Chapter 4 #2
With her looking at me—blue eyes, blood on her hands, exhausted and soft—and my body doesn't care about any of it. Doesn't care that she's human, doesn't care that my sister is three feet away.
Her eyes go wide.
"You can look," I say.
"I wasn't—"
"You were."
"I was not." Her voice hits a pitch that shouldn't exist, indignation cutting through the exhaustion.
"I was looking at the—at your—at nothing.
I was looking at nothing. I was looking at the wall.
The floor. The dust on the floor. There's a lot of dust. I should sweep.
Later. After you put pants on. Not that I'm rushing you, take your time, I'll just be over here NOT looking at—"
She stops.
"—the floor. I'll be looking at the floor."
"The wall behind me is very interesting."
"It's a nice wall."
"It's mud and sticks."
"I like mud and sticks. They're architecturally sound.
" She tilts her head. "Look at the grain of the wood above your shoulder.
Really look. There's a whorl pattern that suggests stress during growth—probably a branch came off when the tree was younger.
Fascinating. I could look at this wall for hours. "
"You're looking at me."
"Fascinating wall."
The corner of my mouth pulls.
"I need clothes."
"Right." She stands, her knees popping. Nearly trips, catches herself on the worktable.
"I have—some things. They won't fit well, you're—" She gestures at me again.
"—a lot bigger than anything I own. In every sense.
Not that I noticed—I noticed, obviously, there's no way not to notice, you're RIGHT THERE, but I'm not commenting on it, I'm just making clothing observations, which are relevant, because of the clothing.
Situation. Which we're fixing. Right now. "
She's rummaging through a chest, her back to me. Muttering.
"Kill me now. Do I ever fucking shut up? No. No I don't. You just keep going. Sexy mountain wolf. Sexy. Mountain. Wolf. Who says that? Me, apparently. That's who. Fan-fucking-tastic."
Wolf hearing. She doesn't know.
"Here." She holds out fabric without turning around. "It's old. Probably too small. But it's better than the blanket."
I take it. Some kind of long shirt, rough-woven, meant for someone shorter and narrower by a significant margin. I pull it on. It strains across my shoulders and barely reaches mid-thigh.
"You can turn around."
She does. Takes in my appearance.
She blinks. Once. Twice.
Her lips press together.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to."
"I was going to say it suits you." The squeak climbs, teasing.
"Very... breezy. Really complementing the—everything.
The tunic is, uh, putting in overtime. Both arms. Both shoulders.
Bless it. Bless this tunic, actually. It's doing the Lord's work, wherever the Lord is in this situation, I don't—I don't know, I've never really—is there a werewolf Lord?
Is that a thing? Anyway, the tunic. Yes. Breezy."
I grunt.
Almost got me with that one.
Settle against the wall where I can watch the door and my sister at the same time. The tunic rides up. Don't bother fixing it.
The cottage isn't safe. Can't move Kestria yet. We wait.
She checks Kestria's bandages. Gentle fingers, looking for seepage, making sure the wrapping hasn't shifted.
She bends forward to adjust the blanket over Kestria's feet and the fabric of her dress pulls across her hips. I adjust the tightening blanket. Look at the wall behind me.
Fascinating wall.
She's humming under her breath. Something tuneless.
"You should rest."
"So should you."
"I'm watching the door."
"The door's fine." She shrugs. "But you do you."
The bond shifts. Warmer. Kestria surfacing.
She stirs under her blanket. Makes a sound.
"Keer." Her voice is rough. Tired. She squints at me, and then her gaze travels down and lands on the tunic. A weak smile. "You're wearing a dress."
"It's a tunic."
"It's definitely a dress."
"Shut up."
She laughs, then winces. "Ow."
"Then don't be stupid."
"Can't help it. Runs in the family." She looks around the cottage, finds Mel by the wall. "Mel. You haven't slept."
"I'm fine."
"You look terrible."
"Thank you. Very kind."
They share a look. Something private. Years of it.
"We need to move." Both of them look at me. "The cottage isn't safe. Those men will come back, or send others. We go to pack territory."
Kestria nods. Expected that.
Melori's head tilts. "We?"
"You know what she is." I nod toward Kestria. "You know what I am. You've seen wolves shift. That can't be undone."
"So I'm—what? A prisoner?"
"You're a liability. Out here, alone, with what you know." I hold her gaze. "In my territory, you're protected."
"Protected." She turns the word over. "Huh. That's a big word. Fancy. Is that Alpha for 'tough shit, you're coming with me'?"
Knew it. Kestria told her.
My jaw tightens. "Kestria talks too much."
