The Accords Triptych (Book 3): Heartlines

by Ian Thomas

  Remembering the transformation, he recalled something else. His camera. The chaos of the room forgotten as he switched the camera on and opened the viewfinder. Had he got it? Fingers twitching, he scrolled through the menu.

  American Werewolf in London had nothing on what he saw recorded. Admittedly the lighting could have been better, but the whole transformation was clearly visible.

  All night Mouth ran scenarios in his head about how they’d tell Jason. Being Pack Lord, Matteo would likely be the one to do it. Gently breaking the news before and boring him with some turgid history of all things fang and fur. Followed by Eddie and his big brother shtick.

  “Hey, it’s all good, ya know. We can go hunting some time. But like only squirrels and shit because we’re good werewolves,” Eddie would say, hoping his dimples eased the conversation.

  Ugh!

  McLachlan would probably freak out the most. Carrying on like the eternal do-gooder and champion of everything not fang and fur. Blaming himself that he hadn’t protected Jason enough.

  Which could put a strain on things with Rebecca. Who, of course, would actually be the most level-headed about the whole thing. Problem was that until she saw Jason transform, she might not believe it. Buff physique notwithstanding.

  Abs aside, this footage meant she didn’t need to wait for the full moon. And uploading it to the cloud meant he didn’t need to lug his piece of shit computer with him everywhere. And people said his generation were doomed.

  How would Hayley handle it? Well, before she scolded him like a four-year-old she’d featured as quite kick-ass in his scenarios randomly turning up with Ben’s head as some sort of trophy. Of course, after being scolded he’d pictured her as some annoying Regina George type who had been killed off when Jason turned again.

  Completely unfair. He’d be the first to admit that. Okay second. Third at a push. To Mouth, she’d always be kick ass. He just didn’t like it when she was kicking his ass.

  Each scenario, Mouth had been there for his friend. The pop-cultural voice of reason when he woke. There’d be resistance from Jason as he refuted what he was being told, but eventually he’d listen to Mouth. Because they were best friends. No other reason, just the strength of their friendship.

  And should that not be enough, there was actual footage.

  Turning into a werewolf really did look painful, Mouth decided, seeing it on the bigger screen. The thought hadn’t occurred to him at the time. In front of him. Three feet away. All grunts, cries, and popping bones in full surround sound. Little hard to think clearly when his roommate was being broken down and rebuilt right in front of him.

  Somehow seeing it on a screen though made it seem…less. Not less painful, but less…real. That was it, the whole transformation seemed unreal. He wondered if he’d feel that way when he saw it again in person. Which would happen, he thought happily.

  His phone buzzed.

  Rebecca // 9:09

  Hey, guessing you can’t sleep either.

  How’re you doing? I can’t imagine where

  your head’s at. Mine’s still processing.

  Wanna grab some food later?

  Not entirely sure he was fit for human interaction, Mouth didn’t know how to reply. Which unsettled him more. Usually he was the one who played things fast and loose, mouthing off at everything and anything. Yet here he was stuck for what to say.

  He had to say something though. They’d be producing a radio show later and there was little room to hide in their double act. Besides…she knew him too well.

  God, the radio show. The real world. Normality. Jason would have transformed for the second full moon and they’d be discussing the merits of Snapchat filters. Kinda put things in perspective when he thought of them like that.

  So much for normality.

  Mouth // 9:17

  Just waiting on Matteo to call.

  Otherwise sitting in the carnage of

  my dorm room and thinking WTF?!?!!

  Food sounds good.

  Regardless of everything else, it was a reply.

  Rebecca // 9:18

  Take care of you.

  Get some rest if you can.

  Will text you about 12.

  Which left him a few hours to over think restlessly. Great.

