Chapter 22 Flashes of Images
Koa
The dishwasher yawned open as Casimir loaded each plate with the precision of a surgeon.
I leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with amusement and admiration.
His blond hair hung down his back in a tight braid, not one strand daring to escape, his eyes stayed locked on his self-assigned task.
He always did like order. Everything in its place, every decision made with calculated precision.
It was both a strength and a weakness, but tonight, it was just comforting.
Zane’s voice drifted downstairs, singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” to a probably unconscious Seri. She’d nodded off over dinner, nearly face-planting in her salad bowl, and Zane won a coin toss for the right to carry her to her room and tuck her in.
Now, watching Cas clean up, I kept replaying her reaction during ‘The Great Shampoo Adventure.’ The way she grabbed her arm when she mentioned the rogues.
The cloud that had passed over her eyes when she spoke of her hens.
The tremble in her lips. How she avoided meeting our gazes, her voice a whisper.
The dishwasher clicked shut almost silently. Cas stood back, surveying the kitchen like a general inspecting freshly polished artillery.
“She flinched,” I finally said it aloud.
Cas paused, and his green eyes cut to me.
“When she mentioned the rogues.” My thumb scraped at the scar running along my jawline. “Grabbed her left arm like it burned. You catch it?”
“Of course I did.” He yanked open drawers until he found the junk one, third from the sink,and started rearranging it.
I silently apologized to Mrs. Wentzel. “Question is, did Arabesque order it, or did Seri just have the bad luck to stumble across one her stepmother apparently keeps around the place like feral pets?”
“You think Arabesque would punish her like that?” I pushed off the counter, moving to stand beside him.
“Please don’t say the word punish right now,” he rasped, slamming the junk drawer shut and looking for something else to organize so he could focus on anything other than what was going on behind his ribs right now.
Since I was struggling with that myself, I decided to help him out.
“Utensil drawer. Two over, one down from the oven. Serving spoons are a mess.”
The man coordinated cutlery the same way he’d paint by number with an eyelash: Meticulously.
“Arabesque’s capable of worse,” he said as he pounced on the jumbled ladles. “But rogues? They don’t exactly have table manners, nor do they leave survivors accidentally.”
A door closed overhead, and the thump of Zane’s boots coming down the stairs meant she’d been safely deposited in bed.
“You think that was part of the bargain to get Seri to agree to this marriage? Do it or be eaten by rogues?”
“Most likely.” The muscle in the side of Cas’ jaw flexed twice. “You’ve heard the same stories I have. Arabesque isn’t the cookie-baking, lullaby-singing kind of stepmom.”
The door swung open, and Zane sauntered in, his hair standing up everywhere. He had a way of moving that was always a little too casual, a little too deliberate. Just like his mouth, spewing sarcasm constantly to prove he didn’t care. But his eyes gave him away. They were sharp, always watching.
He snagged an apple from the fruit bowl, the one Cas had arranged in color wheel perfection earlier, and ate half in one bite.
“Brummy’s guarding her door like a fuzzy sentinel. Also, old news flash, Einsteins—” he jabbed the apple at us, “—walls aren’t soundproof when you’re part bat.”
“Eavesdropping’s rude,” I muttered.
“So’s not sharing the juicy conspiracy theories.” He hopped onto the counter, legs swinging. “C’mon. Spill.”
I leaned both palms on the island. Seri’s face flickered in my mind: sunken cheeks, dark circles under eyes too old for nineteen.
“We need the full story. What really happened at the Bell farm, why she agreed to marry three strangers—”
“Contract required willing consent,” Casimir said flatly as he intercepted the apple core Zane tossed toward the sink midair and added it to the compost bin.
“ ‘Sign here to escape your abusive Dark witch step-mommy or die in a ditch after she drains you dry.’ Very hard choice,” Zane snorted.
“She wasn’t just running. That whisperbind or whatever it is that Arabesque slapped on her? The way she looks at Brumous?” My fist hit the marble. “There’s layers here. Rot we’re not seeing.”
Casimir rubbed his knuckle between his eyes.
“We’ll ask her tomorrow. Straight questions, no bullshit.”
“And if she can’t answer?” Zane’s smirk didn’t reach his eyes. He spun a knife from the block, showy twirl, all street-magician flair. “Magic muzzles tend to come with teeth, big brother.”
Something warm and furry brushed my hip.
“Brumster!” Zane sighed with mock frustration. “You’re supposed to be on watch upstairs!”
“Seems he wants some guy time.” I scratched behind his notched ear.
“He smells the food,” Cas said dismissively.
“We need to get some things for him,” I decided. “Toys. Things to chew.”
Brumous glanced at me, ears flattened in apology for existing. His ribs still poked through patchy fur, but three square meals today, plus however many goodies Zane kept sneaking him, seemed to have given him a little extra energy. Enough, at least, for him to come downstairs himself.
