Wraith
"Hey bro, do you ever wonder if there are parallel universes where we're, like, fuckin' post-apocalyptic spec-ops alphas or somethin'?"
I turn my head to stare back at Whiskey.
What?
"I dunno man, I just look sick in this skull mask. And you'd rock a gas mask."
You play too many video games, I sign over my shoulder before turning back to the scruffy black cat hunkered by the dumpster behind the pack house.
"I'm literally a Marine, bro. I'm already halfway there."
I ignore him.
This cat hates tuna.
Or she hates us.
Her tail is wrapped around her feet as she stares at the opened can I set in front of her, eyeing it with clear suspicion it's poisoned.
We're calling her Shadow. She looks like a tiny angry one.
Whiskey is crouched right behind me in a bomber jacket and fingerless gloves, and a skull balaclava. He insisted on "tactical gear" to catch the cat he promised if I went to dinner at the Belmonts' a few days ago, which apparently means dressing like it's the end of the fucking world.
For me, it might as well be.
“Come on, baby,” he croons, making pspsps sounds and nudging the can closer. “Daddy’s got premium fish mush.”
The cat’s ears flatten.
Never say that again, I sign.
"What? Fish mush?"
No.
He grins at me. "You don't like me calling myself Daddy around you?"
Not really. And you're not a dad.
"Take it up with the fans, bro. They're calling me Daddy Bear now, F-Y-I. Cuz of the dadbod. And cuz everyone knows Plague and I marked each other now, and bears are a whole thing with the LGBTQ—"
I press my finger against his lips to hush him before he scares the cat off.
The cat watches my hand carefully, green eyes huge.
Animals don't react to me like people do, even though they must think I'm baring my teeth. They can tell I don't mean them harm, maybe.
This one… not so much.
A gust of cold wind stings every exposed tooth and scarred muscle. It isn’t painful, not with the injections doing their job. But my hand still twitches toward my face anyway for fabric that isn't there.
This is the first time I’ve been outside in a few days.
Someone could walk by.
My hood is up, but it doesn’t hide much. I caught an unwanted glimpse in a window reflection this morning. It shadows the upper half of my face and leaves the important nightmare fully fucking visible.
From the side, it's okay.
Only from the side.
I nudge the tuna can a little closer to the cat.
She stretches her neck out to sniff it.
I hold my breath…
And she dives back under the dumpster.
My shoulders lift and sag with a sigh.
So. Fucking. Close.
"Ivy says she's open to it one day, by the way," Whiskey adds, because he can't not talk.
"I'd be a shitty dad, probably, but I'd at least be a cool one.
Although your bro would ruin it. He'd be the boring responsible fun sucker who says no to all the cool shit I'd wanna do.
Valek would help me cover my tracks. Plague would snitch on us both. " He grins at me. "You'd be the best."
I stiffen up, killing the weird twinge I just felt in my chest before it becomes a problem.
I would not be the best, I sign flatly to him. I'd be the worst.
"Why?"
I'd scare the shit out of them.
"The hospital kids that think you're a fuckin' badass would disagree."
Only some. And they're old enough to process that I'm not a literal fucking monster.
"Bro, it'd be your own kid. It would probably think we're the weird ones."
I go back to ignoring him.
Because the cat is poking her nose out from under the dumpster again. I hold out my scarred hand, keeping it low and perfectly still.
She leans forward.
Whiskey freezes, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit, bro.”
I shoot him a glare.
He mimes zipping his lips.
The cat sniffs the air. Her nose twitches. One paw slides forward across the dead grass, then another. She creeps out from beneath the dumpster, her narrow bony shoulders rolling beneath dirty black fur.
She stretches her neck toward my hand.
Whiskey’s knee pops.
The cat launches backward with a spitting hiss, claws scrabbling against concrete and swiping at me. She knocks the tuna can over, sends fish water spraying all over Whiskey’s combat boots, and tears off into the woods surrounding the pack house.
Whiskey stares at the empty space.
“Fuck.”
I straighten slowly, rubbing my hands against my knees.
Tomorrow.
"Yeah." He picks up the overturned can and grimaces at his boots. "Tomorrow we use caviar."
I thought you said all cats like tuna.
“Maybe she’s fancy.”
I look toward the front of the pack house.
A delivery truck rolls by on the street. The driver glances in without slowing, but his eyes don’t catch on me.
My chest stays tight anyway.
I can handle the pack house. Inside, everything has gotten easier. I don’t cover my face anymore because I can't. I ate breakfast with the others today, with Ivy sitting in my lap and everyone trying to give me space by not watching.
