Raised by Wolves

by Bridget Essex

  I smile softly to myself as my finger traces that terrible rendition of a wolf, drawn by two kids who, at the time, felt invincible.

  Loren companionably bumps my shoulder with hers and leans against me again, glancing at me with a soft smile. “What are you thinking about?” she asks. Then the smile fades away. “You look a little sad.”

  “No, not sad,” I tell her, taking a deep breath. “I was just...thinking about my family. My...” I make a face, sigh again. “My mom.”

  Loren frowns softly. “You two don't get along?”

  I have to laugh at that. “That's one way to put it,” I tell her, chuckling wryly. I shrug, shake out my shoulders a little, and get up to stretch. “Do you have a good relationship with your mother?” I ask her lightly. I assumed she'd say yes, but something dark comes over Loren's face just then, and she leans forward a little, glancing down at the ground.

  “No.” Loren says the word so softly that if my hearing wasn't great, I wouldn't have heard it at all. I glance at Loren, and then I'm crouching down in front of her. Some of her golden hair has escaped her ponytail band and is now brushing against her face as she stares down at the ground. She glances up at me, and her green eyes are shimmering a little with unshed tears.

  Loren takes a deep breath. “My parents kicked me out when they found out I was gay,” she says then.

  I reach out to take her hands, practically speechless. Yes, I grew up in a pack that never, ever turns its back on one of our own...but I also grew up gay, and I understood that—if I hadn't had the pack—my teenaged years, and how I was perceived by my family, might have been very, very different.

  “Oh, my God...” I murmur. “How old were you?”

  Loren takes a deep breath. “Seventeen.”

  I don't know what to say, so I just follow my gut. “That's horrible,” I tell her, squeezing her hands tightly. I hold her gaze as she glances at me, one tear falling down her right cheek. “I'm so sorry,” I say, but then Loren reaches up and wipes the tear away, giving me a small smile.

  “Thanks,” she says, leaning forward and brushing her lips against my cheek. “But I'm not sorry.” I glance at her in surprise as she shakes her head. “They were really bad people. I'm better off without them, honestly. After I left home, I met the friends I consider my real family.” She holds my gaze, her own eyes bright and unwavering now. “I finally figured out what that word—family—actually means.”

  I sit back on my heels, still holding her right hand tightly. “I'm still working on that definition myself,” I confess to her. “What does family mean to you?”

  Loren thinks about this for a long moment, looking out toward the trees. “They're the people who love you and support you—no matter what,” she says then. “Pretty simple.”

  I stand now, frowning. “I know... I know my mother loves me,” I tell her, surprised to find myself even talking about this with her. I've never talked about my relationship with my mother with anyone but Rob. “But as far as supporting me...” I trail off, my stomach churning.

  Loren glances up at me, her mouth pressed into a flat line. “Not so much?”

  I shake my head.

  “Is it the gay thing?” asks Loren with a little grimace.

  “No, no,” I tell her quickly. “No, she's always been great about that.”

  “What is it, then?” Loren murmurs.

  I clear my throat, pivoting and turning to look at the woods, my hands balled into fists as I rock back on my heels. “She just...has very strong opinions about what I should be doing with my life.”

  “Opinions you disagree with, I take it?”

  “Vehemently,” I mutter, glancing back at her. “And the rest of my family backs her up,” I growl a little. “Well, except for my cousin Rob.”

  Loren shakes her head, leaning back on the rock and propping herself up on her wrists. “Sounds like a pack of wolves.”

  I stare at her, startled. “What?”

  “Your family. All of them ganging up on you like that. Hey...” She takes my hand, and she threads her fingers through my own. “Is there anything I can do to help you feel...better?” There's a bit of a suggestive twinkle in her eye.

  I smile as I draw her closer. “I could probably think of a thing or two...”

  We kiss for a long moment. All around us, the earth is starting to wake up. It's still, technically, winter. Spring is going to start in a few days, and there's still some snow on the ground, but all around us, there are birds singing their hearts out, the trees are starting to unfurl buds that will eventually becomes leaves...and spring is coming. Here and now, I kiss Loren, and I hold her close, and I revel in this moment. The earth is waking, I'm holding a woman I'm falling in love with: things are pretty good.

