The Thing About Weres: A Mystwalker Novel

by Leigh Evans

  Were you ever that keen on it?

  My brother bent his head and raked the ground until he turned up a twig. This he turned into a tool to draw a furrow in the hard earth. “Tell me. All of it.”

  “The portal came—no one called it from this side of the gates—but Mum could feel it coming. ‘It’s on my skin,’ she said to Dad. He took his gun down to the pond and was waiting for the wolf when it leaped through.”

  “What type of wolf?” Lexi drew another line parallel to the first he’d scored.

  “One of ours. A Creemore wolf named Mannus. Do you remember him? He was Trowbridge’s uncle?” He didn’t. So I told him about Mannus, and how he’d feigned love for our Fae aunt, and how she’d made the mistake of bringing him over into the Fae realm.

  “Dad held the shotgun on him, and said that he’d have to bring him to the Alpha. But the wolf turned on him, they fought, right near our pirate rock.” In the mud, while I watched. “Mannus got away, but he’d wounded Dad so badly—”

  “How?”

  “Dad’s stomach was torn open. His throat mangled.”

  Lexi drew a horizontal line across the two lines he’d already made in the earth. “Where was Mum?”

  “Still in the house. Trying to cast protection wards on the windows and doors.”

  His hand stilled. “She knew the Fae were coming.”

  “Yes, she knew, and she was desperate to get the protection up before they arrived.” I worried my lip, watching him rework the lines. Slash, slash, slash. Now the diagram looked like the setup for a game of tic-tac-toe. “We got Daddy into the house, and she had a moment to seal the doors against them, but…” Her face had been white with fear. “They broke through her wards like they were … tissue paper. It took two kicks to break down the door, and then … they were in the kitchen.”

  “Mum had time to put you in our hidey-hole.”

  That’s what we’d called it back then. Not a hole, but an old kitchen cupboard—the type you hung on a wall and put soup tureens in. Cream paint worn off near the handles and the hinges to expose the pine beneath it. Double doors. A side for each twin. But yes, our mother had pushed me into it first. “I was handy. She was going for you next. She was calling for you—screaming your name.”

  “Back then I was a sound sleeper,” he said, spinning the stick to drill a hole in the earth to make a jagged hole in the center of one of the boxes he’d drawn.

  And I’d been a light one.

  His stick moved to the next hole. “The pack didn’t come in time to save the house?”

  “Only Trowbridge came.”

  The twig broke and he cursed in Merenwynian. Sharp. Hard.

  “Don’t,” I said. “It was my fault.”

  His gaze jerked to mine.

  “She told me, ‘Go get your brother.’ But I didn’t. I followed Dad down to the pond instead.” I lifted my hands helplessly, unable to tear my eyes off that single pitted hole in the middle of the hashwork of lines. “I didn’t understand, I didn’t think. I was curious and … It’s my fault that you weren’t warned. All mine.” I swallowed, miserable. “I’m sorry, Lexi. I’m so sorry. If I could take it back…”

  He searched my face before he shifted to extract a silver flask from his pocket. Expression shuttered, he uncapped it, and brought its mouth to his. His throat flexed as he swallowed.

  “I missed you, Lexi,” I whispered. Did you miss me?

  He took another swig from his flask.

  “Is that the stuff that healed me?” I asked in a little voice.

  He nodded.

  My hands throbbed. “What magic is in it?”

  He slanted his gaze toward my blistering mitts, then gave the flask a thoughtful look. A sharp, short inhale through his nose, before he poured a small measure into the cap of the flask and gave it to me. “Only a sip,” he said. “It’s too easy to start liking it too much.”

  “And that would be a problem?”

  He gave me a wink. “For some.” Then my twin tucked the flask back into his satchel and stood. The corner of his mouth pulled downward as he stared at the pond below. “That boulder there—is that where it happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the apparition,” he said, with a nod to the cemetery. “Does she have a story?”

  “Casperella’s not much for conversation,” I replied. “Mostly, she shadows—” I stumbled, and chose a better word. “Watches me from the cliff while I stand by the pond.”

  A finger rubbed the corner of my twin’s mouth, before he nodded to himself. “She was probably there all the time when we were kids. We were just too young to see her.”

