45. Wraith
Wraith
"Bro," Whiskey groans, wincing as plaster rains into his hair, "a little warning before you start digging shit out would be nice."
I look at him.
He looks at me.
"Right. No voice. But you could've signed."
I wouldn't have.
Because Whiskey coated in plaster and dramatically spitting out chunks of it is the most entertainment I've had since Ivy left for her date with my brother five hours ago.
Which is a generous estimate.
It might have been ten hours, or a hundred hours. Time moves differently when she's not here. Slowly. Torturously.
I hate it.
We all do, which is why we've turned our restless energy into doing something fucking productive instead of sitting around.
Namely tearing the disguise off the door in the ceiling that leads to my loft, where she first hid from this pack. And then Valek.
Now Valek is pack, too.
Still don't love the whole fucking pack being in my space, but Ivy likes it up there, and where Ivy is, the pack follows.
So I'll survive.
I dig my fingers into the seam where we sealed the hatch door and peel back a strip of joint compound that crumbles down the front of my shirt and into my hair.
More white dust falls into my eyes and I blink it away, tilting my head to keep the worst of it off the bandage still covering the sutured side of my jaw.
Even that motion pulls and stings.
Fuck. I'm going to need to go back up to Cedarbrook soon whether my usual doctor's in or not if this keeps up. Can't even wear the fucking scarf the way I want it without the damaged nerves roaring through my entire jaw.
The pain isn't the problem.
It's excruciating, but I can take pain.
The problem is the searing electric pulse that makes my teeth ache and itch, clouding my already messed up brain and bringing the feral beast closer to the surface.
Every second I have a mask on is a second I'm spending fighting not to lose myself to it.
I'm not letting myself think about what will happen if I can't wear anything over my lower face anymore.
Won't leave the fucking house again, I guess.
"You're going to die, Whiskey," Plague says from below us, crossing his arms.
"I'm fine," Whiskey mutters.
I glance down at the wobbling, creaking stepstool Whiskey's balanced on. It's rated for alphas, but it was from BetaMart, and to make matters worse, it was on fucking sale from BetaMart. Even the best shit at BetaMart is liable to fail at the worst possible moment.
But Whiskey loves a deal.
Wonder if he'll still love the deal if it ends with him in the hospital with a stool leg up his ass.
I give a low warning growl.
"Yeah, yeah, plaster, I know," Whiskey grumbles, wedging his hand into the door and prying at it.
I shake my head and growl again.
It almost sounds like no, dumbass.
"I got it, chill," he says, laser focused on the door.
Can't exactly sign to him. I'd have to let go of the door and crush his hand. Supporting the door is completely on me right now.
The advantage of being seven foot three is that I don't need a ladder or a stepstool for ceiling work. The disadvantage of being seven foot three is everything else about existing in a world built for people two feet shorter than me, but I'll take the win today.
Plague pinches the bridge of his nose between his gloved fingers. He brought his own. Latex, from the box in his room. He has a surgical mask, too, and it's already dusted in powder. "The stool, Whiskey. The plastic is turning white where your boots are. The legs are bending."
Whiskey shifts his weight experimentally. "It's fine, bro. I've had this thing for years."
"That's the problem. Plastic doesn't last forever," Plague reminds him. "It gets brittle."
"Your mom's brittle."
"That doesn't even make sense, Whiskey."
I pry some more of the wood free while they bicker and a screw fires in Whiskey's direction.
"OW—dude!" Whiskey yelps. "That was almost my fuckin' eye!"
"That's what protection's for," Plague grits out.
"That's what she said," Whiskey shoots back, unable to fucking help himself even as he reaches up to steady the door from his side, his big palm flat against the wood. The stepstool wobbles violently and he grabs the doorframe with his other hand, his knuckles white.
"This thing is a death trap," he mutters. "Plague, hold the stool."
"I'm not holding the stool. It's filthy. It's had feet all over it."
"You're wearing gloves, dude!"
I tune them out.
Too busy wondering about Ivy to pay attention to their arguing. She texted when they got to the restaurant, then texted when they finished eating. Then nothing for over an hour, which means they're either at the second part of the date Thane planned and have no signal, or something happened.
Nothing happened.
I know nothing happened because she's with Thane. And because I would feel it. Not through the kind of bond we'd share if I could mark her without hurting her, but even without that, I feel her inside my chest like she lives there.
She's fine.
I still want the text.
I work the hinge pin loose with my thumbnail, easing it up until I can grip it and pull. The pin slides free with a metallic scrape and the hatch door drops an inch, now held only by Whiskey's hand and the friction of wood against frame.
Got it? I sign one-handed at Whiskey, who squints at me.