Staring into his eyes, I had a thought.
“Maybe we can ask someone else who was there.”
Silence.
Casimir’s laugh was a sharp, bitter bark.
“He’s a wolf, Koa. A damaged, half-grown pup at that.”
“He’s a dire wolf,” I corrected. Brumous licked my wrist, tail thumping. “Arabesque did something to him. Stole his voice, maybe his memories. But the framework’s still there.”
“Oh, hell, no.” Zane froze mid-knife-spin. “You don’t—”
“Telepathy bypasses words.” I locked eyes with him over Brumous’ head. “You’re the only one who can slip into his mindscape.”
The knife clattered to the floor.
“Four problems.” Z ticked fingers. “One: Ever tried navigating a scrambled brain? It’s like doing parkour in a funhouse. Two: What if I get stuck? Three: What if he doesn’t want me in there?” His voice spiraled higher. “Four: What if I see something I can’t handle?”
“We’ll be here for you. Like always.” I patted Brumous’ head gently. “Now, let’s ask him if he’s willing.”
“He does not have the capacity for consent,” Cas scoffed.
“I don’t believe that, but even if he doesn’t, we should still ask him first,” I insisted. “We should still try to respect his boundaries.”
“Boundaries? Koa! He. Is. A. Wolf!”
“He. Is. Ours!” The growl ripped out of me before I could leash it, and Brumous whined, pressing hard against me. “However much Arabesque broke him, he’s still Seri’s. That means ours. We don’t violate that. Not even for answers.”
“Look, I’m all for magical espionage, Ko, but have you seen how he flinches at loud noises?” Zane sighed. “How he hides under Seri’s chair when we talk too loud?”
“Wounds don’t heal in the dark, bro,” I pointed out.
And Zane looked Brumous. Really looked him. At the way his nostrils flared tracking Seri’s scent upstairs, at the protective hunch when Cas shifted from one foot to the other, at his soulful blue eyes.
“We’ll ask him,” he agreed at last.
“Ours or not, I’m telling you, he’s just a wolf.” Cas threw up his hands.
“And you’re just a prick,” Zane shot back, “but we still tolerate you.”
“What if this goes sideways?” Cas grunted.
“I’ll pull out.” Zane’s smile was fragile, and I paused. Maybe this was a bad idea.
“Is your pull-out game strong?” I asked to test him.
“It’s as non-existent as yours, bro,” he sassed.
“At least I’m confident enough in my masculinity to brag about my V-card.”
“This is the dumbest conversation ever,” Cas muttered as red scored the tips of his ears. He squared his already rigid shoulders. “Even if we link with the pup, how does it help Seri? Arabesque’s spell still silences her tighter than—”
“Unless it doesn’t,” I cut Cas off as an idea hit me like a backhand. “Telepathy isn’t speech. If Zane can navigate Brumous’ cracked marbles—”
“Wait.” Z rocked back on his heels. “Now you want me to dig through Seri’s memory dumpster? What do I look like, some psychic raccoon?”
“Yes to both.”
“Ha! Finally a stupid stunt that Z balks at!” Cas cracked.
“Only with her consent, dumbass.” My fist clenched. “But if Brumous witnessed things—”
“Assuming Wolfward McFurpants even has coherent memories under all that damage.” Zane snagged the sugar bowl off of the counter, lifted the lid, and peered inside. “And assuming he doesn’t explode my cerebral cortex with third-hand trauma.”
“You survived Dad’s ‘interrogation techniques’ at twelve.” I shrugged. “How much worse could fractured wolf brain be?”
The refrigerator hummed. Outside, an owl screeched. Upstairs, mattress springs creaked nearly soundlessly under Seri’s restless turns.
“Just see what’s possible with this guy first,” I said.
“And when Princess Sleeps-a-lot wakes up?” Zane tossed sugar cubes into his mouth one by one. “You’ll just go, ‘Hey Seri, mind if Z roots through your subconscious while you sip chamomile?’ ”
“We’ll phrase it politely,” I said.
Casimir snorted.
“All right, Koala Bear, but when this backfires?” Sitting down the sugar bowl, Zane plucked a leftover steak slice from the platter, grease glistening on his thumb. “You’re explaining to Seri why her puppy’s howling at taxidermy documentaries.”
“Since you’re both sooo sure, let’s do this.” Cas shook his finger at Zane, then Brumous. “But if either of you barfs rainbows this time, I’m charging cleanup fees.”
#
Moving into the living room, I sank into an armchair. Cas stood by the window, his arms crossed, his expression a mask of skepticism.
“This is a waste of time,” he muttered.
“Come on, Cas,” Zane said, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “Lighten up. It’s just a little steak.”