Chapter 20
Eamon
We came out of the tunnel into a pale, washed-out afternoon, the light making my eyes ache after hours of damp darkness.
The air was refreshing compared to the dank mold of the tunnel.
We paused just long enough to get our bearings, then kept moving, following a hedgerow that wound toward low hills and a cluster of outbuildings half hidden by trees.
The walk took most of the day.
We rotated positions without discussion. Nox ranged ahead, Elias and Tamsin stayed in the middle, Bishop watched our flanks, Griff kept up the rear. I stayed near the back too, listening for the things people miss when they’re tired.
By the time the sun dipped toward the fields, a simple farmstead appeared in our sights, a squat stone house with a slate roof, a barn leaning a little to one side, smoke rising thin and steady from a chimney.
A woman met us at the gate with a hand raised, not in warning but greeting. She had dirt under her nails and a scarf tied tight at her throat.
“We’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Come quick.”
Inside the house, the warmth hit us first. The smell of stew—potatoes, carrots, and venison—followed. Boots were shed by the door, packs stacked neatly against a wall. Children’s shoes were lined by a bench, small and scuffed.
The woman led us down a narrow hall to a back room where a boy lay on a cot, his mother hovering like she could hold him together by sheer will alone. He couldn’t have been more than nine. His brow was dotted with sweat, eyes glassy, breath shallow and quick.
“One of the packs that came through earlier said one of you was a doctor,” the woman said. “He’s been bitten. It hasn’t been long, but we were hoping you would help us.”
I knelt without being asked, already rolling up my sleeves. “I’m Eamon,” I offered. “What’s his name?”
“Finn,” his mother said, voice tight. “He—he helped a neighbor move a fence. A wolf jumped the hedge.”
I checked Finn’s pulse, temperature, pupils. His heart was beating just a tad too fast, but it was still in the normal range.
“How long since the bite?” I asked.
“Six hours,” she said.
“That’s good,” I told her, and meant it. “We’ll take care of him. You can trust us.”
We moved together without ceremony. First, we cleaned the wound. Flushed it. Marked the margins. Put cool compresses on his forehead. Made sure he was hydrated. I set up an IV and adjusted the flow. Finn whimpered, and I leaned closer so he could see my face.
“You’re doing great,” I said. “You hear me? Really great.”
His eyes flicked to mine. “Am I going to turn?”
I didn’t lie. “Yes. But we’re going to make sure that you’re okay.”
That seemed to be enough for him. He squeezed his mother’s hand and breathed.
Tamsin stood at the foot of the cot, watching, reading the room, handing me supplies when I needed them. When Finn’s breathing hitched again, she took his other hand.
“What do wolves do when they’re scared?” she asked him softly.
He sniffed. “Run.”
“Sometimes,” she said. “But mostly they depend on their pack. You’re not alone here.”
He stared at her, then nodded once, solemn as a priest.
Hours passed in small increments. Finn’s fever broke in stages. His pulse slowed. His breathing deepened. When he finally slept, the room exhaled with him.
All of us left the room to allow him to rest.
In the kitchen, Tamsin spoke with the family while I washed my hands. She told them who we were, what we were trying to stop, and what help looked like beyond just running to somewhere supposedly safe.
“I’m the leader of the Accord. I run a network to help wolves,” she said. “We connect them. We give them food, medicine, and places to rest. If you choose to move later, we’ll help you do it safely.”
The woman listened, chin lifted. “And if we choose to stay?”
“Then you stay,” Tamsin said. “And we’ll check in when we can.”
At dusk, we ate together at a long table scarred by years of use. The stew was simple and perfect. Bread torn by hand. A jug of milk passed around. Their three children watched us with curiosity that eased into comfort as the meal went on.
Finn woke long enough to sip water. He smiled at me, shy and crooked. Later, when we were preparing to bed down in the loft, he was able to get out of bed. Then he padded over to me with something clutched in his fist.
“For you,” he said, holding it out.
It was a little wolf carved from scrap wood, a bit rough, the ears a little too big, the tail merely a suggestion. I took it carefully, like it might break if I squeezed it too hard.
“Thank you,” I said earnestly.
He beamed, then yawned and leaned into Tamsin’s side without asking. She rested a hand on his hair, easy and comforting.
