Chapter 9
Him
The corridor stretches in both directions.
I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here.
The door is behind me, broken, the frame splintered where my hands worked it until it gave.
I can smell the fresh wood, sharp and raw, and under it the chemical edge of the room I just left.
Sedative. Antiseptic. The fading ghost of her scent on the blanket I threw off.
The last thing I remember is her voice. Wait. Then the needle. Then dark.
Now this.
The light is wrong. Gold through windows, not white. Shadows that move because trees move, not because someone is walking behind glass with a clipboard. The floor under my bare feet is wood, worn smooth, warm where the sun hits it, cool where it doesn’t. I can feel the grain.
My hands are shaking.
Footsteps. More than one set. Coming from my left.
I spin toward the sound, and my shoulder hits the wall.
The impact doesn’t steady me. My legs are wrong, too loose, still heavy and clumsy with whatever they put in my blood.
The wolf is too close to the surface, half-formed, claws out and scraping the wood floor before I can pull them back. He’s taking over again. He always does.
A woman appears at the end of the corridor. White hair. Broad shoulders. She’s carrying something—a tray, a bowl, I can’t tell. She stops when she sees me.
“What—?” she blurts, before starting to back away.
I curl my fists at my sides and take a step forward. I’m not sure why. I don’t have any sort of plan at this stage. I just want to get out of here. Need to.
Her mouth opens.
The scream goes straight through my skull.
High. Sharp. Too close to the tone on the table.
My body answers before I do.
The hum comes up.
Not on purpose. I don’t know how to do it on purpose. It drags itself out of my chest, deep enough that I feel it before I hear it, pressure building behind my ribs and pushing outward.
The air thickens.
The light through the window bends at the edges.
The tray slips from her hands and hits the floor. A bowl shatters. Something hot splashes across the boards.
The woman staggers back, one hand braced against the wall.
No.
I pull at the hum like it’s something I can grip. I clamp down on my jaw, my chest, my lungs. Nothing changes. It leaks through anyway, pressing into the walls, the floor, her body.
Her hand flies to her chest.
She can’t breathe.
I’m making her not breathe.
Stop.
Stop it.
She claps both hands over her ears and screams again.
The wolf lunges toward the sound.
Not the woman. The sound.
Stop the sound.
Her knees buckle.
She hits the floor.
That’s not what I meant.
I didn’t mean to do that.
But I can’t fucking stop it.
More footsteps. Running. A man’s voice. Words I can’t hold onto because the hum is still building and everything is too loud and too close.
I move, staggering down the corridor. Away. The screaming stops. My bare feet slap the wood. My shoulder drags the wall because my balance is gone, and the wolf is clawing for control. I can feel the pressure trailing behind me like a wake.
Doors on both sides. Closed. The corridor smells like lye soap and old wood, and underneath it, the layered scent of wolves, dozens of them, embedded in the walls, the floors, years of living soaked into the grain.
A door opens ahead of me.
A child steps into the corridor.
Small. Maybe five. Dark hair. Bare feet, like mine.
He sees me and goes still.
I go still too.
His scent changes. I can smell it happen, the sharp, acrid spike that means the body has decided to be afraid before the mind catches up. His breathing stops. His eyes lock on my hands, on the claws that are still out, still scoring the wall.
The wolf’s attention narrows. Movement. Small body. The corridor shrinks to the space between us, and my weight shifts forward onto the balls of my feet. I take a step before I know I’m doing it.
He doesn’t run. Just stands there. Rooted. His hands are fists at his sides. His chin is up, eyes huge. He’s terrified, and he isn’t moving, but the wolf doesn’t care about the difference between brave and frozen.
Another step. My hand lifts. The claws catch the light.
“Don’t.”
The voice comes from behind me. Low. Steady. The same voice that said “wait” in the locked room, the same voice that talks to me through the fog when everything else is chemicals and silence.
Sable.
I stop.
My head turns toward her before my body decides to.
She’s at the far end of the corridor. Sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair loose around her face. Her hands are at her sides, palms open. She isn’t looking at the child. She’s looking at me.
“Don’t do it,” she says. “Please.”
Please.
Nobody asks. Nobody has ever asked.
The word hits harder than an order. Harder than a dart. It reaches the part of me that was already moving and closes around it.
The windows stop trembling.
The boards beneath my feet settle.
The child’s hair no longer lifts in the charged air.
I drag in one breath. Then another. The thing inside me folds back, not gone, not obedient, but held.
My wolf goes still with it.
Not gone.
Listening.
My shoulders sag as my breath eases out, tension filtering along with it.
“You’re safe,” she says. “At Ravenclaw. You broke the door. That’s okay. Nobody’s going to hurt you for that.”
She takes a step forward. Then another. Slow. Each one announced.
“It’s okay,” she says, her tone smooth and calm. “You’re going to be okay.”
Behind me, I hear someone else move. A different scent; male, sharp with adrenaline, the bitter undertone of a wolf who’s ready to fight. My fists start to curl, but my focus is still locked on her.
Sable’s eyes flick past my shoulder. Something crosses her face. Fast. Gone before I can read it.
“Don’t,” she says. Not to me this time.
Her voice doesn’t change register. The same low, steady tone. But the word carries weight.
I swivel to see who she’s talking to. Who the threat is.
Too late.
The sting hits the side of my neck. Cold. A needle punched through skin, and I feel the heat before my hand reaches the dart. My fingers close around the shaft and pull it free, but the drug is already in me, already spreading, faster than the other doses, faster than anything she’s given me.
I turn. There’s a man behind me. Tall. Blond. Dart gun still raised, his eyes flat with the focus of someone doing a job.
My legs go.
I hit the floor on one knee. Try to rise. My hands are on the wood, and the grain is rough under my palms. I can feel the compound through the floorboards, footsteps, voices, the vibration of a building full of people who are all awake and all watching.
Then her hands. On my shoulders. Not holding, steadying.
She’s on the floor beside me, and the second her skin touches mine, the hum in my chest shifts.
The pressure that was pushing outward turns inward, and instead of pressing against everything it touches, it presses toward her.
Settles. The tremor in my arms eases. My claws retract without me choosing it.
Her scent wraps around me, soap and herbs and that warm undertone that my wolf presses toward even as the world narrows to a point.
“I’m here,” she says. Her voice is close. Right against my ear. “I’m here. You’re not going back to that other place. I promise. Not ever.”
I try to hold onto the words. The drug is pulling everything sideways, and the corridor is shifting, and her hands are the only fixed point.
“You’re safe,” she says. Quieter now. “I promise.”
The drug takes my legs first. Then my arms. Then the corridor, the light, the sound of footsteps. Her hands stay longer than anything else, the pressure of her fingers on my shoulders, the warmth of her beside me on the floor.
My wolf curls toward her scent and holds it as long as he can.
Then the cold comes in, and even that goes.