Chapter 11
Making Friends
JESSICA
EIGHT YEARS AGO:
Whitemore Plantation
The wolves chase me. Their jaws snap. Low growls emanate from their chests.
My arms bleed from long, deep wounds. Pain infiltrates every fiber of my being.
My lungs burn, and my heart feels like it will explode in my chest. But I must keep running.
I can’t let them catch me. They will kill me.
Something stiff tugs around my neck—a rope.
I fall backward, dragged. I claw at my neck to pry my fingers under the rope.
I can’t breathe. I throw myself forward, hitting my head… on a shelf?
I feel around me. I definitely hit a shelf.
It takes a moment to recall where I am. I must have fallen asleep while waiting for my capturers to find me.
I’m no longer in a curled sitting position, and a blanket drapes over me.
Rubbing my forehead, I carefully sit up, avoiding the low shelf this time.
Grasping around my neck, I am relieved that there is no rope. I lift the sleeves of my hoodie to my elbows. There are no gaping wounds, no blood. I don’t smell blood on me, either. The rough texture of my arm, though, indicates there once were wounds. Questions swirl through my mind.
Then, I remember the hole in my throat. Yep, it’s still there. The front of my sweatshirt is wet. Disgusting! I find the cloth to wipe the mess and cover the hole with my hand.
I slowly stand and wonder, where did the blanket come from? I still can’t see. Everything is a blur of shadows and light. How did I get here? How did I allude those men?
Panic rises from my chest. My heartbeat races.
I press harder against the hole in my throat, quieting the sound of my rapid breathing.
I smell him, the owner of this sweatshirt.
I bring the neckline to my nose and instantly calm down.
His scent makes me feel safe. I drop the fabric between my fingers as the heat of a blush enflames my face.
Gods, I’m a mess. I’m swooning over a guy I never met.
I startle at a sudden voice. Well, are you going to come out, or are you going to stand in there all day, talking to yourself?
I stiffen, pondering my reply. First of all, I am not talking to myself. I’m thinking. Secondly, the door is closed. How do they know I’m standing? Tentatively, I step forward. Stretching out my arm, I feel for the door and push it open. Light fills the kitchen.
Well, aren’t you a smartass. the voice mocks, breaking through my thoughts.
I look around the room to locate the person belonging to the voice in my head. I don’t hear it with my ears. But that doesn’t make sense. I rub my face and scoff. I am losing my mind.
I know what this is. I’m actually dead. Or am I dreaming? This must be a dream—a literal nightmare—because I have a gaping hole in my throat, and my bodily fluids are draining down my neck.
I hear a chuckle. Correction, the chuckle reverberates inside my head. You’re not dead, and you are definitely not dreaming. Now, come closer so I can look at you. My eyes are not what they used to be.
I hesitate and turn my head, trying to recognize a shape or an outline. My left eye senses a little more detail if I turn my head to the right.
Several feet in front of me is a long table with several chairs. Someone sits at the end. A strange light surrounds the outline in an almost ethereal way, and fluffy hair haloes their head. Tentatively, I step forward.
Well, hurry it up. I am not getting any younger, the voice speaks in my head again.
Am I deaf, too?
Not deaf, dear, but maybe a little daft.
Daft? I now recognize the voice belongs to a woman, maybe an elderly woman. She called me daft, as in stupid. Keeping my head to the right, I quicken my steps, approaching the table.
No, daft as in silly, wiseass.
I proceed forward, furrowing my brow in confusion.
How is this happening? I must miscalculate my steps because I collide with a person.
Shit! I try to speak, to instinctively apologize, but air gushes from the hole in my throat.
Before I can move, hands grab my chin, and with a firm grip, they shift my head from side to side.
“What you must have been through to get here,” the woman says aloud because this time I can hear her and feel her soft breath on my face. “Now, take a deep breath and visualize your surroundings with your mind, as you did before.”
Visualize my surroundings with my mind?
“Be quick about it. There isn’t much time.”
I don’t know how I did it in the first place. Why is this woman so convinced that I can?
“Because you can. Now, stop overthinking and just do it.”
