empty halls and looked into long-disused rooms, Victor began seeing use in them.
He had offered the Lewises a place to stay. It was close to the best hospital in the state, and it would mean they wouldn’t have to worry about household bills. Victor looked at a room that overlooked the gardens, the lawn stretching to a small wooded area at the base of the hills, and thought that Edwin would like this space. He poked around a room with high ceilings and a worktable that had once been used for carving wooden sculptures. Perhaps Anthony would like this one, given how much he liked working with his hands.
He saw the potential for Randall to fit into his own room. Victor didn’t even use half the cupboard space; there was more than enough room for Randall. Victor thought he might like the antique furnishings and the small shelf of books Victor kept close at hand.
Victor sat on the edge of his bed and wondered if he should invite the Lewises once more. Randall hadn’t reacted well to it, and in retrospect Victor could see how a wolf would understand that offer, especially a wolf who was trying to adjust to becoming the head of the family amidst his brother’s illness.
Even as he thought that, he walked into the next room and started taking the sheets off the furniture. Victor retreated at the clouds of dust he brought up, sneezing violently and cursing himself for forgetting to call the maids in while he’d been away.
He retreated into his bedroom, scowling and rubbing his nose. Victor typically kept his room tidy, but there were a few photographs scattered over the top of a chest of drawers that caught his eye. They were photos he’d taken in Cairo. He’d gotten physical copies printed of some, since he preferred it that way, and he hadn’t really looked at them since he’d picked them up in the tiny Cairo photo shop. Most of them were just images of the sights Victor had seen, the pyramids, the streets around the hotel.
One of them was of David.
Victor carefully picked up the photo. He had asked David if he could take a photograph of him staring directly into the camera lens—David had snorted a bit and called him daft, but he had done it. Later, Victor had looked at the photo on his camera screen, finally able to gaze into someone’s eyes without fearing for his sanity.
He looked at it again now, studying the deep brown of David’s eyes. And he was surprised to feel only the smallest twinges of emotion. Victor still missed David, but somewhere along the line he’d stopped wanting to be with someone like him. He just missed him because he honestly liked him and wanted to remain in touch. The last he’d heard of David, unfortunately, he was off in parts unknown. He hoped David was safe.
His and David’s relationship had ultimately been too destructive for both of them. David had been addicted, and Victor had only made that addiction worse. Now Victor understood why he had been stuck in the cycle of self-destruction so strongly after David was gone.
Victor smiled faintly as he smoothed a finger over the photo. Now that he understood, he could overcome. It was time to put David’s memories aside as best he could and move David himself into the category of friend more than ex. He opened the top drawer and put the photos on top of scattered old Christmas cards and other photos. Memories, all of them, that he now had to put in the past so he could focus on the present.
He wanted to help the Lewises. He wanted to be with Randall.
And maybe, if he was lucky, he could show Randall he could be a good partner.
Chapter 18
Randall
IN THE month since they’d come home, Randall really would have thought things would be… easier, somehow. That he would have figured out some kind of routine or solution. He’d gotten two jobs fairly quickly, working days at the library shelving books and evenings bagging groceries at the local supermarket. Edwin swept floors with a janitorial service at night, and, together, they were trying desperately to make ends meet.
It just wasn’t working.
Anthony had tried to go back to his job as a mechanic. Before his illness, that was what his trade had been, and he’d been confident he could do it again in between treatments. Except he’d been let go after a week because he kept dropping equipment. He simply didn’t have the strength in his hands anymore to work long days. Randall had shrugged it off. Edwin had gone out during the times when Anthony was napping to find cans and recyclables to turn in for cash. They told Anthony they could easily make up the wages. It was a l
ie. Randall was pretty sure they all knew that, but they smiled and nodded anyway.
Exhausted, Randall pulled up to the cabin, still wearing the stupid green apron from the grocery store. He hated it. He hated that he wore a name badge, he hated that it was mindless, brainless work and yet when he got home, he was so tired he could barely function, much less read. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything except work and take care of Anthony.
Most of all, though, Randall hated that he hated it. Anthony had given up his entire life, his whole childhood, to take care of them. To even have a moment of resentment seemed so selfish, Randall didn’t want to think about it.