Almost everyone.
Whiskey watched.
A lot.
Don't really care. I have to get used to being watched. I can't just never leave the fucking pack house again, not that I'm planning on it anytime soon.
Although Ivy hasn't left the house either.
She says she doesn’t mind.
Whiskey wipes his boots on the grass to try to get the tuna juice off. "Hey, uh, I was thinking…"
I look at him.
It's never good when he's thinking.
"We should go see that new horror movie tonight. Everyone. The whole pack. We can get the back row, even. It's got zombies with guns for arms. Sounds sick, huh? It's supposed to be a nod to horror movies before they tried to make you feel like shit inside."
My hands move before I can stop them.
You live in a fucking horror movie.
Whiskey blinks. "Huh?"
I gesture at my face with both hands. Same reason I'd be a horrible dad no matter what he wants to think. A kid deserves good parents. Not a feral freak.
You live with THIS every day now.
"Ohhh." He tilts his head, processing. "Night of the Feral Alpha?"
I roll my eyes.
"Revenge of the Feral Alpha? That one sucked ass."
Stop.
"The best one in that series is Return of the—"
I shove him over.
He falls backward onto his ass, laughing. "Alright, alright. I deserved that," he says, the laughter fading and his face going soft behind the skull balaclava that covers most of it. "But you know that's not how I see you, right?"
I don't answer.
"Wraith."
I know.
His honey-brown eyes hold mine longer than I'd like, and even dressed like it's both Halloween and the end of the world at the same time, he looks more serious than I've ever seen him.
Don't like that.
"You're my brother," he says, thumping his chest with the side of his fist. "My bro of the heart. You could have tentacles and I'd just ask if you wanted me to braid 'em."
I snort. The fuck?
"Hell, I'd probably want some of my own. Ivy's freaky. I bet she'd love it."
You need help.
"Yeah, probably." He cracks his neck and stands, brushing off his knees. "How you doin' after the Belmont dinner? For real."
I consider lying.
But he'd know.
Maureen couldn't even look at me, I sign.
Whiskey's jaw tightens. "Yeah she did."
At my eyes. Not below.
"It's her first time seeing your face in a while, bro. She needs time. But she hugged you first thing. She made you soup, which was damn good, by the way, I got the rest out of the pot."
I stare at my scarred hands.
He's not wrong.
She cried.
"Yeah, because she loves you and she's sad you got hurt. That's what moms do."
I know he means well. It's human nature to try to say something comforting even if it isn't true. But that isn't what moms do.
Not mine.
I'm fine, I sign, sighing.
"Aight." He hauls himself up, clapping me on the shoulder. "Come on, man. No spiraling. Let's go inside before my balls freeze off and my mates file a missing persons report."
We go in together through the back door, him in front of me.
Plague is at the stove making tea. This time, there are two mugs. Guess he's stopped pretending he doesn't know Valek steals his expensive tea.
"Any luck?" he asks us.
"Nope!" Whiskey says with mock cheer.
Plague looks over his costume judgmentally, but his eyes linger for longer than they need to. "Can't imagine why."
Ivy comes around the corner, her whole face brightening when she sees me. "Hey! Did you catch Shadow?"
I shake my head. Trying to make friends first.
"Maybe you can help next time," Whiskey says, pulling his balaclava off. His hair's a mess under it. He scratches at it to tame it and makes it worse. "Work your omega magic and all that."
"I don't think that works on cats," she laughs.
It's not her usual laugh.
This one is slightly tight. She's been like this yesterday and today. Acting happy when I'm looking, but worried when she thinks I'm not.
She's been reading more. Staying in. Cooking. Building and rebuilding nests. Watching movies in the loft with the blackout curtains drawn.
With me.
Always with me.
Because I'm here, and I don't leave.
And Ivy stopped leaving too.
I watch her pad into the kitchen to get a glass of water, chatting with Whiskey about the scary movie nobody is going to see, one of my hoodies hanging off her, and my heart twists.
She's shrinking her whole world to fit inside my walls.
And I'm letting her.
I reach out and tap her shoulder to get her attention. She turns, blinking up at me, always sweet, always hopeful.
Let's go, I sign.
She tilts her head. "Go where?"
To the movies. Tonight.
She hesitates, but I can already see her fighting back a huge smile. The usual kind. "Wait… are you sure? That wouldn't be too much for you?"
I shake my head.
It will be, but I don't say it.
I would die for her.
What's a movie?