Chapter 17
AN OLD FRIEND
The wild rogue bursts from the ventilation tunnel, the grill clattering to the floor. Omar and I jump back.
“Watch out!” he calls, but it’s no use.
I’m right in the path of the rogue. His heavy paws land with a thud on my shoulders, the claws managing to dig in enough for me to cry out in pain.
He barrels forward, knocking me over. Luckily, inertia is my friend, and the momentum carries him forward, flipping him over me and sending him rolling onto the concrete floor behind.
I struggle to my feet as Omar steps in front of me, placing an arm across my chest to hold me back, or maybe as a barrier between the rogue and me. Snarling, the mangy wolf gets to his feet. But he’s struggling.
Who’s to say how long he’s been cooped up in that tunnel?
Maybe his limbs need a second to wake up.
Or maybe, he’s weak. He’s clearly malnourished.
His ribs are visible through the gaps in his patchy fur.
His stomach and waist are dramatically thinner than his chest. His cheeks are hollow.
Perhaps it’s his hunger that’s making saliva drip in long, viscous strands from his pulled-back lips.
He growls at us, snapping his lips.
“Stay back,” Omar commands, and I notice the fur sprouting on the back of his neck, the claws growing from the beds of his fingernails. He’s about to shift to fight this creature.
The rogue lunges but we dodge him. He’s not so fast now that he doesn’t have the benefit of surprise. One of his back legs seems to dangle at a weird angle and he struggles to put weight on it.
“He’s injured,” I say, eliciting a bark and a yelp from the creature. If he wasn’t threatening to pull our flesh off the bone with his still-sharp fangs I’d almost feel sorry for him. “He’s in pain.”
Omar steps forward with a hand out flat, trying to calm the beast.
“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay—” His back straightens, and he leans forward, sniffing, scenting something about this wolf. “Malachi?”
The rogue snarls and shakes his head like he has water in his ears.
“I think that’s Malachi,” Omar says to me, then he turns back to the rogue. “Hey man, you remember me? It’s Omar. Remember?”
He growls again, snapping but also backing up a few steps. Even though he clearly wants to hurt us, part of him is also reticent, or maybe scared.
Omar takes another step forward. “We’re here to help. Just calm down, okay pal?”
Malachi backs up further, growling and barking.
“Can you do something?” Omar asks, looking at me with desperate eyes. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t freak and do something stupid.”
I nod and Omar takes another step forward, putting his full body between me and Malachi. With a quick breath, I pull my shoulders back and close my eyes. I open my mind and look for Malachi’s consciousness, his thread. Once located I pull it toward myself and enter his mind.
Pain erupts from all directions, making me cry out.
Monstrous, grating sounds wail and squawk from all around, each louder than the next.
I see the world as Malachi sees it, a mess of bioluminescent fog clouding his vision, blood red seeping from the corners.
I’ve never communed with a mind so scattered and deranged.
He’s clearly messed up, hurting, terrified, and raging all at once.
So I do what I can to calm him down.
“Your name is Malachi,” I try to say to him, hoping to bring him back to himself. “Your name is Malachi and you are in control. We’re here to help you. Please. Remember yourself, Malachi. Remember.”
The barrage of clanging, screeching sounds begins to quieten. The fog lifts, the blood red retracting in the distant corners of his peripheral vision.
Back in the real world I can tell Malachi is also growing quiet, his snarls turning to whimpers. I open my eyes and his wolf has settled. Slowly, his transformation begins. His fur dissipates, his claws and fangs retract, his bones crack, making me flinch as they rearrange themselves.
Omar hurries to a large piece of machinery in the corner and pulls a dusty length of cloth off it, then wraps it around Malachi’s shoulders. When he steps back, I take in the frail shape of a broken man, kneeling before us.
He’s as skinny and sunken looking in human form, his eye sockets deep craters, his collarbones protruding through his skin.
His hair is a long, gray, tangled mess, his face creased with deep wrinkles and marked with scabs and bruises.
With one hand he holds the cloth tightly around himself, the other he presses into the floor as if he’s struggling to stay upright.
“You’re safe now,” Omar says, kneeling by his old friend, rubbing his back.
Malachi takes a few labored breaths, then looks up to meet eyes with Omar.
“Th-th-thank you,” he chokes out, voice hoarse.
“Don’t sweat it.”
Half an hour later, the sun has almost set, the sky arches from a pale orange sunset to a deep navy blue.