"Kestria talks the right amount." Melori's chin lifts. "She told me what you are. What you do. And I'd rather know who's giving orders before I follow them anywhere."
"I'm not giving orders."
"You just said we need to move. That sounded like an order."
"It's a fact. This place isn't safe."
"See, when you say it that way, it's much better." She stands, brushing off her skirt. "Fine. I'll come. But I have conditions."
"Conditions? You don't get conditions."
"I have conditions," she repeats, already moving to the shelves. "One bag. Give me a few minutes."
She's fast. No hesitation. She pulls jars off the shelf, holds each one to the light, keeps or leaves. Two piles—take and abandon.
The moonbright paste. The concentrated tonic. Dried comfrey, rosemary, thyme. Bandages. A mortar she wraps in cloth and wedges into the bottom of the bag.
"The blue jar or the brown jar," she mutters, holding both. "Blue's concentrated. Brown's the diluted tonic. I need both. Obviously I need both. But the brown jar leaks and if it gets on the other supplies everything's going to smell like a swamp died—"
She wraps the brown jar in cloth. Multiple layers. Tight. Shoves both into the bag.
"Does your territory have buildings? Tents? Am I sleeping on the ground?"
"There are structures."
"Structures… Great information, thank you."
"You'll see when we get there."
"Oh good. Mystery shelter. My favorite kind." She wraps a bundle of dried herbs and stuffs it into the bag. "What about food? Do you hunt, forage, trade? Do you cook, or does everyone just gnaw on raw meat while standing around looking intimidating?"
"We cook."
"Well, that's something." She holds up a small clay pot, considers it, puts it back. "How far is it?"
"Half a day. Walking."
"Kestria can't walk half a day. Not with that wound."
"I know."
"So we'll go slower." The bag is nearly full now. She cinches it tight, tests the weight on her shoulder, adjusts. "No healer in your pack?"
"No."
"No healer." She stops long enough to look at me. "You've got—how many wolves? And no one dedicated to fixing them when they break?"
"We heal fast. Don't need one."
"You need one when you've got moonbright poison in you." She reaches for one last jar, pauses, swaps it for a different one. "That's the whole reason your people kept showing up at my door. Because 'healing fast' doesn't work on moonbright."
She's right.
I say nothing.
The bag goes by the door. She straightens. Wipes her hands on her skirt.
"I can't walk that far." Kestria shifts under the blanket. "Not yet."
"I know." I look at Melori. "How much can you carry?"
"What you're looking at. My supplies. Some clothes." She pauses. "And Nugget."
"What?"
"My chicken."
"...Your… chicken."
"She's a good layer." Defensive. Arms crossing.
"You're bringing a chicken."
"She's coming with me."
"To pack territory."
"Yes."
"A chicken."
"The other two can fend for themselves—they're half-wild anyway, they'll range into the forest and be fine. But Nugget's different. She trusts me. She comes when I call. She sleeps at my door." Blood under her fingernails. Jaw set. "I'm not leaving her."
I exhale.
She's going to ask for things.
And I'm going to give them to her.
I look at Kestria.
She's grinning, holding her side. "Don't argue. You'll lose."
A human and a chicken.
In my pack.
In my territory.
"Fine. We leave soon."
Melori nods and turns away. One bag.
She called me Alpha. No drop in her voice. No lowered eyes.
Soon she'll see what it means. How they drop their eyes. How they step back.
And then she'll be careful around me.
My jaw tightens.
She's outside now. The indignant squawking of a chicken, Melori's voice climbing higher as she argues with it.
"Stop that. Stop—I said stop. We're leaving. You're coming. This isn't a negotiation."
The chicken screams at her.
"I don't care what you think. Get in the basket."
More screaming.
"Nugget. Nugget. I will leave you for the foxes."
The chicken apparently decides to cooperate.
Kestria is laughing. Holding her wounded side, tears streaming down her face. "She threatened the chicken with foxes—" She can't finish. "She actually—"
Melori comes back inside carrying a wicker basket with a pink-colored chicken missing half its tail feathers. The chicken is still loudly furious. She sets the basket down without looking at either of us, face flushed.
"Not a word."
"Wasn't going to say anything," Kestria wheezes.
"You're laughing."
"I'm crying. From pain. Completely unrelated."
I walk to the door. Push it open. Night air. Cold. Pine and coming rain.
Behind me, she moves through the cottage one last time. Quick. Her footsteps pause at the hearth, the worktable, near the window. Then moving on.
Then she's beside me. Bag over her shoulder, basket in hand. The chicken has settled into sullen silence.
"Ready."
Half-dead on her feet. Leaving everything behind and not crying about it.
My hands won't unclench.
I step out into the dark.
"Then let's go."