  Mouth turned back to the computer, opened a browser, and decided to see what was happening in the world. Soon he was fifteen tabs deep into nothing in particular, music playing, videos buffering, and checking his coursework. Grades were still looking good despite the grueling year. Was it only October? He’d had a draft script returned. Emails asking him to help on other students’ films and a not-so-subtle hurry up from a TA for his short film treatment. Production was starting soon and he’d drawn a blank on ideas for the course. Then there was his video essay to finish. Well…start.

  College seemed insignificant when his best friend had just become a werewolf.

  10 new comments

  Surprised, Mouth flicked to his Vimeo channel and saw the new posts to his school shooting documentary. While ‘never read the comments’ were words to live by he couldn’t help himself. Thankfully the world was not totally messed up and no one had ever posted anything upsetting. Okay, that wasn’t true. His comments section had become a therapeutic confessional for people. Something he had never considered when he made the documentary, let alone posted it.

  The new posts were much the same. Long personal missives of personal trauma and pleas for better gun laws or government support for mental health. Ashamed to admit he’d become numb to them, he scrolled down stopping only when a short one caught his eye.

  This is the most honest thing I’ve ever watched.

  Why was it that pain caught on tape was considered honest, he thought angrily. Because it was recorded? Captured by a bystander. A lot of pain existed in the world that wasn’t caught on tape. Sure, stats were captured but if it wasn’t filmed, did it mean it didn’t happen? Did that make the pain any less honest? Feeling the weight of Michael’s death and Jason’s…whatever fueling some existential crisis, Mouth had to wonder about the supernatural. That was honest and painful.

  He started a reply but stopped himself. Objectively, he knew he was not in a fit state to be around social media, the internet, small children, or smartphones. He wasn’t sure how small children made the list but figured he wouldn’t go near a daycare just in case.

  Flicking between apps, he started watching Jason’s transformation again. Muted of course. He really didn’t need to hear his side of the panicked conversation with Rebecca.

  “Jason’s never gonna believe this,” Mouth said aloud, watching his friend’s body swell and ripple with muscles. “No, he really isn’t.” Wrestling with the decision, Mouth clicked into the admin interface of his channel and set up an upload. Don’t make public, he thought, the mantra repeating in his head. Don’t make public. Don’t make public. Don’t make public. Don’t make pu–

  Mouth jumped when there was knock at the door. When it opened behind him, he scrambled to close the laptop. His hands smashing the keys.

  “Hey, sorry, I was looking for Jason,” the young brunette said from the doorway.

  “Uh, Kara, right?” Mouth asked, standing up.

  “Yeah, sorry to barge in. Was studying with Aimee down the hall. She thought she saw him before the fire drill last night.”

  “Yeah, he was here. Briefly.” When she looked at the piled-up bedding, Mouth really wished he’d disposed of them when he and Hayley snuck out.

  “Is that blood?”

  “Bac-nee,” Mouth blurted. “Back acne. All his gym workouts, bad laundry habits, gnarly big pust–”

  “So when’s he gonna be back?”

  “Couple of days I think. Something about CrossFit games. Or gains. I don’t know really, you wanna get a coffee?”

  “Sorry what?”

  “Coffee?” Mouth asked, suddenly aware he’d just asked her out. “Would you like to grab a coffee? With me? Sometime? Before we gradu
ate?” A moment of silence passed. “Or tea? We could get tea? Well you can, I mean I never got the fascination of pouring boiling water over bagged grass clippings. But ya know I’ll sit there while–”

  “I drink coffee,” she said, interrupting him. “Just…me? You’re asking me out?”

  “Badly too.”

  “Sure, I have a class this afternoon but I’m free now. That cool?”

  “Uh, sure, yeah, cool, totally.”

  “Aren’t you usually asleep this time of the day?”

  “Hence the inability to sound like a human being.”

  “I said yes, didn’t I?”

  Expecting the universe to conspire against him and Matteo to text saying Jason was awake, Mouth was pleasantly surprised when he checked his phone.

  No new messages

  So this was actually happening, he thought, grabbing a jacket as he exited the room. Hopefully, it would be less horrific than his other experiences of late.