  “I guess.” Seeing spooks started around puberty—around when my magic came in.

  I hunched my shoulders against a sudden chill. Now what? I wondered. I didn’t want to go back to the Trowbridge house. There were memories there that I didn’t have sufficient courage to face. Especially after tonight, when my nerves felt flayed. And I didn’t want to stay there sitting Apache-style on the same damp ground on which I’d lost and gained and lost again. New memories were attached to this field, some of which I wasn’t sure if I’d ever reconcile myself to.

  Biggs let out a look-at-me whine, which the little brown bitch ignored.

  “I wonder what Harry’s searching for?” I asked, my tone wonderfully indifferent. The old wolf limped across the field, favoring his paw, nose snuffling the turf.

  “Not looking, hunting,” Lexi corrected, his eyes narrowed. “Never forget that they are animals and are driven by the instinct to hunt.”

  It worried me, the way Harry hobbled, and suddenly my heart hurt almost as much as my fingers and head. I whispered, “Who’s the mutt Trowbridge brought back?”

  Lexi’s gaze flicked to the she-bitch, and then to the ground. He toed aside a clump of sheep sorrel. “A servant in the Great Hall.”

  “No, I mean who is she to him?”

  “How would I know? The Son of Lukynae is not fond of conversation.” He adjusted his satchel more comfortably on his shoulder.

  “Why do you call him that?”

  But he’d turned to eye the Trowbridge property with an expression of dismissal. “Look at the size of the trees … they’re saplings compared to those in Merenwyn.” Then, with deceptive laziness, “Tell me, what is Robson Trowbridge to you?”

  That I couldn’t—wouldn’t—even try to answer. When I made a tsk of irritation, he slanted me a familiar big-brother smile. “How are the hands?”

  I flexed my fingers. “Much better.”

  He nodded in satisfaction as long hair fell in a slow, golden glittering sweep. Like wheat in the field, I thought, watching him slide it back behind his ear—ah, for crap’s sake, his jeweled ear. “You’ve gotten awfully girly,” I said glumly.

  A snort of laughter. “I went native,” he said. “Count yourself lucky, you should see what some of the women of the Court wear.”

  I have. Mad-one’s gown is blue and jeweled.

  “I need to empty my backpack,” he said. “Shall we go home?”

  Trowbridge had asked me to wait in his house—now I gave that request the nanosecond of reflection it deserved before I lifted my chin and pointed to the silver bug on the opposite ridge. “The house burned to the ground. That’s home now.”

  He scowled. “That’s the best they could come up with?”

  “I don’t need much.” Where did you live? In a castle?

  “Through the cemetery?”

  I stood. “It’s the fastest way.”

  A wry smile. “And expedience is always preferred.”

  I smiled with relief. There it was. An echo of the old impatient Lexi, always appreciative of the fastest way to get the job done.

  “You do this part,” he used to say.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s faster that way, dummy.”

  Then Lexi said, his tone somewhat goading, “Wolves, feel free to follow us.”

  Biggs’s wolf rose to his fe
et, his head whipping back between the she-bitch and Harry. Some communication passed between the three of them. Harry stayed, while Biggs and the bitch took a position on either flank.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed to my friends. Harry uttered a huff then lowered his head once more to the turf.

  “Home,” Lexi repeated. Then—because he was at least a decade and twelve minutes older—he strode away.

  And me? I did what I’d always done.

  I hurried to catch up.

  * * *

  Some things remained the same. Lexi led the way, and when faced with the fork in the path, he unhesitatingly turned left. And yet? Time waits for no man—no woman, either. I’d learned to keep my gaze fixed on the homely shape of the trailer as I passed the ruins of our old house, but my brother stopped short.

  “I’ll give you some time,” I said, knowing he needed to grieve in privacy. “You’ll find me in the trailer. You hungry?”

  No reply.

  I turned on the lights in the sitting room and left the door open, hoping he’d follow when he was ready. Then I had a three-minute shower. The clothing that was mine I bundled into a wad and shoved into the garbage. My brother’s purloined shirt got a soak in the bathroom sink. Hurriedly, I threw on some clean clothes. Then, six swipes of the comb through my hair, and a little daub of Cordelia’s face cream, and I was ready as I’d ever be.

