Chapter 23
THE ECHO OF BLOOD WOLVES PAST
I wake early to the sound of roosters and blearily rub my forehead.
I thought that was only something that happened in movies, but I guess the idea had to come from somewhere.
Sitting up, I take a better look around the room.
The ceiling is high, with a rattan fan dangling from the central rafter.
The wallpapered walls are peeling in a couple of spots.
On the antique-looking rocking chair in the corner is a creepy-ass doll.
Was that thing there all night?
A shiver runs down my spine, but I shake it off and throw back the covers.
Floorboards creak under my feet as I creep to the bathroom, then downstairs.
The house is silent. The air, though already warming up, is pleasantly chill. Pale morning light slips in through the windows. Downstairs is completely charming. A proper homey farmstead, with some grand antiques thrown in for good measure.
I’m not sure why but something pulls me toward the kitchen. It’s not hunger—my grumbly stomach has yet to wake up, though he will soon and I just hope and pray there is some bacon or maybe waffles on the cards.
When I arrive, I notice the back door is open, the screen door is closed but hasn’t clicked into the latch.
I move to it and stare through the wire netting.
Out back is where we sat and ate last night.
The firepit is black and gray and looks cold now.
A fine layer of dew rests on the grass like a dusting of sugar, and there are more willows and pines as the property stretches downhill.
Without thinking I push the screen door open and step outside.
The grass is soft under my feet. I wonder for a second if I should run back upstairs and put my shoes on, but there’s something nice about the feel of the blades bending under me, cushioning my steps.
I feel the energy of this place, of the earth, rising up through me, and whatever force is pulling me continues to do so.
Pushing hanging branches from my path, I meander through the trees. The air smells so clean and fresh, even without my daily dose of caffeine I feel my senses awakening.
Eventually, I come to a dense patch of what I can confidently now call forest, moving the last few branches out of my way and arriving at the edge of a small hill.
The grass stops, leaving soil and roots exposed.
Below me is a clearing, the ground covered in leaves and pine needles.
Across it I spot Mal, kneeling with her back to me, a wicker basket at her side, and in front of her is a jagged piece of rock sticking vertically from the ground.
It looks like a tombstone.
Using a nearby branch for balance, I trip and stumble my way down the short but steep incline and arrive in the clearing.
Mal doesn’t move, but a subtle shift in her energy, the way a couple of loose stands of silver hair shift on her shoulder, lets me know she knows I’m here.
For a while I stand silently, not wanting to disturb this peaceful moment, until finally Mal reaches up and places a hand on the top of the stone, rubbing her thumb over a groove.
“This was his family home,” she says, without turning. “That’s why we came back here.”
“I get it.” I shift forward a little awkwardly, trying to keep my voice soft to match the mood. “This place is pretty magical.”
“Even though the pack he was born into didn’t want him,” Mal continues, her voice wavering just a little. “He still wanted to come back.”
I step forward again, wanting to reach out but keeping my hands at my sides.
“I’m so sorry.”
She bows her head but turns it slightly so I can see her eyes.
“He liked you, you know.”
“He did?”
She nods. “Thought you could make a difference.”
I pick at the skin around my nails, resisting the old, familiar urge to rub the back of my neck.
“I would like to. I want to.”
Mal’s shoulders rise as she takes a long, thought-filled breath.
“After your packmates invaded the Sanctuary, Kairos asked if we could leave. He knew his time was running out and he wanted to end his days in a place that felt like home.”
She’s turned back to his tombstone, staring at it as if she can see him standing there.
“I’ve never had a place that felt like home, until the Sanctuary.”
Now she turns completely, and her face is ashen.
“But that home was taken from me. Invaded by the pack wolves you’ve come here to ask me to help save.”
My lip is trembling for some reason, one of my legs beginning to shake.
“I thought . . .” My mind is a big, jumbled mess. “When you called me here, I thought—”
“Your mind was compromised, Blood Wolf. You let that monster get to you. I felt it from here, clear as day.”
“I wasn’t prepared—I didn’t expect—”
She waves her hand like she’s shooing away a bug.
“If you want to be the blood wolf and fight for your pack, you will need to get prepared. I stepped in to stop further calamity. But I gave no word that I could be of further assistance.”