He plodded up the steps, rifling through the mail he’d picked up in town. Bills. A lot of them. Inside the cabin, he could hear Edwin and Anthony talking; he could smell dinner cooking. Sinking down to sit on the steps, Randall started opening the mail, reading them all by the porch light.
Past Due.
Final Notice.
Payment Needed.
A sour, sick feeling settled into Randall’s gut. He’d been hiding bills from Anthony for weeks now, scraping together every penny he could to pay for the treatment. Cedric had gotten them in to see a doctor who was friendly toward the nonhuman elements, but it wasn’t free, not by a long shot. And first there had been tests, so many tests that Randall had begun to think that they’d run out of names for them all and just started slapping together random letters of the alphabet. They’d only just begun the attempts at treatment, to see what Anthony would respond to.
So that meant the bills were piling up, for the tests and the maybe treatments, for medicine, for basics like gas and food. He wasn’t keeping up. Their savings—Randall’s savings, the carefully collected college money—were all but gone now. Working as hard as he ever had, and he was still failing.
Randall honestly didn’t know what else to do.
The moon was lighting the surrounding trees, the half-full flush of it tingeing everything in silver. The woods were lonely and quiet, almost shockingly still. From the smells coming from the kitchen, Randall assumed Edwin had spent his day out hunting. Randall hoped Anthony had joined him—spending some time out in the woods always lifted his spirits. It was grounding. Anthony was doing as much as he could around the house, but the treatments hadn’t taken much of an effect yet, and he got so tired, was in pain so much of the time.
Randall just wanted to do something right, to actually help his brothers. But so far, all he’d done was fail. He’d dragged them to the pack, only to find out that there was no real help there. He’d come home, only to not be able to support them. Anthony had done this as a kid, and here was Randall, unable to do the most basic job of caring for his pack.
He should go inside. There was no way Anthony and Edwin hadn’t heard him pull up. But Randall couldn’t make himself move. He just sat on the steps in his ugly green apron with the name tag declaring him Randal L, staring up at the sky, willing himself to think of something. To come up with a plan.
Nothing came to him.
Then something did. A scent on the wind—gunpowder, another wolf, and above all that, sinking deep into him, calling to him like an ache he couldn’t identify, old parchment and tea and dry snake scales. Randall raised his head, staring into the dark, heartbeat picking up despite himself. And then, around the corner, came the lights of a car, a Jeep pulling up in front of the cabin. The window was down, Redford’s head poking out with a smile, Knievel’s paws resting on the edge of the door.
“Hi, Randall,” Redford greeted as he stepped out of the car. In his hands was a huge casserole dish wrapped in cloth to insulate it. “I, um, hope it’s okay that we’re here. We probably should have called ahead.”
Randall stood, eyes going not to Redford or to Jed, who was getting out of the van, Knievel in his arms. No, it was to Victor, who had emerged from the back, looking… well, looking as he ever did. Cool and calm, utterly gorgeous, and out of reach. He reduced Randall, always, to a fumbling mess, like he was a teenager tripping over his own feet. “It’s fine,” he said faintly, all at once aware of how he was dressed, the deep bags under his eyes, the fact he was clutching a pile of bills. Not how he would have preferred to greet anyone, much less Victor. “Is something wrong?”
Redford and Jed looked like they wanted to answer, but they looked to Victor first. Then Redford shook his head. “No! But we’re going to go inside now and leave you with Victor,” he said, none too subtly. “Alone.”
Taking Jed’s arm, Redford hauled him inside, Knievel lightly leaping out of Jed’s arms and following close on their heels. As he passed Randall, Jed rubbed his hand through Randall’s hair with a grin. “Don’t worry, kid. We’ll keep your brothers occupied. Redford taught me how to make a pasta casserole, even. We’re your very own Martha Stewart distraction.” And then they went inside, the noise of the greetings muffled as the door swung shut behind them, leaving Randall standing on the porch, feeling completely stunned. He sank back down to the steps, wondering if this was some kind of dream. Nightmare, perhaps. All he’d need was to be naked with people laughing at him and it would be very close to some bad dreams he’d had.