Later that evening, Tamsin and I sat on the steps alone together with our backs to the house, the stars bright and indifferent overhead.
“He’s going to be alright,” I said.
She nodded. “You did that.”
“We did,” I corrected. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”
She smiled, small and tired. “I’m learning.”
I hesitated, then said what I was thinking, because some truths need air. “You’re going to make a good mother one day.”
She went very still, sitting in silence for a second before she laughed softly.
“That’s a bold assumption.”
“I’ve watched you,” I said. “You see people. You take care of them. You’re a natural.”
She looked out over the fields, thinking. “I don’t know if the world will let us have that.”
“Not yet,” I replied. “But maybe someday.”
She leaned her shoulder against mine. “Thank you.”
A fire was burning merrily when we came back inside.
It was a proper hearth, stone-lined with a wide mouth.
Someone had added a fresh log, and it crackled softly as it caught, sending sparks up the chimney.
The children had gathered close, one of them sprawled on their stomach with a bit of chalk, drawing shapes on a slate tile while the youngest dozed against a pile of folded blankets.
Finn was sitting up now, color returning to his cheeks. His mother hovered less, though she stayed within arm’s reach, a hand resting on the back of his neck like she was reassuring herself he was still warm and breathing.
We joined them without ceremony.
Tamsin took a seat on the low bench by the fire, and Finn immediately shifted closer, drawn to her like gravity.
She didn’t comment on it. She just adjusted her position to make room, resting an arm along the bench behind him.
The other children watched her with frank curiosity, the way children do when they sense someone important but don’t yet have words for why.
“Are you really going to London?” the oldest girl asked bluntly.
“Yes,” Tamsin answered.
The girl’s eyes widened. “My da says nobody goes to London unless they’re soldiers or fools.”
Tamsin smiled a little. “Your da’s not wrong.”
That earned a quiet laugh from the adults.
The father poked at the fire. “You’re not fools then, right?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Tamsin agreed. “We’re not.”
Finn leaned toward me, pointing at the little carved wolf in my pocket. “It’s supposed to look like her,” he said, pointing at Tamsin.
I blinked. “Like her?”
He nodded vigorously. “She’s a wolf too, right? She’s not scared. Wolves aren’t scared when they’re together.”
Tamsin’s hand stilled on the bench. She didn’t look at me, but I saw her swallow heavily.
“That’s kind of you,” she said to Finn. “But it’s all right to be scared.”
He frowned, considering this. “Okay,” he replied. “But you didn’t run at least.”
“No,” she agreed. “I didn’t. And I have my pack.” A smile graced her face, and though she was looking at Finn, I think we all knew it was meant for us, too.
That seemed to satisfy him. He leaned back, eyes drooping again, and his mother gently guided him to lie down against the cushions by the hearth. The youngest followed suit, curling up with a thumb in her mouth, the chalk forgotten.
The room settled into a comfortable quiet. Firelight painted the walls in warm gold, and for a moment the world felt almost… intact.
Tamsin caught my eye across the hearth. There was a question there. I could tell that it wasn’t about Finn, or about London, but about this. About whether it was all right to let herself sit and be present for a few minutes without thinking ten steps ahead.
I nodded.
She exhaled.
Later, when the children were fully asleep and the fire had burned down to a bed of coals, the family showed us where we’d bed down for the night. There was a loft space above the barn, clean and dry, smelling of hay and wood. We climbed the ladder quietly, settling into our places without a fuss.
I lay awake longer than the others, the little carved wolf resting in my palm. I turned it over once, thumb tracing the rough lines. It wasn’t perfect, but neither were we.
At first light, we were all up and back in the house.
The kettle went on. Bread was sliced. There was butter this morning, which was a rare and delicious treat. Finn insisted on walking outside with us while we checked our gear, his mother’s hand firm on his shoulder.
“Don’t forget,” she said to Tamsin. “You come back this way if you ever need to.”
“We will,” Tamsin smiled. “Thank you. Very much.”
Finn hugged her around the waist, then looked up at me. “I’m going to miss you,” he blurted out.
“Me too, little man,” I grinned.
He nodded solemnly, then stepped back, satisfied.
We shouldered our packs as the sun peeked over the horizon and set off.
London waited for no one.