Chapter 17
Lucian stood in the dusty festival parking lot, his ears still ringing with the sound of Goldie’s screeching tires.
He couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by the sheer devastation in her eyes.
The raw, gut-wrenching pain he had just witnessed was utterly at odds with the calculating, spell-casting witch Ellie had always described.
For the first time in a decade, the armor of his certainty cracked wide open.
He thought back to the conversation with Ellie and then with Goldie.
He began to question things—everything. His golden-brown eyes narrowed, and a deep, feral conviction rose in his chest: his jackal instincts screamed Ellie was lying.
He tried desperately to focus on the memory of the “proof”—the screenshotted texts that detailed the love spell.
But the image was warped, the words illegible, replaced by strange, unsettling flashes that he couldn’t place.
He tried to remember the exact images and the exact texts, but all he remembered was foggy.
Even the words in the text were blurry in his memory; he couldn’t remember what had been written.
The feeling hit him; he had just thought he had seen the proof.
He tried to wrap his head around how he could have known something all these years that wasn’t true.
Even now he felt this weird conviction that Goldie was guilty.
What kind of black magic did Ellie use on me? How could I not have known?
The realization of how flimsy his conviction was made his stomach clench.
He paused, his ears twitching, hearing someone call his name, the sound chirpy and too close.
His ears prickled as he realized it was Ellie’s voice, and the sound instantly grated on his nerves, fueling his growing suspicion.
He didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want to hear another single word from her mouth. He needed to get away and think. Now.
The crunch of gravel, barely audible underfoot, ceased as he melted into the darkness.
Before she could find him, he slipped to the treeline; he breathed in the cool, damp shadows.
His eyes darted, scanned the dusty parking lot.
Then he spotted her. A hot, prickling anger flared within him, his jaw clenching as he watched her.
Taking off his leather jacket and shirt, he felt the cool night air on his skin.
He dropped to his hands and knees, letting the pain and heat of the full shift take him, the brownish-blonde fur exploding across his body as he became his jackal.
Picking up his clothes with his mouth, he ran, a silent, powerful blur of fur through the parking lot, heading towards his truck. He didn’t look back.
He crept between the cars, dust and oil tickling his nostrils.
He kept the faint, sweet scent of her a whisper on the breeze, a guide for his escape.
Slowly, his paws walked the ground, his eyes scanning the shadowy spaces between the vehicles until the familiar, dented chrome of his truck glinted under a flickering lamp.
He unshifted in the shadows, the sound of bone cracking and reshaping filling the air.
The cool ground biting into his feet, he paused, the thought intruding: Should I turn back and go drive Ellie home?
The question felt hollow, a remnant of a loyalty he no longer trusted.
He decided, fuck it. He threw his pants on, pulling them roughly up his long legs, and climbed into the truck, slamming the door shut as he tossed the rest of his clothes on the passenger seat.
The tires spitting gravel as he sped up too quickly, he peeled out of the dirt parking lot.
On the way back he tried to recall seeing the proof again, desperately searching the archives of his mind, but no matter how much he tried his memory of that day was a fog.
He just thought he had seen the proof and couldn’t remember actually seeing it.
The chilling realization settled heavy and cold in his gut: the single piece of evidence that had defined the last ten years of his life was built on a false memory.
He drove home, gripping the steering wheel, consumed by the terrifying thought of why he couldn’t trust his own memory.
Did I see something and forget, or was there nothing to see?
The yellow glow of the living room light spilled onto the darkened driveway as he pulled up to the house, a stark contrast to the inky night.
A weary sigh escaped him, the sound heavy in the quiet air.
He could already feel the familiar dread creeping in, an icy knot tightening in his stomach.
He knew the air inside would be thick with unspoken expectations of a conversation he wasn’t ready to have.
His mind recoiled at the thought of forced conversation.
“You’re back early,” Carrie said, her voice laced with concern and curiosity as he opened the door.
The volatile, restless energy coursing through him demanded solitude. He growled, the sound feral and low, “Not now,” and stalked straight towards his room.
“Pup,” Carrie gasped.
“Lucian,” Luke grunted. “You do not talk to your mother like that. I don’t care how old you—”
Lucian slammed the door shut, effectively cutting off whatever lecture was coming.