  IX

  Emerging from the basement, McLachlan knew to keep his temper in check.

  With so many high-ranking wolves in attendance, he knew his brand of conversation would be less than welcome. Especially given what happened earlier.

  “That was fucking shitty,” he’d said to Matteo.

  “I know.”

  “They had every right to be here. It’s Jason. A werewolf. What the hell, man?!”

  “I know.”

  “You keep saying that like it means something. Like you have a clue. But you let our friends get booted out of here like they were nothing.” Surprising himself, McLachlan had bitten his tongue for a long time. But oh, how he’d wanted to unload on someone. It was one thing for Jason to be a werewolf now. But quite another for all that Hayley had done, that her and Mouth and endured only to be dismissed offhand.

  “I’m the Pack Lord.”

  And that was why. He got the politics. No one understood the politics more than McLachlan. But he’d always put friendship before titles. He hoped Matteo could’ve done the same.

  “And…”

  “Yeah, I knew that was a long shot,” Matteo had said with a sigh. “New wolf. Dead wolf. Loose wolf. Undead wolf. See how being Pack Lord might have some kinda importance around here.”

  “Jesus, I can’t believe you just condensed the last twenty-four hours down to four adjectives. Especially Michael.”

  “I’m sorry. I figured as my best friend you’d handle it.”

  “All except for Michael,” McLachlan replied quietly. He’d pushed the grief down deep. With all of the other events, he hadn’t given himself the luxury to grieve. Others could still die.

  “Let me deal with Blackthorne and Proctor and we’ll go see Rebecca and the others. Make it right.”

  “It’s the least we can do.”

  “You’re really angry,” Matteo had said, properly seeing it for the first time.

  “Yeah. Very.” Anger mixed with grief mixed with anxiety over the events. “Hayley saved Mouth from a werewolf. Hayley! Yet she gets treated like shit.”

  “I kn– I get that. Amends will be made.”

  “Good.”

  Matteo had paused, something playing across his mind that alarmed McLachlan.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s someone here you might want to see,” Matteo replied. “Upstairs.”

  With more questions than he was getting answers, McLachlan headed up to Matteo’s gallery. There in the middle of the room and basking in the morning sun sat Waseme.

  “Uh, anything above SPF-fifteen is just actually doing more harm than good.”

  “My friend,” Waseme smiled, moving toward him happily. She pulled him into a hug, her arms close to crushing him.

  “Just,” he squeaked. When she released him, he took her in. The last time he’d seen her in daylight her skin had been on fire. “So daylight huh? This is new.”

  “Temporary,” she smiled, her face lighting up. “We didn’t trust you fools to handle this so extreme measures were needed.”

  “Handy. Never thought to use it before?”

  “There’s a cost at her end.”

  “Ah, so what brings you to us fools?”

  She cocked her head questioningly.

  “Oh right, death, mayhem, end of the accords, Hamilton tickets. Good time to visit really.”

  “So it is that bad?” she asked. “The more inane your comments, the worse a situation is.”

  “Me? Inane? That is…quite true.”

  “Talk with me,” she said, pulling him close to the window, her skin aglow in the light.

  And he did. Covering the recent events and stretching back to the Ordeal with the Cult and Ben’s betrayal. She listened quietly.

  “And it all comes back to Colton.

  “Excuse me? Are you saying Colton’s part of that crazy cult now?” she asked, trying to be serious.

  “Now there’s a thought,” McLachlan groaned. Waseme wasn’t known for her sense of humor. Or rather it was very different to his. So he appreciated that she had attempted some levity, but little couldn’t stop the guilt that had churned his stomach for days. Thinking of Rebecca having decoded Milton’s poem only get treated poorly made him feel more nauseous.

  “Hey,” she said lifting his chin. “You killed him. I was there. So were a lot of other people.”

  “But–”

  Her turn to groan. “You know I have no patience for self-pity. The fact that we’re still friends is because you’re not the self-pity type.”