  What to feed the prodigal son? I wondered, staring at the contents of the fridge. The Fae had hummingbird’s tastes. Maple syrup and honey. Everything—except themselves—sugared and sweet. I brought out the syrup and then, in afterthought, the last of my Tim Horton Timbits.

  I’ve got a thousand questions.

  But here’s the thing. If the boy existed inside the man, then I knew from experience that it was a waste of time peppering him with questions. He’d shut down. And it would be a slow, spiraling route toward the answers.

  I’m tired. And so is he. We have time.

  Smiling, I set the doughnut holes on the dinette table, along with the tin of syrup, bowls, and spoons, then worried over my choice. When we were growing up, my twin had been the one to make a fist pump at the sight of a thick wedge of steak. Maybe meat would be better? I rubbed the peak of my ear, trying to decide, and leaned to look through the window.

  My brother stood with his back to me, his arms limp.

  Come on, Lexi. Move away from it. You won’t find any answers in the rubble of our old life.

  He’d need comfort, once he was ready.

  I should cheer him up with a thought picture.

  It’s the way my twin and I had talked when we didn’t want other ears to listen in. It had been how we’d comforted and amused each other. It was the one time that I could count on Lexi not to tease me, because to a Fae, a thought picture is a sacred thing, used with love.

  I hadn’t received one like that since the spring of seventh grade.

  I sank down onto the seat, remembering.

  Ms. James was an odd duck, even for an unmarried Were-bitch, as witnessed by the fact she seated everyone in the class alphabetically. Didn’t matter if you were myopic or short. It wasn’t terrible; I could have made my peace with trying to see the board past Terry Stewart’s high ponytail, because the next person on the list was my brother, John Alexander Stronghold. He sat right behind me and it wasn’t a stretch to say he had my back. But two weeks later, Ms. James proved herself a Fae-hating witch by yanking me out of the S’s and shoving me into the G–J row. According to her, I kept looking out of the window, and that was a problem.

  My new seat sucked.

  I had a jock in front of me, and a jerk behind me, and true to form, J&J spent the next eight and a half months making me miserable. One afternoon in late May, when the classroom stank to high heaven of wet sneakers and sweaty Weres, Jock said something Were-witty about my lineage to the Jerk.

  What had they said?

  I lined up the spoons, trying to remember what exact bon mot had sent me over the edge. Something, something, what? Deep in thought, I folded two napkins, just the way Cordelia liked them, and tucked them under the bowls.

  A low growl from outside yanked me back to the present.

  Lexi was on the move. He slipped off his leather bag and glanced up at the sky, then walked over to where Mum’s garden used to be. Anu, the wonder-bitch, issued another warning rumble, which he totally ignored. But then again, Lexi never did pay much attention to what others thought—at least not visibly.

  It must be wonderful to be like that.

  Biggs’s wolf turned his shaggy head toward my window.

  “It’s okay,” I mouthed. Trowbridge wouldn’t have left that bag on him if he had anything of worth in it. I don’t know how I knew that, but I did.

  Back in Ms. James’s class I would have given anything to be as opinion resistant as my brother. The day of the Big Insult, I’d sat there—telling myself to hold on, don’t give them the satisfaction—all the while knowing I was teetering on the brink of a rage.

  And then Lexi sent me a mental nudge.

  How to describe it? You know when you’ve forgotten something but you don’t know what it is? You’re heading toward the car, keys in your hand, and suddenly a thought comes to your mind directly from your unconscious—out of the blue, completely unbidden. You’re missing something. You know that feeling? That’s like a nudge. Except, for Fae, that tentative tap comes from someone else’s mind, not your own. And you feel it, physically, like the touch of someone’s shoulder giving yours an affectionate bump.

  Soft, tentative. A light lean versus a heavy push.

  Lexi’s nudge had been well timed. I’d opened my mind (all you have do is to allow that searching blankness to extend) in invitation.

  A slip, a slide, and he was in.

  Ta-da!