We sit outside with Malachi on the metal steps that lead to the second floor.
Once his friend came back to himself, Omar went to the car and found some clothes for him, though he’s so rake thin they hang baggy on him.
He still clutches the piece of cloth around his shoulders like he’s scared of the cold.
“I still can’t believe you’re really here,” Malachi says, leaning on the railing and gazing in wonder at Omar.
His voice now that it’s warmed up a little is soft, like the words form in the back of his throat in a nest of cotton wool.
His spindly fingers close around Omar’s knee.
Omar, who’s sitting on the step behind Malachi, places his hand on top of the old man’s.
“I’m just sorry we couldn’t do more sooner. What . . . what happened?”
This faraway look clouds Malachi’s expression.
“I wasn’t sure if I would ever make it back,” he says, coughing a little. “I got so lost.”
He shakes his head, his eyes turning pink.
“You,” he says, turning to me. “You brought me back.”
I’m sitting a couple of steps down, with my knees up to my chest, turned to face them.
“I’m just glad I could help,” I say. “How are you feeling?”
Malachi coughs a bit, thumping his chest with the end of his closed fist. “Still a little rattled, but I’ll be right as rain soon. Never thought I’d meet a blood wolf, though, did I?”
“Can you tell us more about what happened here?” Omar says, pushing gently. “Why were you hiding?”
Malachi clutches the cloth a little tighter, rubbing his free hand on his knee.
“First they showed up at my place, but I know those woods like the back of my paw. I could smell them coming from a mile off. I got out. Came here where I knew there was safety in numbers. But then . . .” His pink eyes turn glassy.
“I couldn’t believe how many of them there were.
They showed up here with no other goal than complete and utter devastation.
A few of us fought back. Some of us ran or tried to hide.
Eventually, they’d either sent us running or dragged those of us who remained into their trucks.
We were done in. I was the only one left behind they didn’t find.
I hadn’t left that tunnel since the attack. ”
“When was this?” I ask.
“Hard to say. Long enough that I lost myself in my wolf form. Every night as I lay curled up in there all I could see were the wolves they hurt. I fell asleep with their screams in my ears. At some point that was all I could see or hear. Time lost meaning.”
Omar shuffles on his step. “Must have been at least a week or two ago now. Their scents are too faint for it to be more recent.”
I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Malachi, hiding in that tunnel, stuck, trapped in his wolf form and too panicked to shift back.
“They’re coming for all of us now,” Malachi says, “the pack wolves. They’re going to destroy us.”
“Not all pack wolves,” I say.
Despite the reverence with which he addressed me earlier he looks at me skeptically, as if I might be one of the pack wolves he’s talking about.
“What are two doing out here anyways? Thought you’d be at the Sanc by now,” Malachi says, mostly to Omar.
“I was. But things got complicated,” he replies. “And the wolves who attacked you, they’re planning something big.”
“What’s that then?”
“They want to destroy my pack,” I say. “Or control it. Either way, the wolves who did this, they’re after us as well.”
“And why’s that brought you out to rogue territory?”
“We need the rogues’ help. If we’re going to fight back and defend ourselves, we need the rogues to stand with us.”
He scoffs. “Pack wolves wanting to fight alongside rogues? Now that’s an idea I’ve never heard before.”
Omar jumps in. “We thought we might find rogues with influence here. We need to speak with the rogue leaders.”
“Never thought I’d see you working with a pack either,” Malachi says, a judgmental edge to his voice.
“What happened here is happening in other places,” Omar says.
“The wolves who are attacking Max’s pack are the same wolves coming after the rogues.
I may never be able to fully trust the pack system again, but for right now, we have a common enemy.
And Max’s mate . . . well, he’s in charge of their pack right now and .
. .” Omar looks at me, speaking through clenched teeth: “He’s a good man.
I trust that he’ll do right by the rogues if we stand with him. ”
For a moment, Malachi nods his head slowly, taking it all in. It’s clear his distrust for the packs runs deep, it must if he spent the last forty years living alone.
Eventually, he smacks his lips and pats Omar’s knee encouragingly. “If you say these pack wolves want to help us, I trust your word. But I’m afraid I don’t know what I can do to help. I’m not much of a fighter these days.”
“That’s okay,” Omar says. “You’ve done enough.”
“What’s the next step in your plan?” Malachi asks.
“First, we need to get you someplace safe. I know of a settlement a few hours from here. We’ll head there next and see if they can direct us to more rogue camps.”