Chapter 5
I look back once.
The cottage is already half-swallowed by trees.
Just a corner of the roof, a sliver of garden wall, Nugget's empty coop with the door hanging open.
The herb rack I built three times. The first two collapsed.
Learned about load-bearing the hard way.
The garden fence—Kestria helped me fix it last spring, I wonder if she remembers.
The worktable. That paste stain. Never did get it out.
That's going to hurt later.
When I have time.
Right now there's no time—Nugget's shifting inside the basket, clucking softly, her feathers still pink (going to be pink for weeks probably), and my stomach is growling, and I haven't slept since—doesn't matter.
"Okay." To no one. To myself. "Forward it is."
I turn around and keep walking.
Keer hasn't looked back. Not once. He just walks, and the forest doesn't touch him.
His hand brushes a trunk—did he mean to do that?
—and then he's shifting left before I've even registered the root, ducking a branch he can't possibly see in this light.
I don't know how he's doing it. One eye. Dark. Nope. I don’t care how he does it.
The tunic I gave him barely covers his thighs.
The fabric strains across his shoulders every time he reaches for a branch, and there's a seam under his left arm that's been threatening to give up since we started walking.
Can't blame it. I wouldn't hold together either if I had to stretch across all of that.
My foot catches on something and I stumble, catching myself on a branch. Nugget squawks. Keer glances back—me clutching bark, chicken flapping, the picture of competence—and grunts. Then turns around and keeps walking.
No offered hand. No "are you okay."
Just a grunt.
"Thanks for the concern." I shove a fern out of my face. "Very touching."
Nothing.
Something cracks in the trees to our left. I freeze. Keer doesn't. Whatever it was is gone.
Kestria walks between us, slower than she wants to be. She keeps trying to speed up, then wincing. Arm pressing against her side. That bandage has to be pulling. She's not going to say anything because she never says anything, which is great, love that about her, really helpful in a crisis.
"How far?"
"Few hours."
"Hours."
"It's deep in the territory. That's the point."
Deep in werewolf territory. Cool. Great.
"The point being that I can't find my way back if I wanted to?"
"The point being safety." She steps over a fallen log, catches herself, breath hitching. "Humans don't come this far."
"I'm a human."
"You're a special case."
"Is that what we're calling it?" I hitch Nugget higher on my arm. She's heavier than she looks, and my pack is digging into my shoulders. "I'd have gone with 'hostage situation,' personally."
Kestria laughs. Then immediately grabs her ribs. "Don't—ow—don't do that."
"Sorry. Humorless from now on. Very serious."
"That'll last three minutes."
"Two, probably."
We walk in silence for a bit. Well—Keer walks in silence.
He's been silent since we left. Not just quiet.
Silent. There's a difference. Quiet is someone who doesn't have anything to say.
Silent is someone who has things to say and won't, and every few minutes his shoulders go tight and he veers off the path he was just on and doesn't look back.
What is he thinking about? Am I going to find out? No. I am not going to find out.
Root. Watch the roots. I nearly ate dirt ten minutes ago.
The tunic rides up when he steps over things. I look at the canopy. I look at the ferns. I look at his thighs. How did that happen. I look at the ferns again. It's dark and I'm tired and my eyes are just landing places. It's fine.
The silence is making my brain worse. "Where are you taking me?" I look at Kestria. "What is it? A cave? A den? Please tell me it's not underground."
"It's not underground."
"That was very quick. That was suspiciously quick."
"It's a clearing. Dwellings. Fire pits. A few bigger structures."
"Dwellings. As in buildings."
"As in buildings."
"Werewolves have buildings."
"We also have furniture, Mel."
"Do you have a place I can work? I need a flat surface, clean water, and somewhere that isn't damp. The paste can't get damp. If the paste gets damp I have to start over and I don't have enough moonbright to start over."
"There'll be somewhere."
"Somewhere is vague."
"It's a big clearing."
"Is there moonbright growing near it? Wild moonbright? Because I'm almost out and the cultivated stuff is useless, it has to be wild, and if there's none growing nearby I need to figure out a supply route before Kestria's next application, which is in about five hours, and—"
"Mel."
"What?"
"Breathe."
"I'm breathing. I'm walking and breathing and carrying a chicken and doing mental inventory of my herb supply, which is pathetic, by the way. Three usable bundles. Maybe four if I can dry the wilted ones properly. Do you have drying racks?"
Kestria's quiet for a second. "I don't know."