Pressing against her knees for leverage, she begins to stand. Quickly, I move to help her. She nods at the stick on the ground, which I collect and hand to her, the papery skin of her finger brushing against mine, then I grab her basket.
At the base of the tombstone sits what looks like a slice of apple pie and piece of raw steak.
“His favorite,” Mal says, noticing me looking.
I follow Mal’s lead as we begin the slow walk back to the house.
“I’m sorry for everything that happened last year and I’m sorry about Kairos,” I say, happy to plead if need be. “But without the rogues on our side Walter is too powerful. We’ll fall.”
“Like many great packs before yours.”
“People will get hurt.”
She glances at me as we emerge from the tree line.
“People always get hurt, Blood Wolf.”
I stop as she continues walking a few steps more.
“Is that it then? People get hurt and I’m supposed to accept that?”
Mal stops as well and turns to me, leaning heavily on her stick. The house that Kairos grew up in stands behind her. Tall, proud, a monument to his legacy.
“No,” Mal says. “You mustn’t. But this is your battle, Max. Not mine and not the rogues’.”
“You don’t care then?”
“Packs have been fighting for centuries.” She shrugs. “It’s what they do and what they will continue to do. I won’t risk more lives because of an inevitability.”
I shake my head in disbelief. Sure, she’s grieving. And I know, I know, she’s been through enough shit. But I can’t believe she would just let people get hurt like this.
“Then how are we supposed to change things?” I say, stepping forward, tears surprisingly springing into my eyes. “If no one will help us lift the hammer, how are we supposed to break the chain?”
Mal’s eyes narrow, like she’s looking through my chest and rib cage to the very heart of me.
“You believe this mate of yours, this young alpha, is really capable of making change?”
“Yes.” Spit flies from my mouth.
“Then you’re a fool.”
Mal turns and, without looking back, crosses the yard and disappears inside the house.
My teeth chatter and my fingers dig into the palms of my hands.
Has this whole trip, my whole mission to recruit the rogues to fight at our side come to this? To nothing? Maybe I am a fool. A fool to think anyone would look beyond their narrow field of vision to help someone else.
I try to sniff back the tears, but they fall anyway.
“Ah, there you are,” Agatha says, coming around the side of the house carrying a couple of leafy branches and a selection of other weedy-looking plants in her arms. “I was wondering when I’d have a moment with you. Come on, I’m making a fresh brew.”
Agatha’s ignorance of my clearly fractured mental state might be intentional, she’s pretty switched on. But either way I can’t quite deal with the whiplash, so I remain where I am, frozen solid.
She stops at the door, looking back.
“You won’t solve anything just standing there.” She waves for me to join her. “Come have a gab.”
In the kitchen I sit at the farmhouse-style table with its chonky legs while Agatha goes about making some sort of tea. Honestly, this woman should have a tea shop on TikTok. The others still aren’t up, and Mal has vanished somewhere upstairs.
“You’ll have to excuse, Mal,” Agatha says. “Her mate’s passing has hit her harder than I think even she knows. She doesn’t mean to be so harsh.”
I snort. “I’m just trying to do what’s best for everyone. But it feels like everyone is refusing to get on the same page.”
Agatha drops some cloves in her pot and continues to stir.
“Packs and rogues have been at each other’s throats since the dawn of time,” she says. “I know your intentions are honorable, but you’re up against generations of distrust and pain. That’s a hard road to tread for any.”
“I’m the blood wolf,” I say, resting my head in my hands. “What is this power for if not to bridge those gaps?”
Slyly, she turns to look at me, then, most likely noticing my despondent expression, she leaves her pot and comes to sit next to me.
“You know, I’ve met a couple of blood wolves in my time.” She pulls a pendant dangling around her neck from beneath layers of clothing and her knitted scarf, a locket I’ve never noticed her wearing before. “My sister was one actually.”
“Oh, what, um, where is she now?”
Agatha takes a big breath. “She’s no longer with us, I’m afraid.”
“That’s horrible, I’m sorry.”
Gently, she unfastens the locket and opens it to look inside. With a tiny sigh she turns it so I can see. In the faded photograph is a woman who looks a lot like Agatha, but with lighter, straighter hair, a little younger, with a slimmer nose and catlike eyes.
“Jenny was her name,” she says.
“How did she . . . ? If you don’t mind talking about it.”