Do what? Maybe I escaped from a nuthouse.
Or I escaped into a nuthouse. Or maybe… Whack!
A blunt object hits my right arm and then my left.
My leg is struck next. Irritated, I take a deep breath, and the room blooms into sight with a little old lady holding a cane.
She extends her arm to the side, attempting to hit me again.
But this time, I snatch the cane from her.
“About damn time. Now, sit and have some tea.”
Frowning at the old woman, I lower myself into the chair she indicates.
She returns to the head of the table and scoots her chair a little forward.
She’s not much taller than I am, with all-white curly hair, and she wears an aquamarine tracksuit.
I rest her cane against the table, so she can reach it when she’s ready to stand again.
On second thought, I move it to my other side so she can’t hit me with it.
You don’t miss much, now do you? She laughs.
Miss much?
She doesn’t answer me—well, because her mouth doesn’t move—and her voice reaches inside my head as she sips her tea. Not only are you a wiseass, but you’re also quite observant. You catch onto things quickly, when you don’t overthink so much.
I glance down at the cup of tea in front of me. I can’t drink it, recalling my choking episode at the faucet last night.
Try again. You might be surprised.
How is she inside my head? I obviously can’t talk with this stupid hole in my throat, and yet she’s holding a conversation with me inside my head.
I rub my forehead. I must be a ghost or maybe a zombie.
I’m a walking dead carcass. That makes sense.
I pat myself down to assess my body, and I feel a pinch on my thigh. Ouch! Seriously!
Not a zombie, after all. Another laugh emits from the old lady in my head. And… I am not inside of your head. You are inside mine. Drink your tea.
Rubbing at my thigh, I grumble and grimace at the cup again. I gingerly lift it as if it’s full of poison and raise an inquisitive eyebrow. This won’t be pretty. As I bring the teacup to my lips, I think, can’t say I didn’t warn you.
I take a small sip and wait for the choking and coughing to start, but nothing happens.
I pull the cloth from my sweatshirt pocket and wipe at the hole.
No warm liquid pours out. The hole is still there.
I can hear myself breathing. But it’s not as big as it felt earlier.
I wipe my hand down my pants leg and try another sip. No coughing, no choking.
I don’t like that you refer to me as an old lady.
I glance over at her. Sorry. I didn’t think you could hear my thoughts.
My name is Agnus, or you can call me Aggie. You’re on my territory.
I’m on her territory. I have to think about that for a minute, trying to remember exactly how did I get here?
I don’t even know where I am or where I came from.
I try to think harder. I don’t know where I live.
I can’t retrieve memories from my life before waking up as some kind of science experiment.
My hands begin to tremble. The china rattles, so I rest the teacup on the table.
Agnus reaches over to touch my hand. Do you at least know your name?
Staring at the tinted liquid, I focus on my name, but nothing seems familiar. I don’t know who I am.
Finish your tea. It might come back to you. She pats my hand.
I’m surprised that no more choking episodes occur, and tea doesn’t drip from the hole. Physically, it’s impossible. But so was running away from a large pack of wolves last night.
Agnus collects my cup, peering into it and slowly moving it around. Interesting, she mumbles.
Turning my head to look at her, my vision blurs and refocuses like a camera. Her brows crease, as if she’s solving a puzzle. She hums quietly and jots notes in a notebook next to her. What is she doing?
I’m reading your tea leaves, she answers.
Studying whatever she sees in the remnants of my tea, she sits silent for a long time, writing more notes.
Finally, she rests her pen down and closes her notebook.
Giving my hand a reassuring squeeze, she claims, All will be well, my dear.
Now, the bathroom is down the hall. Wash up, and we will take a walk when you’re all done.
She glances at my feet and adds, No shoes? You ran all the way here with no shoes?
I shrug.
Three doors down from the bathroom is my Marisol’s room. She might have a pair she left behind in the closet. Have a look before you come out. Then, meet me on the porch.
Down the hall I approach the bedroom Agnus mentioned.
The room smells musty and damp like it hasn’t been used in a long time.
I close my eyes, allowing the layout of the room to fill my mind.
