The Wrath of Wolves

by Kelley York

  I fall asleep without quite meaning to. One moment, my eyes are on Benji, and in the next I’m opening them again and staring at his empty bed. The sudden switch is jarring. I suck in a breath, disoriented, twisting my head until I spot him standing at the window.

  He’s got himself changed into a clean nightshirt. Or, well, as clean as any of our things presently are. He has a brush in hand and has tried to tame his soft curls, though at the moment he is still and silent as he gazes through the glass. For half a second, I worry something is wrong. He looks to me and smiles when I sit up.

  “Did I wake you? I’m sorry. I was having difficulty sleeping.”

  “No, you didn’t wake me.” I wince, stretching out my arms until my shoulders pop. My bandaged one could do with new dressings about now, too. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes. I think.” A pause. “No… Actually, I have a confession to make, and an apology.”

  Oh. I rub my hands over my face and jaw, noting the stubble there, how badly I’m in need of a shave. “In the middle of the night…?”

  He lowers his gaze, running a thumb over the bristles of his brush. “It can wait, if you’d rather.”

  I have a knot of tired dread in my belly. Now that I know there is something to be said, I can’t very well sleep now. “No, no. I’m listening.”

  He places the brush aside and has a seat on the edge of his bed, sighing. “Here I’ve been harping at you about being overprotective and keeping secrets, and yet… I’ve been doing the same to you. For quite a while now.”

  A long silence settles over the room. I wait patiently, letting him approach this at his own pace, no matter how much anxiety has begun to course through my veins. Benji stares down at his hands, shoulders slumped, a weight present there that I feel I’ve seen before.

  Finally he says, “Remember how we wondered who it was that sold out Frances to the Headmaster?”

  My heart about stops.

  “…It was Edwin Davies. He found the letter Oscar wrote to Mr. Hart and gave it to Simmons.”

  Of all the things I expected, this was not one of them.

  This is a secret that is years old. A secret related to someone we both held dear. I swallow hard but cannot seem to find the words.

  Benji continues, “He thought Frances would simply be scolded and spoken to.”

  “And you didn’t…” I flounder, somewhere between furious and confused and hurt, old grief being dredged to the surface from where I’ve buried it. Angry tears prick my eyes and I blink them back. “You just decided to carry it on your shoulders alone all these years and keep us in the dark. James and I deserved to know!”

  “You did,” he quickly agrees. “But what would you have done with the information? Either you and Spencer would have spent the rest of our time at Whisperwood biting back your rage every time you laid eyes on Davies, or else you would have done something that would have got you expelled—or worse.”

  He’s right. He is absolutely right. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse. Am I angry with him? I don’t know that I am. My anger is directed elsewhere, at a boy who we took in as one of our own. A boy who should have had Oscar France’s back, not been turning him over to our prick of a headmaster. “How did you find out?”

  “I pieced it together, knowing Davies the way that I did. He had a habit of spilling secrets.” He hesitates. “And I was the one who told him that I’d not permit him to have anything to do with helping us with Mordaunt. I refused to let him try to assuage his own guilt and find some sense of self-redemption. Maybe I was just being spiteful.”

  “I don’t know that you have a spiteful bone in your body.”

  He laughs like he’s not so sure about that. I think back to every time I saw Edwin Davies after the conclusion of our third year. I’d already been furious with him for supposedly abandoning all of us when we stayed behind to help James and Esher. The anger had dulled to apathy after a while, to where whenever I saw Davies, he scarcely registered as someone that ought to have mattered. Yet the way he’d inch to the edges of the halls to avoid coming close, sitting clear across the room in classes we shared, had grated on my nerves. He’d acted as though I had wronged him. Now I know why. He no doubt spent that last year at Whisperwood wondering if I knew his secret, waiting for the day I’d corner him about it. I wonder if Benji anticipated that reaction. I wonder if that had anything to do with his decision. Maybe he is a touch spiteful after all.

  Benji still doesn’t look at me. He tugs at the hem of his sleeve, running the fabric between thumb and forefinger, studying it as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the room. “Can you forgive me?”

  I was so busy thinking how badly I want to strangle Edwin Davies that I’d almost forgotten about Benji’s role in this.

  Am I angry with him?

  No, I’m not certain that’s the word. It’s far more complicated than that.

  I sigh. Everything feels more complicated now, doesn’t it? Benji. Me. Life. “You know, I used to be under the impression that you and I had this picturesque relationship. That we knew everything about one another, that I understood you more than any other person alive. I thought nothing could surprise me with you, because we trusted each other so implicitly.” A pause. “And then you were keeping things from me and I’ve kept things from you, and you’ve surprised me so much on this trip. Ever since you decided to accept that job from your father, I’ve had no idea where we stand with one another. Nothing has made sense.”

  I’ve kept reaching for a sense of that old normalcy, for a time where the world orbited around just Benjamin and me. Where our afternoons were spent among friends but still, truly, focused on one another more than anything else. Where the future felt uncertain, but I had been confident it would involve Benji at my side and so nothing else mattered. Back then, everything was simple.

  Now, every day feels raw and unpredictable, and not in a way that I much like.