  But next week is coming. And I've got to talk to Loren about it.

  So I break away from the kiss and sigh, tilting my forehead against Loren's. Here goes. There's no time like the present.

  “Loren,” I say, drawing out her name as I cover her hands in her lap with my own, “you can definitely say no,” I say quickly, pretty much hoping that she will say no, “but my mother invited you to her dinner party on Saturday night...” I search her face as her eyes widen. “I told her that I didn't think it was a good idea—” I mumble, but Loren squeezes my hands.

  “You want me to meet your family?” she murmurs, her voice soft, hopeful...happy.

  “No,” I tell her, which is the absolute truth, but I say it a little too forcefully, and when I see the hurt look on Loren's face, I realize exactly what that sounded like, and then I'm spluttering. “No, I mean... I don't want to inflict my family on you,” I tell her, searching for the right words. “They're, um, well, for lack of a better word... They are totally weird. And pushy,” I mutter, rolling my eyes heavenward. “And nosy. And...astonishingly messy eaters. And—”

  “Okay,” says Loren, drawing out the word, “but I could run interference for you!” she says cheerfully, sitting up a little straighter on the rock. “Be your cheerleader! Perform...other sports metaphors,” she says, with a crooked grin.

  “That's sweet,” I tell her with a grimace, “but my family just isn't... I mean, they aren't even...” I settle back on my heels again and spread my hands. “Honestly? I'm kind of afraid they'd eat you alive.”

  That's perfectly true.

  Literally.

  But Loren's grinning as she leans forward, wrapping her arms around me. “I can handle myself,” she says, radiating confidence. “And...I really like you, Becca,” she murmurs, holding my gaze.

  I soften as I look into her earnest green eyes, her face so damn...hopeful. “I like you, too,” I say.

  Loren takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “If we're going to be part of one another's lives, and if your family is a large part of your life...”

  I slump a little. “Yeah, well, too large.”

  Loren watches me for a long moment. “I think I should accept the invitation,” she says then slowly, carefully. “If that's okay with you.”

  I nod, but then I'm standing, nervous energy making me want to transform into a wolf right here and now and run hundreds of miles, all the way up through Canada into Alaska. “God,” I mutter, raking my fingers through my hair as I shake my head. “I feel like I need to issue about fifty apologies in advance,” I moan. “My uncle Kyle will probably hit on you. My cousin Jimmy might try to sit on your lap—”

  “I don't mind kids,” Loren says with a big smile.

  “He's twenty-nine.”

  “...oh.”

  “And whatever you do,” I tell her, crouching down in front of her again and gripping her shoulders, “don't eat Aunt Grace's custard pie.”

  Loren blinks. “I'm...kind of afraid to ask why.”

  “Yeah,” I moan again, “don't ask. Loren, are you sure you want to come, especially after I told you what a wrecking ball my family is?”

  I'm inwardly crossing my fingers and hoping against hope that she's currentl
y reconsidering—but she isn't. She smiles softly, cupping my face with her beautiful, warm hands. “I want to be there for you,” she says, holding my gaze. “Don't worry, Becca,” she whispers, and then she's leaning forward, kissing me softly for a long moment, and then a little deeper. She leans back then, her lips wet, as she grins at me. “Who knows? It might be fun!”

  I snort, swallowing another unhappy moan. My family's idea of fun is transforming into wolves and chasing the stray cats in the neighborhood. Being a cat lover, Loren would most definitely disapprove.

  “Now, come on,” Loren tells me, tugging on my hands as she gets up. She lets go of me and stretches overhead as I stand up beside her. Then Loren gestures ahead of us, up the trail, with a dazzling smile. “Show me the top of this mountain!”

  Side by side, together, we traverse the path I've run over a thousand times since I was a kid. Loren holds tightly to the straps of her backpack as we reach the top of the trail, and when we stop, Loren gasps, staring down at what surrounds us.

  “It's a fairyland,” she breathes.