  My brother’s thought picture—the first in what I knew would be a series—was as clear as if I were squinting through a View-Master. His debut image was of the Jock stripped down to his tighty-whities followed by a close-up of a bottle of flea shampoo, succeeded by a snapshot of a garden hose—I’d started smirking by that point—then, an old-fashioned galvanized tub.

  My twin waited a beat or so to raise my anticipation before he offered me his pièce de résistance. It was a doozy—all the visual elements combined—a picture of the same Were, no longer smutty and smug, sitting bowlegged in a tiny tin bath, his head lathered with flea soap, a stream of tears streaking his flushed cheeks.

  Okay, it was crude. But it worked.

  I broke into a guffaw that made Ms. James drop her chalk.

  Smiling in recollection, I glanced out of the window then bolted upright.

  * * *

  “Wolf,” Lexi threatened. “I will wear your pelt.”

  The deep rumble coming from the lanky old wolf’s chest spoke of no good things coming to pass. Head lowered, shoulders stiff, Harry stood his ground. Biggs flanked him, hackles raised.

  “It belongs to my family,” snarled Lexi. “Drop it. Now.” And then, proving that he truly was my twin, he flared. Green, just like me. A little weaker in terms of intensity—I didn’t see any of the three wolves prostrate themselves under its light—but maybe he hadn’t put his all into it.

  “Calm down,” I soothed as I walked toward them. “Harry’s part of my inner circle, like Cordelia. He doesn’t expect to be challenged while on Stronghold land.”

  “He is not my friend,” gritted out Lexi. “And I’m a Stronghold, which makes this my land, too.”

  “No one is challenging your right as a Stronghold,” I said. “But Harry’s my friend and he’s welcome here.”

  Lexi’s back stiffened. Then, with a deliberation that I’d spend some time thinking about later, he turned, and gave me a dose of my own medicine. Green light washed over me and just about bowled me over. Sit, bow, crawl, it said to me. Oh Goddess, the urge to go on my belly was almost overwhelming. I locked my knees. With a sneer, I asked, “You done now?”

  His flare flic
kered out.

  With a sigh, I sank to one knee, and leaned toward my former second-in-command. “What is it, Harry? What have you got?”

  The old wolf gave my brother one last “any time” growl before limping his way over toward me. A string—no, not a string, a gold chain—hung looped from his black-rimmed lips.

  I tilted my head, hope stirring.

  Please let it be her. Please.

  Harry stopped, lowered his head, and placed what he carried so gently in his mouth with exquisite care onto the ground.

  It was many things—this lovely object that gleamed so wetly.

  It was magic and valuable beyond words—a pendant, smaller than Ralph, made of amber and Fae gold.

  And once, she’d been my only friend.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Merry, you came back.” My whisper broke in two; no, three; no, four pieces—one for each word; a broken shard of one big fat crock of misery with a piece for my friend, and one for me. Another for the hope I’d held in my heart that she’d find a way to end the curse that kept her imprisoned in that hunk of amber, and the last for the future that we were going to live after this miserable night was done.

  Because she’d come back when she should have stayed in Merenwyn with her own kind. Not here among wolves and humans. Not returned to the care of someone who didn’t have anything to offer her. No hope, no sweet life, no promise of anything except the same old miserable Hedi mess-up.

  A wink of red glowed from within her amber belly. Warm red, the kind that spoke of love and comfort.

  That’s what Trowbridge had told Harry before he left on the run, “Go find Merry.”

  Biting my lip, I opened my palm.

  Waited.

  If Merry came back to me—it would be for me. Not because I demanded it. Not because I reached for her. It would be her choice. No more greedy fingers.

  She’d be my equal.

  I forced my mouth into the shape of an indifferent smile and held it there. But I am greedy, and sometimes, horribly needy, so I let my watering eyes feast on the sight of her. Before I sent her across the void she’d been brutalized by my aunt, but it seems that she, too, had found a measure of healing in Merenwyn. Her Fae gold seemed to glow, and the entwined ivy vines set around her amber stone had been recast. Each leaf was daintier—definitely smaller—and each one appeared vastly more articulated and accurately rendered than before; graduating from her old, flat, grade-school-artist version of an ivy leaf to something distinctly five lobed and well shaped, detailed enough for me to see a fanwork of veins running from the heart point near the base to the end of each fine tip.