Chapter Twenty-Eight
TWENTY-EIGHT
“You’re glaring at the sky,” Eleonore pointed out on the evening of the October full moon.
Ben scowled. He was. The sun was setting, and moonrise would soon be upon them. He couldn’t believe how fast the days had been passing, but between his business, Eleonore’s shows, and Gigi’s rapidly escalating mayoral campaign, there had been little time to catch his breath.
There had been a few moments, though—pauses for dinner and Star Trek and morbid facts, an afternoon installing a training dummy in the backyard, sweet interludes for kisses. The famed Glimmer Falls Autumn Festival had begun, and he’d been delighted to escort Eleonore to baking competitions and magic shows around town. They’d gone to an outdoor craft fair that morning, and she’d inadvertently become a hit with the local schoolchildren when she’d gotten a fang stuck in a caramel apple—the sight of a ferocious vampire struggling with sweets had been hilarious to the under-ten crowd, and though he wasn’t sure if she’d deliberately played up her distress for them, he’d spied a secretive smile on her lips afterward.
It had been a fun, hilarious morning, but then he’d had to go to work, and now the day was slipping away, and with it Ben’s good mood.
“Shifting is a waste of time,” he said. “All that running around and howling at things.” He could be balancing the books at the Emporium or finishing a scarf or kissing Eleonore until her eyes were hazed with desire.
Those eyes were fixed on him now, sharp and alert from where she sat on the couch. He’d arrived home a few minutes ago to find her stuffing paper-wrapped objects into a soft carry-on bag. Assuming it was part of her performance, which evolved in new and surprising ways each week, he hadn’t asked questions.
“Glaring won’t make the moon rise any faster,” she said.
Ben sighed gustily. “I wish it would make the moon not rise at all.” He glowered at the bloody streaks painting the sky to the west.
“I suspect that would have a detrimental impact on the planet,” Eleonore said. “Though I have not researched it.”
“Maybe this time the rabbits will know better than to hop in front of me,” he said with no real hope. If there was one constant he’d noticed over the years, it was that rabbits were shockingly stupid.
She nodded. “Yes, you told me you prefer your meat prekilled.”
Well, that made him sound like a hypocrite. “It shouldn’t bother me,” he said. “I eat meat from the store. Isn’t it more ethical to do the hunting myself?” Except a package of chicken breasts didn’t have soft, innocent eyes. It didn’t quiver in terror when he popped out of the bushes. It didn’t shriek when he bit into it.
He rubbed his stomach, feeling sick.
The best nights were when he didn’t catch anything at all, instead nibbling on berries and seeds. It was why he tried to eat a full meal before shifting to make his wolf stomach less empty. He’d reheat some leftover pasta soon and eat as much as he could stand.
“Not everyone is a hunter.” Eleonore’s shrug was reflected in the window, and he turned to face her again, putting his back to the oncoming night. “We would be a limited society if that’s all people were skilled at.”
“Unfortunately, my wolf instincts don’t love the idea of sitting and quietly knitting.”
She nodded, then raised the bag. “I’ve been researching wolf diets, and I’ve created something you should be able to eat without feeling sad.”
He blinked. The bag…was for him?
Eleonore busied herself taking out the things she’d stuffed into it, laying a series of paper-wrapped objects on the coffee table. “These contain venison,” she said, pointing at three thick rectangles loosely tied with twine. “I figure your claws or teeth will get through the paper.”
He gaped at her. “You cooked venison for me?” He’d smelled an ominous hint of smoke in the air when he’d returned from work, but he hadn’t expected this .
Eleonore grimaced. “I tried, but it was…not successful. Raw meat is probably better for wolves anyway.”
He rubbed his sternum, feeling a rush of warm, nearly unbearable affection. “Eleonore, this is so sweet. Thank you.”
She was still fussing with paper-wrapped packages. “This one has a mix of nuts and seeds,” she said, “and this one has apples, carrots, and assorted fruit.” She gave him a tiny smile. “And I did manage to cook a can of chili successfully so you can have dinner beforehand.”
Ben was going to do one of several different things, though he wasn’t sure which: cry, laugh, or throw himself at her feet. Possibly a combination of all three.
He was moving before his mind had made itself up. He didn’t fling himself on the ground, but he did wrap her in his arms and lift her off the couch, squeezing her tightly as he rocked back and forth. Then he buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent as his eyes prickled. “You listened when I told you about the moonshift.”
“I always listen to you,” she said, voice muffled in his neck.
And she did. She drank in his lessons about the modern world and remembered details about his friends he’d forgotten he’d told her, and now she had created an entire werewolf care package to send him into the forest with.
“You are the absolute best,” he said.
She squirmed, and he finally put her down. “Definitely not,” she said, though she looked pleased, “but I’m glad you like it. Next month I’ll try to rig up a harness so you can carry the food with you when you’re running.” She cocked her head, considering. “Or maybe you could take me with you so I can plant food at strategic points throughout the night.”
