6. Wilder
Wilder
Willa drags us through two literal hours of questions until my brain is sore from trying to remember all the details about my new “boyfriend.”
Full name: Ozifer Rayvander Luzzi of House Luzzi.
Only son of Judet and Zavier Luzzi of Hearth Headquarters haven, who died when he was young, so he primarily grew up with his grandparents, Ichabod and Myanna.
Moved to Pine Gulch from Rainbow after a disastrous breakup with none other than Saint Ashbourne of House Ashbourne, a super old and renowned vampiric line.
Oz is currently a bartender working at almost every bar in town, depending on who needs him, and that’s how he met his pit hell Ginger, who hasn’t shown up yet tonight, although he doesn’t seem worried about it.
On and on it goes until my brain literally hurts, and a headache forms behind my eyes.
I was never scholarly, and I always wanted to be in the ring with the bulls or out on the range on horseback.
I’m more comfortable around a small group of tight-knit friends, although I left a lotta that behind when I quit ridin’ bulls.
Some of my friends stuck around. Most didn’t.
Willa finally releases us from academic duty around ten p.m., and I hit the bathroom for a shower. She’s gonna take over soon and put bottles of product everywhere, so this is the last time I’ll get to enjoy my quiet, clean little spot.
I’d tell her to go hit up a place in town, but realistically, she never likes to stay far from me.
We were inseparable as kids, and even now, it’s hard to fathom living away from her.
It wouldn’t surprise me at all if she joins me in Pine Gulch pretty fast, even though she loves Laporte, where we grew up.
Oz’s voice drifts through the wood door as I cut the shower water on. “Wilder Orpheus Lane, age sixty-two. Just retired from bull riding due to a shoulder injury. What’s up with that middle name, by the way? Orpheus? There’s a story. Dish, sister.”
Willa laughs and launches into the long tale of my ridiculous middle name.
Grimacing, I step into the cold shower and close the curtain, focusing on the running water instead of the voices outside the door.
It’s hard, because Oz’s voice carries as he repeats facts about me like he’s struggling to remember them.
When I’m done in the shower, I dress in the bathroom before going out. When I do, Oz and Willa are lying together in my bed. She’s got a photo album from home and she’s going through it, laughing hysterically.
“Is that Wilder?” Oz cackles and grabs the picture out of its paper frame.
Ugh. It’s a good idea for them to look at this to protect our fake relationship, but I hate the idea of him seeing all the pictures of my naked toddler butt waddling around the back porch of our ranch.
It’s like my whole life is being pored over in living color, and I don’t have control over any of it.
I return to the kitchen and take the spiked cider off the stovetop.
I find a glass canister to store it, pour it in and then put it in the fridge.
Gods, I truly did not foresee this turn of events, or I’d have rented a much larger cabin.
But at this point, it doesn’t make sense to do it, and it wouldn’t serve my purposes of making it seem like Oz and I are dating.
I’m well and truly stuck in this situation for at least two full weeks, maybe even three, depending on how the rest of the final negotiations go.
Cleaning up the kitchen takes me the better part of a half hour, Oz and Willa cackling like hyenas the whole time.
It’s not bugging me, I swear it’s not, but even so, I find myself longing for a minute of silence to process this sudden change.
Heading outside with my glass of cider, I slump into the rocking chair on the front porch and look off into the night.
My closest neighbor is just visible at the top of a small hill to my right. Off to the left, there’s nothing for a bit, the blue-hued mountains spiking high into the sky past that. They curve around the north and west corners of Pine Gulch like giant sentinels protecting this wild place.
Closing my eyes, I twitch my ears and listen to the songs of the world around me.
Crickets chirp. Somewhere, frogs croak as one jumps into a pond.
Off in the faint distance, merriment echoes from downtown.
I’m just far enough that it’s not loud, but if I really concentrate, I can hear it.
The Dance Hall plays music until two a.m., and my hearing’s just about good enough to make out the individual tunes.
Another sound reaches me, but it’s so faint I can barely pick it up. Cocking my head to the side, I hold my breath and twitch my pointed ears again.
Panting and the soft, rhythmic padding of paws.
The pit hell, maybe.
On cue, she jogs up the street and hooks a left through my front gate, mouth open with her pink tongue lolling out one side.
She’s darling, with the same broad jawline of a pitbull, but she’s easier to see with the hellhound’s traditional glowing red lines jagging all over her body, lighting up the red in her fur.
That broad pittie smile is still there, though.
She slows as she reaches the porch, walking up and stopping in front of me.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I murmur, laying my arm on my thigh with my fingers curled up.
Like before, she cowers like she’s expecting a slap, but wriggles toward me and licks my fingers.
She’s anxious, and it’s surprising considering the obvious hellhound in her genealogy.
I doubt the gargoyle’s the one who made her like this, not if they’re bonded.
It’s so rare, such a blessing, I’ve heard, to have a bonded hellhound.
Probably because they bond for life and they’re fierce protectors.
The famed dogs are mostly partnered with hunters who track down those monsters who put our hidden world at risk. Not all monsters love the haven system, and there have been the occasional few who even sought to tear it apart.
Either way, I’d love to see more confidence in this little gal.
“You need some snacks, pretty girl?” I lean forward and scratch beneath her chin. She leans into the touch but glances toward the door where Oz’s voice seeps through. Laughing, I reach for the handle and pull it open. She slinks through and disappears toward the back.
“Ginger, my sweetheart!” Oz shouts from the back. Bed springs creak, and Willa yips gleefully.
Ah, so it’s Ginger. We didn’t cover that earlier in the huge list of things Willa insisted we learn about one another.
My sister joins me on the porch a few minutes later, her glass of cider still in one hand. Leaning against the rustic railing, she cocks her head to the side and stares at me.
She’s reading me like always, that insane power she has to just know things about me.
Taking a sip of the cider, she keeps staring. I wait, knowing she’ll speak first. She always speaks first.
“You alright with this?” Jerking her head toward the door, she offers a faint smile. “He’s darling. You coulda done far worse, you know.”
I don’t know how good Oz’s hearing is. He’s a gargoyle, wired to be a protector even though it’s not a role he’s currently doing, it seems.
“Just comin’ to terms with it all.” I can say that much.
Willa grins at me. “It’s gonna be fine, big brother. It’s alllll gonna be fine.”
Hope fills me when Wills says that because she says it with such utter confidence.
I just wish I shared it.