Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Every Cleansing Spell was only a reminder: we belonged together. Trying to destroy him, destroyed myself.
—Lorinne Leroux’s private journal.
Westley sat on the front steps with his unlaced boots wedged in the snow. The shovel in his hand was slowly falling out of his grasp.
When it finally dropped, he didn’t pick it up.
The plan today had been to shovel. And yesterday. But as of now, he hadn’t made it beyond the steps. What was the point?
The wind rushed by, whipping his greasy hair across his eyes. It never sang to him anymore. If he needed a reminder that death was at his doorstep, he got one every day he sat here like this.
A staccato of high-pitched coos brought his attention to the sky.
Instinct told him to growl at the blue bird flying towards him, but he could barely manage a grumble. As it got closer, recognition set in. This was a messenger service. The librarian’s dove swooped down, dropped a rolled-up piece of parchment by his boot, and took off again.
A letter from the archives?
He reached for it, admired the yellow ribbon, then pulled the ends loose with unsteady fingers.
Dear Westley, the wisest werewolf in all the land,
I have a request. Well, two requests. A shifting lesson and for you not to die, please.
I’m not sure who else to ask for help. Mellie is nice, sort of, but she has seven pups to worry about.
I guess what I really want to say is that I heard what’s going on between the two packs.
I'm sure that’s hard, but there are wolves that need you. The archives need you.
I need you.
Winter
This wasn’t a letter. The last three words were a song, carrying a tune around his heart and squeezing it. He read it again.
Blood pulsed through his veins with renewed vigor.
He pieced together all the glimpses of her, questioning if she’d been there the whole time.
Impossible.
She was in the future.
He rubbed the coarse parchment between his fingertips for further confirmation.
Real.
Snow began to fall, white flecks adding to the layers he’d already neglected.
One chore, he told himself.
After tucking the letter into his cloak pocket, he picked up the shovel and stood. He had to clear the footpath.
A few days later
Westley awoke to a hailstorm. Bullets of ice banged against his window, rattling the glass.
He reached for his pillow, wanting to cover his ears, but rolled off the bed and fell flat on his face.
There was something sticky on the floorboards and one sniff confirmed it was dried whiskey.
He peered up to find his bottle on its side, balancing precariously on the edge of his nightstand.
He scrambled to his feet and set it upright with trembling fingers. Thankfully, there was some left. He exhaled. Going into town would require putting his boots on, and even the thought of lacing them drained him.
One moment it was raining bricks, and the next it was silent. Hailstorms didn’t behave like this, so something was amiss.
Westley spun and stumbled over to his windowsill. Pressing his weight into the wood, daring it to snap, he flung the curtain open. Before his eyes could adjust to the morning light, small snowballs smacked the glass. Dozens of them. He couldn’t see what was going on out there now.
Instinct to protect this nest coursed through him.
Westley staggered to his door, pressing against the wall for support.
He swung his body across the threshold and made a ‘U’ shape into Mel’s room.
Nausea curled in his gut, causing him to lean into her door jamb.
If he didn’t start drinking again soon, his body might kill him before Xavier’s pack had the chance.
Mel’s room remained orderly—the one place he hadn’t touched. There were seven pristinely fluffed dog beds encircling her floor mattress.
It’d been weeks since he’d completed a full chore around the cabin. Every time he’d tried to start one, pain crept back in, so he’d drink instead.
Mel wasn’t coming anyway.
Why would she?
Winter—his true mate—couldn’t be real.
Why would she be?
He didn’t deserve love in any form. He wasn’t even worthy of the wind’s song. Before he could finish his daily death wish, the hammering sound started again. He pushed off the door, lurched to Mel’s window, and shoved the curtain aside.
It was also covered in snow. Well, there was one spot uncovered, just large enough for an eyeball. Westley bent down and squinted through the small hole.
There was a hovering broom and a rider. It looked a lot like Winter, though he was certain this was another hallucination.
She brandished a tree branch like it was a weapon and loaded it with snow from a bucket sitting in her lap.
What started as white clumps, condensed into tiny missiles, pounding into his window.
She must’ve been working her way around the entire cabin.
Westley knew there was witch blood in her veins. He recalled something about her saying she could fly. But never ever had he pictured this.
Send me straight to Tartarus.
This daymare had to end.
Without a second thought, he opened the window, wiggling it to release the icy seal. “Stop it!”
She scowled, lowering her weapon at the same time. Between her fair skin, pink cheeks, and hair that swirled with the wind, she looked a lot like a fucking angel sent to take him to heaven.
“Westley.” Her tone was uncharacteristically meek. It was a result of his mind conjuring her up again, desperate for her attention.
He was pathetic.
“Leave me alone!” he shouted, slamming the window shut.
Winter hung her empty bucket on the tip of her broom, then steered her ship around. Leaning forward, chest parallel to the forest floor, she zoomed back to the archives. Her lunch break was ending anyway.
Why was Westley such a prick?
Ignoring her?
Shooing her?
She sniffled. It definitely wasn’t tears; it was the wind chill.
According to werewolves in the archives, his death match was scheduled for next week. He certainly couldn’t help her if he wasn’t breathing. Aside from shifting and guarding the archives, he owed her a trip back to the palace. She had no idea where it was and wasn’t sure who else to ask.
The wind? Silent.
Shisoba? Far from helpful with directions.
Lenn? Still dead.
Winter groaned.
She refused to let a stubborn, no-good, werewolf with ego problems ruin her plans. Frankly, he was lucky she hadn’t used her snow gun to pelt him in his face.
Convincing him to help her was going to be harder than she’d thought it would be.
She’d have to step aside from work temporarily—the fight was only a week away and reorganization would take months.
With her master rolodex finally complete, Magdalene theoretically had everything she needed to reshelve without help.
The forest was soon behind her. As she flew over Elmwood square, she ignored the confused humans pointing up to the sky. She didn’t feel like cackling for them today.