He grinned, all of a sudden liking the idea of running if it meant pursuing the flash of her red hair through the woods. “We’ll brainstorm. Either way, having a stash of food to return to is a great idea. I’m not sure it’ll stop me if something darts in front of me, but it will definitely help.” He hesitated. “I still wish I liked shifting more.”
Eleonore sat on the couch and patted the cushion. “Talk to me.”
“I already talked to you about this last time,” he said, joining her. “We won’t be covering new ground.”
She shrugged. “Maybe not, but you were the one who told me it’s important to let things out rather than stewing on them.”
Hoisted by his own petard…whatever that meant. But she was right, and it was easier to have someone else give you permission to let out frustrations. Maybe they wouldn’t cover new ground, but it was nice to talk about his hesitations openly after so long pretending he was a typical werewolf.
“You know I’m anxious,” he said.
There was no judgment on her face as she nodded.
“Well, it’s not just an occasional thing,” he said. “I have panic attacks, but it’s more than that. It’s why I stay so busy—if I’m always working, my brain has so much to think about that there’s less room for bad thoughts.”
“What kind of bad thoughts?” she asked.
He had jumped straight past the moonshift, he realized. Well, maybe that was for the best. It was one thing to say, “I don’t like to lose control,” and another to admit that his brain was actively sabotaging him almost every day of his life. He bit his lip, embarrassed, but she deserved this truth if she was going to stay in his life.
Lycaon, he hoped she wanted to stay in his life.
“I often think I’m a fraud or a failure,” he said through a tight throat. “Like everyone hates me or there’s no point to my existence. Or that I’m not enough of a man or a werewolf, that there’s something wrong with me for not enjoying brawling or hunting or one-night stands.” Intrusive thoughts that played like a song on repeat, and the frustrating part was that even though he knew they weren’t true—well, sort of knew, most of the time—that didn’t stop them from ringing through his head.
Eleonore’s expression stayed patient and understanding, so Ben kept going, even though it mortified him to do so.
“If I’m not exhausted when I go to bed,” he continued, “I end up lying awake in the dark for hours, worrying about everything from the Emporium to stupid things I did twenty years ago.” On nights like that the past was paved with regret, while the future spread out before him in a tangle of twisting paths, any one of which might drop him off the edge of a cliff.
His brain had always been like that, even when he was a child. He’d worried about the thousand horrible outcomes that were possible if he made the wrong choices. The wrong classes, the wrong school, the wrong job, the wrong place to live, the wrong everything.
The wrong Ben Rosewood.
“You aren’t a failure,” Eleonore said. “And no one hates you.”
“Cynthia Cunnington does.”
She waved a hand. “She probably hates the clouds for raining on her. I’d be more worried if she liked you.”
He cracked a smile at that. “True.”
“You’re a complicated man,” Eleonore said. When he grimaced, she clarified. “In a good way. You’re thoughtful and diligent, and you don’t force yourself to fit the stereotype of the overly aggressive macho man.”
“Thanks?” He found toxic masculinity abhorrent, but a small part of him might have liked to be considered a “macho man” nonetheless.
Eleonore’s mouth tipped into an expression of distaste. “I’ve spent too much time around petty tyrants—people with huge egos and small hearts who take their misery out on others. Battlefields are full of men who would tear apart the world to prove their strength.”
Her eyes had gone distant, and he wondered what memory she was revisiting. She had lived a life of violence, too, but she didn’t puff up her chest and brag about it. It hadn’t even been a choice for much of her existence.
“Those men’s lives are brief and bloody, and they die as small and alone as they always were inside,” she continued. “There’s nothing unique in that. I think true strength is in breaking from the stereotype to be a complex, thoughtful man.” Her eyes refocused on him, and she smiled gently. “The kind of man who enjoys knitting and deep conversations. One who can admit he doesn’t like harming woodland creatures.”
“I don’t think my friends and family like harming woodland creatures,” he said, feeling the need to defend other werewolves who hunted on instinct. “I just don’t think they worry about it the way I do. They see it as part of the cycle of nature. It’s like how people who hunt their own food and use every part of the animal are living more sustainably than people who only buy factory-farmed beef at the grocery store.” His parents lived in that deliberate manner, bringing home whatever was left of their prey to be repurposed so the sacrifice of a life didn’t go to waste. Ben couldn’t even go fishing without feeling guilty about the fish flopping on the line yet had no problem buying prepackaged salmon—albeit sustainably sourced—so didn’t that make him worse than his werewolf brethren?
“And they are free to hunt down rabbits and deer if they choose,” Eleonore said. “Just as you are free to eat prepackaged meat and berries if you choose.” She shrugged. “The world is too large for everyone to be the same.”
What she was saying made sense, but he still felt the sting of shame. “Diet aside, I wish I could enjoy being a werewolf as much as everyone else.”
She tucked her legs under her. “Besides the hunting, what about it bothers you?”