  And I'm inclined to agree with her.

  Before us is the spring that gives Willow Springs its name. The spring itself is a large, too-blue pond with a series of small tinkling waterfalls, surrounded by mossy rocks, draped by low-hanging vines from the willow trees, which are just beginning to turn green, a portent of what's to come. The sun is sparkling on the water.

  I take Loren's hand and tug her gently, guiding her up and over the rocks to the edge of the pond. As we stand there, looking down at the water, the sky begins to lightly snow, little flakes drifting down and disappearing into the spring.

  “Rob and I used to pretend that this place was magical, like...Narnia or something,” I chuckle, draping an arm around Loren's shoulders and holding her close. “I'd play a knight, and he'd be the dragon I had to slay. It always became a bloody battle—like, literally. I scraped my knees a million times slaying that damn dragon.”

  Loren laughs. “Kids' games are always so violent.”

  “Well...wildness is kind of encouraged in my family,” I tell her with a roll of my eyes, but Loren shakes her head.

  “It was the opposite in mine. 'A lady never raises her voice.' I wasn't even allowed to wear skirts that showed my ankles.”

  I let go of her shoulders and sink down into a kneel in front of her. “I'm glad you—and your ankles—no longer have to abide by such antiquated rules,” I tell her with a low growl. I draw up Loren's right pant leg, bringing her foot onto my knee. And then I lean down, brushing my mouth against the skin of her leg, eliciting a little shiver from her. For a long moment, I stay still, breathing in and out evenly as my kisses grow more heated. I'm just kissing her leg, but Loren's fingers are tight in my hair, starting to indicate that she wants a little bit more. I guess my surprise kiss on her ankle was the only spark she needed to ignite something else...

  Loren kneels down now, too, beside me. Though the snow is starting to fall more thickly, the big, fat flakes twisting down to the ground as if they're in a fairy waltz, the ground here is dry for the most part, something that Loren is definitely using to her advantage. She pushes me over and crawls on top of me, kissing the hell out of me.

  “I'm glad you're still a little wild,” she tells me then, her voice low and husky, and I chuckle as I wrap my arms around her waist.

  “Only a little wild? I feel offended,” I tell her with a growl.

  “Well...why don't you show me how wild you can be?” she says, lifting a brow with an I dare you sort of look.

  I laugh, and in a few short seconds, I've flipped her over so that she's beneath me, and I'm straddling her now.

  “Aren't you cold?” I ask her quietly, starting to pepper her neck with kisses, tugging down the front of her coat a little to make room for my mouth, but she shakes her head, her breath coming fast.

  “I'm never cold when I'm with you,” she tells me as my fingers trace up beneath the hem of her jacket to touch her stomach. She hisses out between us. “See?” she tells me with an impish grin, “you're always so hot, like you have a fever or something.”

  I'm about to respond to that when I hear a twig breaking in the clearing before us, a little ahead and to the left of the pool. Loren and I both look up at the same moment, and there, through the falling snow, we see them.

  A small herd of deer is stepping, one by one, into the forest clearing at the summit of the hill. They're all does, most of them full grown, but stepping out from between two big pine trees is a single yearling, her dapples long gone, but her innocence is still noticeable in the way she trots among the others, like nothing bad or frightening has ever touched her. She pauses between two of the does, lifting her nose to the wind to scent the air of the clearing, like her relatives. But Loren and I are both upwind of the little herd, and as long as we stay perfectly still, we'll continue to bear witness to this beauty.

  Yes, I've hunted deer before, and killed them. I'm a wolf, and the need to hunt is as deeply coded inside of me as the ability to scent things better than my human counterparts. We are all animals, human and werewolf alike, but—for better or for worse—I am more connected to the animal side than others. I see the hunt for what it is: the dance of life, of give and take, light and dark, living and dying.

  Here and now, I am not hungry; I don't have to hunt to survive. The deer and Loren and I exist in this time out of time, and this space out of space. The snow falls between us, and we exist here in this loveliness together.