  I wonder if this is what it means to grow up.

  Benji’s smile is a sad one and it suggests he agrees with me. “We’ve got so caught up in keeping one another safe that we’ve stripped each other of our autonomy to make our own choices, I think.”

  “And what do we do about that?” I ask.

  He draws in a slow breath. “We…learn from our mistakes, I suppose. We start trusting one another. Something I’ve always admired about Esher and Spencer is the way they lean on one another. They have this…this unshakeable trust in the other’s ability to handle the truth. At least, that’s how it comes across.”

  I know for a fact that James and Esher’s relationship is more complex than that, but I understand where Benji is coming from. I’ve witnessed it too. I noticed it even at Whisperwood, but even more during the weeks I spent at Aunt Eleanor’s prior to taking on this job. The way James and Esher doted on one another, the way they bickered, the way they frustrated each other and made each other smile and every intricate little thing that only seemed to make them stronger together… It was fascinating to watch.

  I study Benjamin, wondering if he made the comparison for a reason, my chest tight with the weight of it. “Except that you and I… We aren’t what James and Esher are.”

  Finally, Benji lifts his head to meet my gaze, unwavering. Present is the remnant of a boy freshly shoved into the mud from what feels like a lifetime ago, but there’s more than that now. I wonder when it was that Benji stopped being so afraid to make choices on his own and began to take his own confident steps forward. Where was I, and has my over-protective streak been holding him back?

  He asks, “Aren’t we?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, not trusting my voice. “That’s up to you, Benjamin. It’s always been up to you.”

  A soft, almost sad laugh escapes his lips. “Have you really been waiting on me to say the word all this time?”

  “You had more to lose than I did,” I point out. My mother and father know, after all, about my feelings for Benjamin. They have
for years. It may not be something we speak much of, but they know, and it never stopped them from taking Benji in and treating him like a member of the family.

  But Benji? Oh, he’s felt out of place all his life, what with an absent father and immigrant mother, his mixed heritage, his ability to see ghosts. Never did I want to place one more thing on his shoulders that made him feel further isolated. He has followed me everywhere all the years we’ve known one another.

  But with this? With us? I wanted—no, I needed—him to make that first step.

  I wish I knew what he was thinking in this moment. I wish he would tell me. But Benji sits there, silent and still, watching me as though he’s truly seeing my face for the first time and does not know what to make of it. Every insecurity and worry I’ve had over the years digs its claws in deep, every time I almost told him how I felt… Surely, he knew, but to actually speak it aloud was something else altogether. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I’ve truly misjudged everything all this time, and Benji has just been too kind, too non-confrontational, to correct me.

  When he rises to his feet, my heart about stutters to a stop. He closes the gap between us, the only sound the soft shift of his nightshirt sliding against his skin as he moves. My entire body is wound tight in anticipation, a coiled spring ready to be let loose.

  He touches my cheek, fingertips finely tracing along my jaw. The pad of his thumb brushes the shape of my lower lip in a way that makes a shiver cascade down my spine. I remain still, heart in my throat, afraid that if I move or try to speak, it will scare him off.

  Finally, finally, Benji leans down and presses his mouth to mine.

  If there was ever a moment I was born for, it was this.

  One of us makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper, and I think it may be me. I can’t help but slip my arms around his middle, dragging him closer, unable to think of anything beyond how badly I have wanted this for so many years. Benji’s hands are in my hair. His fingers curl there, nails pleasantly grazing my scalp, even as his lips are parting and he’s shifting closer still, into my lap, every movement careful as though he had every inch of it planned out before he even stood up to approach me.

  He draws back, breathing in deep, yet still so close that I can feel the warmth of the words against my lips when he speaks.

  “We will keep each other safe,” he murmurs, “but we will do so honestly. No more secrets. Promise?”

  In this moment, I would promise him the moon if he asked for it. And I would move Heaven and Earth to give it to him too. “I promise.”

  We lie down, blankets drawn high around us, limbs tangled together and Benji’s head against my chest while I slide my hands through his hair in a way I’ve longed to properly do for far too many years.

  .

  CHAPTER 20 – BENJAMIN

  Preston is watching me when I wake. His eyes are heavy and his mouth pulls into a slow smile when I look at him, rogue strands of dark hair obscuring my vision. I smile back at him.

  “Good morning,” I whisper. Memories of last night come inching back to the forefront of my mind. Preston’s large, gentle hands holding me and his mouth against mine… I do not know where my sudden burst of courage came from to do something so bold as kissing him, but it seems to have worked out well enough. I should have done it years ago instead of being so afraid of what he might say, of how alienated it might make me in a world where I already felt so different. Now I only feel a sense of peace and calm and completion I had not been aware I could possess, as though the stars have appropriately aligned themselves.

  “Morning.” He brushes that hair away from my face, allowing his fingertips to find their way across my temple, down my cheek. “Sleep well?”

  “Quite. Better than I have in a while, I think.” And I’ve no immediate interest in getting out of bed just yet. Instead I drift closer, nestling into the warmth of Preston’s arms. I press my face into the crook of his neck and breathe deep.