He spoke slowly, trying to explain a feeling he’d never confessed to another person. “I told you I work constantly to wear myself out so I can’t think about the wrong things. It’s my way of controlling my brain. I have a schedule and habits and I try to think rationally whenever I can. But when I’m a wolf…there is no schedule. There’s no rational thought. There’s just this aggressive energy, and part of what’s scary is that it feels good. I run for miles under the moonlight and howl like a maniac and can’t resist sniffing things and scratching inappropriately. It’s all instinct, and while I’m transformed, there’s this primal joy. But after I shift back, I feel sick.”
“Sick?”
It was frustrating trying to explain this when he didn’t understand it himself. He ran a hand through his hair, one leg jogging rapidly. “I feel embarrassed that I lost control. Or maybe afraid. What happens if I do something horrible as a wolf? What if I…I don’t know…piss all over City Hall or trample an endangered species or eat a baby or something?”
Eleonore looked taken aback for the first time during this conversation. “Is eating babies a common werewolf behavior?”
“Not even slightly,” Ben said with a ragged half chuckle. “But see? That’s how my thoughts spiral. I start seeing the absolute worst outcome, even if it’s ludicrous.” If he spent the moonshift publicly scratching his balls—something human Ben would never do—he worried he would end up accidentally eating an infant. If his business didn’t turn a profit one week, he was certain he’d end up dying alone in a gutter.
“Have you talked to anyone about this?” Eleonore asked. “Besides me, that is.”
“I’ve gone to therapy. It’s been a few years, though—I got too busy with the Emporium. And I was able to tell the therapist how my anxiety manifests at work or with my family, but I was always too embarrassed to talk about being a self-loathing werewolf.” He didn’t know a single pixie who regretted their wings or a centaur who would trade galloping for walking on two feet. “Do you ever mind drinking blood?”
Eleonore shrugged. “No, because I couldn’t live without it. I have my own problems, though.”
“The curse,” he said, feeling guilty for complaining about something so minor when she had been mystically entrapped for centuries. “I’m sorry, you must think I’m so selfish—”
Eleonore reached forward and lightly pinched his lips closed, cutting off the sentence. “I will speak to my own thoughts, thank you.”
He subsided at her authoritative tone. She released him, and when he didn’t speak, she nodded approvingly. “I also fear losing control,” she said. “Or not fear it, but despise it in myself. When I lash out or get angry beyond reason, it feels like there’s some vicious, small creature in my chest I have no control over.”
“That’s a trauma response, though,” he said. “You only lash out when you get triggered.”
She shrugged. “I also naturally have a temper. It isn’t my finest trait.”
“But I have no reason to be anxious,” he persisted. “My family is great. My life is great.”
“I don’t think you have to have a reason. You can be born that way, or maybe life has shaped you that way, but it’s nothing to explain away or be embarrassed about.” She worried her lower lip with one sharp fang. “My father was prone to dark moods,” she said after a pause. “Weeks or months where he would feel despair over everything and nothing in particular. His father was the same, and some of his cousins as well. It was a private battle they all fought. Eventually the joy would emerge again—it always did—but we never judged him for those dark periods. We loved him through them.”
We loved him through them. “Oh, Eleonore,” he said, struck by the simple beauty of the phrase. “That’s downright profound.”
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I know.” Then she smiled, softening the declaration into a joke. “The point is, we’re all fighting invisible battles. My father struggled with sorrow—clinical depression, I believe you term it now. I have problems with rage and acting on impulse. You’re full of worries.” She shrugged. “I don’t think it means any of us are broken.”
How shrewdly she sliced to the core of the issue. Because yes, that was exactly what Ben had told himself. That he was broken. That he was wrong .
What she told him felt like absolution.
Except maybe she was right, and there was nothing to be absolved for. Maybe it was okay that he wasn’t like every other werewolf.
The moon was tugging, calling him to the forest. He needed to scarf down the chili and run out the door, but he needed to let her know how much her support meant first. “You’ve given me a lot to think about,” he said, cupping her cheek. He kissed her, soft and slow, eyes closed against the setting sun. “Thank you.”
She patted his shoulder briskly once the kiss was over. “Better you introspecting than me.” Then she snapped her fingers. “Oh! I had another idea.”
All her ideas had been amazing so far. “Yeah?”
“If you have an excess of carnal urges when you get back, would you like me to bite you?”
He blinked, startled. She hadn’t fed from him since that first time, and he’d been quietly dying wondering when it would happen next. “Why specifically then?” he asked. “Obviously the answer is yes, but I might smell bad.” He grimaced. “Sometimes I roll in things I shouldn’t.”
“You were unhappy after the last full moon,” she said. “So this time I’ll bite you and drink your blood until you’re happy, and then you can fall asleep easily.” She nodded decisively.
A brilliant idea. Way better than self-loathing combined with melatonin and whale noises. “Absolutely,” he said.
With that to look forward to, he actually wanted the moon to rise.