Chapter 26 Dawn Of Dread
Dawn Of Dread
Morning spread across the apartment floor in honeyed light, accentuating the clutter I called home.
Dust motes drifted in the air, glinting with a strange sort of optimism.
The city was waking up, but inside our little glass box, time felt thin-skinned.
Every tick of the clock stretched, fragile and exposed.
I’d stopped pretending to sleep hours ago. Instead, I perched at the edge of the sofa, one bare foot pressed against the rough jute of the rug, the other curled underneath me as if I could anchor myself to reality by sheer physical stubbornness.
My hands were wrapped around a ceramic mug, its chipped rim familiar against my thumb. The coffee inside was cold. I’d made it twice and finished it neither time, but the ritual of boiling water and measuring grounds felt like a prayer I could still control, even if the answer was always bitter.
Mateo lay sprawled on the other end of the couch, a burrito of thrift-store blankets and an oversized T-shirt. In the predawn hush, I could hear his breathing, a little too shallow, a little too fast. The fever had run him ragged; he’d soaked through his sheets, his sleepwear, everything.
When I’d tried to change him, he’d muttered, “I can do it,” even though he clearly couldn’t.
Now that the fever had finally broken, he slept in its aftermath.
The worst, I’d always learned, came when the adrenaline wore off. Before, I was action and instinct. Now, there was nothing to do but wait.
The waiting was what was killing me.
Aiden was just outside my orbit. He’d turned my kitchen into some kind of command post, as if making pancakes and reorganizing the spice rack could somehow ward off whatever ancient curse was eating my kid alive.
He’d taken up residence in my life with the audacity of a stray dog that refuses to leave, and I should have minded more.
But the way he hovered, never quite touching, never quite gone, felt more honest than most things.
Aiden advanced only in the moments of calm, holding ground when I expected him to fold.
The night before, the first time Aiden had spent the night at my place, unfolded in a haze of desperation. Mateo jolted awake, gasping, batting at the air like something was crawling over him.
“Get it off,” he rasped. “It’s loud, make it stop.”
I grabbed for Aiden before I even knew I’d moved.
He crossed the room in two strides and pulled Mateo against his chest, steady and sure, murmuring something low I couldn’t catch.
Watching him hold my son did something dangerous to me.
It made me want to believe.
Now, in the full light of morning, the apartment felt too small for both of us.
I looked at the digital clock over the stove: 6:48 a.m. Mateo’s next dose of paracetamol was due in twelve minutes, but I wasn’t sure he’d wake up enough to swallow.
I reached out anyway, brushing the damp hair from his brow.
His skin was cool. I should have been relieved.
Instead, I felt hollowed out, a drum tight with dread.
Something shifted behind me, the slow exhale of a man trying to make himself invisible.
I turned, catching Aiden’s reflection in the window.
He stood in profile, the morning light casting shadows that accentuated the strong lines of his jaw and the intensity in his hazel gaze.
His dark curls tangled at the nape of his neck.
His fitted black t-shirt clung to his muscular frame.
The sight of him, my world intertwining with his, ignited a warm rush of something deep within me.
He caught my jade-green gaze in the glass and didn’t look away.
“Coffee?” He offered it quietly, gesturing to the steaming carafe on the counter. I shook my head, lifting my own mug.
He nodded as if he’d expected that.
We’d talked in circles all night about Mateo’s episode: flu, strep, COVID, allergies. None fit. The shifter thing didn’t explain it, either; he should have been healing but wasn’t.
I kept waiting for the tears, but they wouldn’t come. Instead, every emotion I’d ever felt was compacted into a single point, ready to detonate at the slightest provocation.
Mateo made a soft sound. I leaned in to listen to what he was mumbling.
His eyelids fluttered, and for a second, I saw the wild gold flash that sometimes overtook his irises.
He shifted, brow furrowing, and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Mom.” I pressed the back of his hand to my lips, letting the relief flood me, then set it gently on his chest.
Behind me, Aiden cleared his throat. “He’s stabilizing. That’s good.”
“Is it?” My voice was raw, a little meaner than I intended.
He didn’t flinch. “Whatever it is, at least it’s not getting worse.”
I stared him down, daring him to say what we were both thinking. That it was only a matter of time, that something was coming for us. He looked away first, the muscles in his jaw twitching.