"Got what? Oh… yeah. Yeah, I got it. Just get the other—"
My pocket buzzes.
Every nerve in my body fires at once.
My hand is off the door and diving for my phone before my brain finishes processing the vibration.
The hatch door swings down.
It slams shut across Whiskey's fingers where they're curled over the edge of the frame.
"MOTHAFUCKAAAHHHHHH!"
The stepstool rocks sideways and the rubber foot pops off, and for one horrible second I think he's going to crash to the floor with the door still clamped on his hand.
But the stool holds.
Barely.
"FUUUUUUCK—GET IT OFF—GET IT OFF—"
I lunge at the door with a startled growl and push it up, freeing his hand.
He drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
The hall shakes.
"I told you that stool is a cheap piece of shit," Plague scolds him, dropping to one knee on the floor beside Whiskey and grabbing his hand to examine it.
"Bro, stop fuckin' critiquing me when I almost died!"
I'm only vaguely aware of another argument kicking off as I look down at my phone. The screen is already lit up in my palm and the name at the top says IVY, and I'm so fucking relieved my hands go loose and I almost drop the phone.
IVY
On our way home
See you soon
WRAITH
drive safe
I'll be here
I pause.
WRAITH
obviously
I missed you
Now I'm overthinking that.
Will she think I didn't want her to go out with Thane?
Will she think…
"Yo!" Whiskey barks at me, holding up his red hand. "You dropped a door on me!"
Sorry, I sign one-handed, wincing. I pocket my phone. Are you okay?
"I dunno, bro, does it look okay?"
He waves his hand around.
It looks… fine, actually.
Smashed, but fine.
Ivy texted, I add.
"Wait, she did? Is she on her way?" Whiskey asks, perking up. He doesn't seem to notice Plague pulling his gloves off.
I nod. Sorry, I sign again, rubbing the back of my head.
"How long before—ow!"
Plague presses carefully along each finger, turning Whiskey's hand over for a full examination. Whiskey hisses when Plague reaches the ring finger but doesn't pull away. His eyes track Plague's face instead with all the lovestruck wonder of a puppy.
"Nothing's broken," Plague announces. "Ice it when we're done."
"Kiss it better first," Whiskey says.
"Absolutely not."
"Plague."
"No."
"Doc."
Plague's jaw clenches behind his surgical mask. His ears go pink. He stares at Whiskey's swollen fingers cradled in his hands, then bends his masked mouth to Whiskey's knuckles in a furious, reluctant kiss.
Whiskey's entire face lights up. "See?" He flexes his fingers experimentally, beaming. "All better."
"You are insufferable."
"That's why you love me!"
The pause lasts half a second too long.
Plague yanks a fresh pair of gloves from his pocket and snaps them on so aggressively the latex pops like a gunshot. "Let's finish the fucking door."
"Yes, sir."
I hear the soft footsteps on the stairs before they do. My hands curl at my sides before I register the gait and force myself to relax.
Valek rounds the corner, his choppy white hair pushed back from his face. His flat silver eyes take in the scene.
"What the fuck happened?" Valek asks.
"We're fixing the door," Whiskey says, jerking his thumb at the hatch. "Unsealing it. So Ivy can use the stairs like a normal person instead of climbing the fire escape."
Valek's eyes move from Whiskey to me. Then up to the hatch. "The door you sealed to hide her from me," he says, still looking up.
"Yeah." Whiskey shrugs one massive shoulder. "That one."
Valek arches an eyebrow. "Does she know about this?"
"'Course she knows. I texted her to ask." Whiskey fumbles his phone out with his good hand, unlocks it, and holds the screen toward Valek.
I crane my neck to look over Whiskey's shoulder.
WHISKEY
Dearest Ivy, our mate, our omega, our beloved, the Pack (hereafter referred to as "The Ghosts Pack") formally requests your approval to unseal and restore the ceiling hatch/door (hereafter referred to as "The Canadian Door") on the second floor hallway to full operational status, thereby granting access to the third floor loft (hereafter referred to as "Wraith's Lair") via interior staircase rather than exterior fire escape.
This modification is proposed in light of the changed residential status of Valek Carter (hereafter referred to as "Valek" and not "The Guy We Sealed It Because Of") Please confirm your consent at your earliest convenience.
Respectfully, Whiskey (on behalf of The Ghosts Pack)
IVY
Did you download a template for this???
Of course you can fix the door!!
He's pack now
Something shifts behind Valek's usually empty expression as he reads the screen.
"Pack," he repeats.
"Pack," Whiskey confirms with a huge grin, pocketing his phone.
Valek's jaw works, but he hides it by turning away. "Right," he mutters.