  “Really?”

  “Self-pity and self-blame are two different things.” Waseme stood up. “How old were you when you killed Colton? Twelve?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “To me you were a child. Still are.” She looked at him as he sat there downcast. “Blame yourself. That is fine. But do something about it. Pity is for the privileged. You have no privilege here.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I don’t say this to hurt you, fisi. But you’re better than this. Leave the privilege and the pity to the wolves downstairs. They are very good at it,” Waseme said, walking out of the room.

  “Shit, this is you being warm and fuzzy. isn’t it?” he asked in alarm, chasing after her.

  “Thank you for noticing.” she replied as they started down the stairs to the main floor.

  “I was being rhetorical.”

  “Well maybe you can be realistic for once. Looking back, Colton went down too easily.”

  “Easily?!”

  “Well he’s alive, isn’t he? Either you are an incredibly poor marksman with a sword of pure silver at close range or he was playing all of us the whole time.”

  “Okay so now I just feel dumb.”

  “You feel too many things,” she said in frustration. “It’s both your worst and greatest traits.”

  “Worse than the sarcasm?”

  “Yes,” she laughed. “Now what’re you going to do with these accords of yours?”

  “Not really sure there’s much I can do.”

  “I think you spend too much time with these wolves. It’s not healthy.” McLachlan laughed at the comment. When he wasn’t around Rebecca or Rowan, he’d worried the same thing. “You fought for them in the first place, surely you’ll fight for them again.”

  “I feel that’s between the three communities now.”

  “I feel that’s an excuse.”

  “Why are you here?” he asked suddenly, desperate to change the topic.

  “To fix your problems. You do not seem to learn.”

  He laughed. “It’s good to see you. Been too long.”

  “To you,” she laughed in reply. “Silly mortals. You will age and all.”

  “I take it you’re representing Yael?”

  “When we learned Colton was alive, I felt she was safer out of the city.”

  “When? As in you’ve known for some time? Wait, is this why she didn’t come to Matteo’s party?” He was angry now. “That was a couple weeks back.”
>
  “It wasn’t confirmed. She scried frequently, only ever seeing flashes. Nothing suggesting him as such. Besides would knowing change anything?” She paused, not waiting for a response as such, rather letting him consider her words. “No. Colton would still have brought death and destruction with him. Our fear is this could lead to another Pack War. Or worse.”

  “On that note, time for you to head in and make with the adult talk.”

  “You coming?”

  “Gotta have at least a century under your belt to sit around that table. I’ll wait my turn. I know my place.”

  “Always the little boy,” she replied.

  “Did you not just call me a twelve-year-old?”

  “Human years are lost on me. Like trying to work out dog years.”

  “Don’t bring that up in there, okay? Little sensitive.”

  Waseme walked away from him, a small pause in her gait before she entered the dining room. She had won the admiration of Proctor and his War Wolves during the war. Yet he wondered if it still held. Retreating to live among the Wiccans had sat strangely with some of the wolves. Though if Waseme was anything, she was unpredictable.

  “So the accords are pretty much fucked?” Eddie asked, walking up to McLachlan with coffee. “A for effort though.”

  “Was hoping they’d be my legacy,” came the reply.

  “Legacy? You? Really?”

  “Well I hardly want to be remembered for my good dress sense and sarcasm.”

  “Now that is a lie. If anyone is going down in the annals of history – supernatural or otherwise – as the bastion of sarcasm, it’s gonna be you.”

  “It is my forte.”

  “Well, you or Dylan. Something of a photo finish I imagine.”

  “I taught him everything he knows.”

  “That I profoundly doubt.”

  “How’s it going in here?” Matteo asked, walking up behind them where they stood in the doorway. Seated around the table were the War Wolves, Waseme, Blackthorne, and his Scottish lackey, Liam.

  “Pretty shit really,” McLachlan said. “Lot of silence. Lot of scowling. How’re you?”