A long silence stretched out, filled by the soft hum of the fridge and the distant wail of a siren two streets over.
“You said you knew someone who could help,” I said at last. “Who?”
Aiden hesitated, running a hand through his hair. I recognized the gesture for what it was: a stalling tactic.
“My grandmother,” he said finally. “Florence. Nana Flo, to most of us.”
I blinked, momentarily derailed. “You’re bringing your grandmother into this?”
He snorted. “She’s not just my grandmother. She ran the Woodland Cross for forty years. Alpha Emeritus, technically, but nobody calls her that to her face.”
“Alpha-what now?” I asked, confused.
“It means she stepped down. Officially. But no one makes a move in the eastern packs without checking with her first.” Aiden explained, grimacing slightly.
I tried to picture it: some wrinkled crone in a shawl, dispensing folk remedies and wolf lore. “And she knows about…”
“About magic?” He shrugged. “She’s seen every curse and hex in the book. If anyone can figure out what’s happening to Mateo, it’s her.”
I wanted to protest. To say that I didn’t trust witches, or shifters, or anything supernatural. But the evidence was lying right in front of me, breathing my air, wearing my son’s face.
“Fine,” I said, voice catching. “What time is she arriving?”
He shrugged and then fished his phone from his jeans while I returned my focus to Mateo.
Aiden moved to the far end of the kitchen, lowering his voice, but in the quiet of the apartment, I caught snippets of the conversation.
“Yeah, it’s happening again… She’s with me. She’s scared, but she’ll listen.” Then, a pause. “She’ll be here in a couple of hours,” he announced after hanging up. “She’s bringing supplies.”
“Supplies?” I echoed the word. “Like what? Wolfsbane tea and a crystal ball?”
“More like a medical kit and some charms.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She’s old-school, not crazy. She wants to meet Mateo first, get a feel for what’s going on. Then maybe she can help.”
I tried to imagine letting some stranger, no, worse, some wolf-royalty matriarch, examine my sick kid. The idea made my skin crawl, but desperation was a powerful motivator. Besides, it wasn’t like I had a better plan.
* * *
Nana Flo arrived three hours later, with Cody lumbering along behind her like a loyal puppy. But the moment I opened the apartment door to their knock, I felt a presence so commanding it was as if the oxygen in the room had to make way for her first.
If I’d envisioned a grandmotherly type, some gentle crone with a cane and a sweet smile, I found myself abruptly, laughably wrong.
Florence Marie Cross looked to be in her late sixties but moved with the efficient, predatory grace of an Olympic athlete.
She was tall, taller than me, and had the brawny build of someone who’d spent her youth throwing hay bales.
Her hair, a silver-shot mane, was pulled back into a no-nonsense bun that accentuated the sculpted sharpness of her cheekbones.
Her skin bore the deep tan and windburn of a life lived outdoors.
She wore battered jeans and a faded blue hiker’s vest over a blue Henley, the pockets of which bulged with ominous, lumpy contents.
Her eyes, though, were the real showstopper.
Hazel-brown, flecked with gold, and so sharp you could mistake them for a wolf’s in the right light.
I felt myself snap to attention as she took me in from head to toe, then did the same to Aiden, and finally let her gaze settle on Mateo, who lay wrapped on the couch in a nest of blankets.
She grunted once, then slung a battered leather doctor’s bag onto the coffee table and barked, “Move.”
Aiden stepped aside. For a moment, I resented his deference to her.
Cody hovered in the doorway, his face uncertain but eager.
I noticed he’d dressed up for the occasion: his usual flannel replaced with a clean, button-down shirt, his hair combed neatly.
He looked impossibly young, like a puppy who’d been scolded for tracking mud inside but still wanted desperately to please.
Florence ignored them both. She dropped to her knees by the couch, ignoring the tangle of blankets, laced her fingers together, and studied my son. She didn’t touch him. Not yet. But when she leaned in, I caught the faint scent of the forest.
“Christ,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “It’s worse than I thought.”
Aiden tried to summarize, voice low and urgent, but she waved him off with a flick of her hand, never breaking eye contact with Mateo.
“Don’t need explanations,” she said. “I can smell the magic. Old, wild, and bitter. Doesn’t belong in a human child.”
My own hackles rose at that. “He’s not just magic,” I snapped, louder than intended. “He’s mine.”