  Loren's breath comes out in a soft fog between us as she stares at the deer moving, majestic and glorious, toward the pool to get a drink of water. One by one, the does bend their heads, keeping their wide, brown eyes trained on us—they're not stupid—but drinking all the same. The closest doe is about eight feet away, close enough to make out the mottled hairs on her body, the delicate hooves that crunch through the snow, her quivering nose as she takes a deep drink of the water.

  Loren gazes at the does, and she breathes out again. And in a hushed, reverent whisper, she says, “I've never seen anything so beautiful.”

  I glance down at her, at her intelligent, wonder-filled eyes, her open mouth, her face shining. My heart expands.

  “Neither have I,” I whisper back.

  Chapter 9: The Calm Before the Storm

  Rob glances at me across the only available table at Seven Crows Bar (for a Tuesday, the place is pretty hopping) with his brows raised, and he's just about to say something when I lift a finger. And then I take my wonderful, refreshing, enormous glass of beer, lift it to my lips and drink the entire thing down in a few gulps.

  Rob just laughs.

  “Okay,” I tell him, setting the glass back down onto the table with a satisfying clunk. “Now you can ask me twenty questions.”

  “I intended to do no such thing,” says Rob, adding a dramatic expression of hurt to his tone, but his eyes are twinkling merrily. “I was only gonna ask what you've been chowing down on lately, Becks. 'Cause you lifted, like, twice as much as normal today.” He lifts up his own beer and downs it pretty much the way I just downed mine, thumping the glass on the table and picking up the glass right behind that one—another tall beer. Werewolves, when we order drinks, tend to order multiples...for ourselves. I'd blame our werewolf metabolism entirely, but that's not one hundred percent true.

  I just really needed to get hammered tonight, and Rob's right there with me.

  “You noticed that, huh?” I tell him with a mischievous grin.

  “C'mon, Popeye,” he laughs, reaching forward and taking hold of my right bicep. He gives it a squeeze as I tense it, and then he's letting out a low whistle. “You gotta tell me your secret. And don't,” he mutters, lifting a finger, “say spinach. 'Cause I hate spinach.”

  “Spinach is good for you,” I tease him as he shudders. When we were kids, and spinach was present at nearly every family dinner—werewolves eat mostly meat, but my mother got on a “healthy” kick for awhile, and that invol
ved lots and lots of spinach—and Rob was expected to eat his most hated vegetable, he came up with some pretty clever ways to dispose of the spinach, none of which involved shoveling it into his mouth.

  “Hey, I stand by my previously stated motto that I'm a wolf, not a rabbit,” he tells me with a shrug, taking a drink from his second beer. “But, seriously, what's going on?”

  I hesitate for a moment, cupping my fingers around my second glass of beer, feeling the familiar, cold condensation against my fingers as I sigh. “I...I don't know, Rob.” I clear my throat. “I guess I've just been happier lately, and when I'm happy, I feel stronger. More motivated. I can bench-press more,” I tell him with a little grin.

  But Rob's not buying that for a moment. “Right,” he says, almost dismissively, as he watches me like a hawk for a heartbeat or two. Then he says, “It's because of Loren, isn't it?”

  I glance down at my beer, already knowing that I'm grinning like a fool. “Yeah,” I tell him simply. The truth. “Things are getting kind of serious between us.”

  He blinks. “Then why do you look like you just choked on a goldfish?”

  I probably do just look like I choked on a goldfish, because at that moment, I remember why I asked him here after our workout.

  I remember what's in store for me—and Loren—on Friday night.

  Okay. I take a deep breath, and then I choke out, “Just so you know, my mother invited Loren to the Friday family dinner party. And Loren has agreed to come.”

  Rob was taking a long sip of beer when I started speaking, but he's currently spraying it out in an elaborate spit-take. I duck, and, thankfully, as crowded as the bar is, the beer doesn't end up on any of the patrons but douses our tabletop, instead.

  “What?” Rob splutters, then laughs a little, almost nervously, as he wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. “You're kidding,” he says, like he's calling my bluff. Then he examines me a little closer, leaning forward, the blood draining from his face. “Are you kidding?”

  I bite my lip and take another sip of beer. And then I shake my head.