  For a bit, he strokes my hair and back. “We ought to be getting up if we want a meal before we leave.”

  “Must we…?”

  He chuckles. “We’ll miss our ferry otherwise.”

  Ah. Right. We do have a boat to catch, don’t we? With the utmost reluctance, I drag myself from bed to get ready.

  We do so in relative silence, but it’s comfortable, easy, peaceful. I cannot recall the last time the air between us felt so relaxed, but it’s been a very long while.

  I don’t know that I agree with Preston’s sentiment that our relationship used to seem perfect. To me, there were all those unspoken things between us that kept it from being so. I was a boy who was content to allow his best friend to coddle him and shield him from the world, much like I was used to from my own mother. It wasn’t fair to put that on Preston.

  Now, more than ever, it’s imperative that I stand on my own. That I am my own man even without Preston, so that he has a whole person to love.

  I finish dressing before he does and watch him at the mirror, bent over the washbowl while scrubbing at his face. As he reaches for the shaving soap and razor, I must make some sort of a face that he spots in the reflection because he turns with his eyebrows raised.

  “What’s that look for?”

  I bite at my lower lip. “Nothing. I was just thinking I rather fancied that look on you.”

  Preston grins and sets the razor aside. “Is that right?”

  “It suits you,” I confirm.

  He crosses the small room and slides his arms around my waist, leans in, and buries his face against my throat. The gentle scratch of his unshaven jaw makes me laugh, and I shove half-heartedly at his shoulders.

  “Stop that!”

  “Oh, don’t fancy it so much now, eh?”

  “Well, it is itchy!” I pull back and smile up at him.

  Preston’s eyes dart down then. He reaches for the chain about my throat, sliding it through his fingers. “I had meant to ask where you got this. I don’t really recall you wearing religious symbols before.”

  I smile, touching the crucifix briefly, before reaching behind my neck to unclasp the chain. “Alice, actually.”

  “My sister?”

  “She said Miss Bennett gave it to her as a good luck charm to ward off spirits. What do you know, it worked at Mr. Carlton’s place.”

  He chuckles, not resisting as I place the cross about his neck, admiring the flash of polished metal against his skin. “She didn’t give me any good luck charms… Tsk.”

  “That’s because she likes me better.” I grin at the affronted look that passes over his face. “And I think she had hoped I would be your good luck charm. Sorry, I’m afraid I’m not much of one.”

  “Now that is a lie. You are the luckiest thing to ever happen to me.”

  When he makes to pull away, I find my fingers seeking out the front of his shirt to pull him back down to kiss me. How could I possibly let him say something so sweet and then just leave? Preston does not resist. He bows over me, dragging me to his chest. He has a way of holding me, of kissing me, so raw and deep that it steals my breath and makes my legs weak. When he finally draws away, I’m certain my face is several shades of red.

  Once packed, we retrieve Rogue from the ostler and head for the docks to wait for our ferry. Preston grumbles a bit as we board. To his credit, he manages not to get sick this time. Though that doesn’t stop him from spending the trip hunched over the railing like he might.

  San Rafael, our city of deport, is bustling and inviting enough that I almost wish we could justify staying. But we’ve most of the day ahead of us and if the weather is on our side, we ought to be able to make it most of the way to Punta de los Reyes. Rain could slow us down, as could the condition of the roads. Plus, with Rogue carrying a double burden, we’ll want to give her time to rest or take turns walking beside her. No one we stop to speak with is familiar enough with the area up north to know where the nearest town is, where we might find lodgings, or what roads might be the faste
st.

  In the end, we are making the trip half-blind, following the main road north-west and hoping for the best. You’ll know you’re close when you see the trees, one woman advises. Trust me, you’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em.

  We’d been baffled by that up until, some ten hours on horseback later, we find ourselves surrounded by the most massive trees I could have dreamed up. They dwarf everything around them. Preston, awestruck, stops to hop off the horse and go up to one. When he wraps his arms around it, he laughs.

  “How many of me would it take, Benji?”

  “Six of you, at least,” I say with a wide smile. This is what I think Preston had hoped for when he embarked on this trip: a chance to see and explore new places, to find something unique and different. These woods most certainly fit that bill.

  It’s by that massive tree that we stop for an hour to have lunch and let the horse graze. Our meal is little more than sandwiches and some dried apricots we got back in Berkeley, but it does the job of quieting my rumbling belly. Perhaps when we get to where we’re going, we’ll have time and the means to get ourselves a proper dinner.

  Preston chews on a piece of jerky, lying on his back and gazing up into the thick canopy high, high above us. “What’s it like out here for you, Benji?”

  “For me?” I ask. “You mean with the spirits?”

  He turns his head slightly to watch me. “Yes, that. You see them all the time in crowded places like cities, don’t you? So, what’s it like out here?”

  I scan the area. There has never been a place where I haven’t seen at least one ghost, even if only from the corner of my eye. Here is no different. I’ve seen shapes and shadows moving amongst the trees from time to time. Occasionally, a silhouette in the fog. Ellie has appeared more and more frequently the further North we go, always ahead on the road as though guiding our way.