Victor approached and eased down to sit beside Randall. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said in greeting.
Gaze locked on the papers in his hand, Randall carefully smoothed them out over his knee, trying to compose himself. “I….” What did he even say? “Yes,” he wound up agreeing, almost helplessly. “I guess it is.”
“I’d ask if you’re well, but I can see how exhausted you are,” Victor said. Randall saw his head turn, looking down at the envelopes in Randall’s hands. “Things aren’t getting better?”
Immediately tucking the bills into the front pocket of his apron, Randall shook his head, forcing a smile. “They’re fine. We’re doing just fine.” He lied, of course. What else was he supposed to do? Victor… he was like the fragment of a hope that simply didn’t exist anymore. It hurt to think about him, to wonder what-if. What if Anthony hadn’t been sick, what if they’d met earlier or later, what if Randall had the energy and the time to be able to actually make things work? Victor was on a course that Randall simply couldn’t follow. Knowing that and still seeing him, talking with him, was more painful than Randall could have anticipated.
“I want to do something to help.” Victor sounded frustrated with himself. “If I offer you once again a place to stay and to pay the medical bills, it would still be taken as insult, yes?”
“Victor….” Randall sighed, finally turning to look at him. “Is that why you’re here? You knew I’d be failing?” Maybe it’d been obvious from the start. God, Victor must think he was a horrible idiot, the petulant child who didn’t know his own mind, who couldn’t even take care of his pack.
“No,” Victor protested. “That’s not it. It’s just the only thing I can offer, and I want to do something. I have stayed away this long to address certain personal issues, but the more time went on, I….”
Randall caught the edge of a little self-deprecating smile on Victor’s lips, expressed in sharp relief from moonlight and shadow.
“I missed you,” Victor said. “Staying away for even a month was difficult enough.”
Randall wished he could just believe him. He wished he could take his hand and smile and let Victor make all their problems go away. “You don’t owe me anything.” As Randall looked down, he caught sight of the name badge. He ripped it off with a growl, barely restraining the urge to chuck it into the woods. “I don’t want your money just so you can stop feeling guilty for fucking the virgin and it not working out.”
Which was probably quite a bit harsher than Victor deserved. Shoulders slumping slightly, Randall found he couldn’t bring himself to look at Victor, feeling as though he was careening out of control, a slow-motion train wreck, and everything he did only made it worse.
“I owe you more than you think,” Victor said softly. “May I tell you what I’ve been up to, the last m
onth? It might be distractingly entertaining, if nothing else.”
After a moment, Randall nodded, jaw tight, head bowed.
“I found other medusa half bloods. I wanted to know how they lived,” Victor said.
Now that surprised him. Randall looked over at Victor, eyebrow arching upward. A thousand questions crossed his mind, but all he ended up asking was “What did they say?”
“Some? Not much.” Victor smiled wryly, and he didn’t need to explain. It was easy for Randall to see he was talking about the ones that had already lost their minds. “Others provided me with perspectives on things that I hadn’t considered before. Long-lasting effects from looking into minds that I hadn’t even known about.”
Randall was surprised to feel a light touch against his back. Victor had reached out, fingers curving over his shoulder blade. “Back when the bloodline was stronger, medusas used to take everything from the person they looked at,” Victor continued. “Whatever past, present, and future they saw would become theirs, in a way. We’re more diluted now, but the visions… what we see, it stays with us. Especially if we have an attachment of some kind to who we look at. It means we have a piece of that soul in our minds for the rest of our lives. I suppose it’s not dissimilar to what wolves experience, just in a more literal way.”
Randall’s gaze dropped to Victor’s neck, and he nodded to the two scars. “So the one who gave you those,” he surmised. “You have a part of him.” His instincts rose up at the thought, a low growl threatening to escape him. But Randall was too tired to fight for something he knew he couldn’t have. There simply wasn’t another pointless battle in him. So he gave Victor a weary half smile, looking down at his hands. Victor’s touch on him was like a brand, like every part of him was caught up in that five-inch expanse of skin.
Victor hesitated, clearly weighing his answer before he said it. “Not anymore,” he finally said.