"You don't know if you have drying racks."
"I've never needed to dry herbs."
"Right. Werewolf." I step over a root. "You just eat raw deer and call it dinner."
"We cook, Mel."
"You cook the deer you killed with your teeth."
"Are you ever going to let that go?"
"Absolutely not. That's a lifelong reference now. Twenty years from now I'll bring it up at meals."
"Bold of you to assume we'll still be eating together in twenty years."
"Bold of you to assume I'll stop talking about it."
Kestria grins, but it's thin. Her hand's drifting to her side again.
"I'm fine."
"Didn't say anything."
"Your face said it."
"My face is minding its own business. What about water? Clean water."
"There's a stream."
"A stream. How far from the clearing?"
"Close. Maybe fifty steps."
"Fifty steps from a stream. That's actually not terrible." Stream, fifty steps. Flat surface—unknown. Drying racks—build them. Moonbright supply—critical. "Does anyone there know anything about healing? Herbs, bandages, anything?"
"We have someone who does wound care. Basic stuff."
"How basic?"
"Wrapping and cleaning."
"Good. I can work with good. Anyone else?"
"Not really. Wolves heal fast. We don't usually need—"
"You need it now." I duck under a branch. "The poison changes everything. Fast healing doesn't mean anything if the wound's eating itself from the inside."
Kestria doesn't answer. Her breathing's changed—shorter, more careful.
I look at Keer's back. He hasn't slowed down.
"Hey."
Nothing.
"I'm talking to you."
His stride doesn't break.
"Sexy mountain man. Yes, you." I'm committing to this. The name is happening.
Kestria makes a sound that might be a laugh or might be pain.
"Your sister's side is getting worse." I raise my voice at his back. "And she won't say it because she's stubborn, which I'm guessing runs in the family based on current evidence."
He doesn't turn. Doesn't answer. But his pace drops. Not a lot. Just enough that Kestria's shorter steps aren't falling behind anymore.
"Thank you. Or not. Since apparently we're pretending I'm not here." I adjust the basket strap digging into my wrist. "That's fine. I can talk to myself. I do it all the time. Nugget's a terrible conversationalist so I've had years of practice."
"The tunic seam under your left arm is going to go, by the way.
I give it another hour. Maybe less if you keep reaching for branches.
I can fix it when we stop, if you want. I have thread in my pack.
Somewhere. Under the waterskin, probably.
Everything's under the waterskin. I packed in a panic. Which I'm sure you noticed."
His fingers straighten at his side. Curl back.
"Do you talk? To anyone? Or is this a me-specific silence? Because at the cottage you said words. Not many, but they were definitely words. 'Let's go.' That was two. So I know you can."
Kestria's biting her lip.
"I'm genuinely asking." I stare at his back. "If you don't talk, I'll stop waiting for answers. But if you do talk and you're just choosing not to talk to me specifically, I'd like to know so I can be appropriately offended."
His head turns. Just slightly. Not enough to look at me—just enough that I can see the edge of his jaw. The torn ear.
Then he faces forward again.
"Appropriately offended it is."
Kestria coughs. "He talks."
"Does he?"
"He's just not—he's not a talker."
"I've gathered." I duck past a fallen branch. "What does he do? When he's not walking through dark forests ignoring people?"
"He runs the pack."
"Yes, but what does he do? Day to day. Does he patrol? Hunt? Sit on a throne and brood? Because the brooding would track."
"He patrols. Plans. Settles disputes." She pauses for breath. "He's up before everyone. Last one to rest."
"So he's a worrier."
"He's an alpha."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive." I look at his back. The set of his shoulders. His head moving, scanning, always scanning. "When's the last time he slept? And I'm asking you because he won't answer me."
"Keer doesn't really—"
"Doesn't really sleep. Great. So I'm walking into a camp run by someone who doesn't sleep, doesn't talk, and doesn't eat, probably."
"He eats."
"When someone puts food in front of him, or when he remembers?"
Kestria's quiet.
"That's what I thought." I duck under a low-hanging branch. "Add it to the list."
"What list?"
"The list of things I'm going to fix when we get there."
"You haven't even arrived and you're already making a list."
"I always have a list. The list is the only thing between me and chaos.
" Nugget shifts in the basket and I hitch her higher.
"Current list, in order: find a workspace, check your bandage, locate clean water, figure out moonbright supply, build drying racks, and now apparently feed the alpha.
That's six things and I haven't even seen the place yet. "
"You're not responsible for—"