I see a little girl’s room, with a full-sized canopy bed covered in a faded pink duvet, spiderwebs cover a lamp sitting on a nightstand near the bed.
Disturbed dusty patterns near the window followed by bloodied footprints leading to the door, reveal a dark mahogany wood beneath the caked-on dirt and dust. I walk over to the boarded windows and find the missing panel I pulled off earlier.
A quick glance at my feet covered in dirt and dried blood confirm that the footprints are my own.
In the closet, a line of shoes caked with dust sit on a shelf. A worn pair of Converse tennis shoes catch my eye. I swipe away the grime and try them on. They fit perfectly. Smiling, I wiggle my toes.
As I head to the porch, I hear someone ask, “Alpha Agnus, is everything okay?” A tall, lanky, elderly man with salt-and-pepper hair approaches the house.
“Yes, everything is fine, Miller. I’m just taking my friend on a walk around the territory.”
“Your friend, Alpha?” he inquires.
“Are you questioning my friends?” She rests her hands on her hips. I smirk at her sassy nature.
The man actually winces. “Uh, no, Alpha. It’s just, uh…” He clears his throat. “You, uh, don’t like people… or have very many friends.”
She laughs and slaps his arm. “Yes, well, I like this Little One, which says a lot. Doesn’t it?” She turns to face me and winks.
Miller holds out his hand to introduce himself. “I’m Miller, Alpha Agnus’s right-hand man.”
I first wipe my hands on my pant legs and shake his outstretched offering. I try to speak, but a breathy squeak emits from my mouth.
Agnus pats my arm and explains, “She’s a little shy.
Why don’t you come with us and give her a tour of the place?
” Embarrassed, I dip my head and reach to cover the gaping hole in my throat when Miller grips my hand tightly in his.
His eyes narrow, scrutinizing my features.
I don’t blame him. I’m a teen who basically appeared out of nowhere.
“Does your friend have a name?”
“Of course she does, Miller,” Agnus tsks. “It’s Jessica,” she proclaims.
His eyes widen before he once again masks his expression. He looks me over one last time before releasing my hand. Nodding, he says, “Very nice to meet you, Jessica.”
I give a tight-lipped smile and nod as well.
Offering an arm to help Agnus off the porch, he continues, “Your little friend Jessica wouldn’t have been responsible for all that racket last night, would she?”
Agnus stops in her tracks. “Why, Miller, are you being rude to my guest?”
“Uh, no, Alpha. It’s just… well… I’m just looking out for you… and the pack, of course.”
“Just shut your ass and take us on that tour!”
I cover my mouth to stifle my giggles. Miller glances at me. Agnus is a feisty old woman. Then again, I guess she needs to be as an Alpha. I wonder why she never introduced herself to me as Alpha when she told me her name.
Both Miller and Alpha Agnus show me their little pack community—their homes, the small school, and even the tea plantation.
Whitemore pack is known for its white tea.
According to Alpha Agnus, the secret is their water source.
It is believed that the water from Quartz Lake behind the plantation contains healing properties.
The water is siphoned from the lake as a water supply to the plantation as well as the pack’s general use.
At the end of the tour, they show me Quartz Lake. Alpha Agnus points to the other shoreline and says, “Beyond the lake is the seventh territory. Are you familiar with its history?”
I nod.
She stares into the distance—sad, wistful. “Good. It’s important that you learn where you came from. It’s important to learn the struggles and the sacrifices made by generations before so that you can have the life that you live now and in the future.”
She speaks low, almost a whisper, but I hear her. I also notice the slight shine of unshed tears in her eyes. She blinks a few times, as if pulling herself out of a memory.
“You should sit and rest by the lake. Maybe take your shoes off and dip your feet. When you’re ready, return to the house, and you can make my lunch.”
I almost nod in agreement but then pause, cocking my head in her direction. Why she thinks I can cook is beyond me. I simply shrug and turn back to the lake.
“You better figure it out. I missed breakfast this morning.”
I shake my head, and a wheezy, fluid-filled laugh escapes from the hole in my throat.