Chapter 7
CLEMENTINE
Shrimp’s snores wake me up.
My massive dog only snores when he sleeps in bed with me, and he only sleeps in bed with me when he thinks I’m scared or sick. The pup is intuitive like that. Normally, he prefers to lie sprawled out in the middle of the floor—I think because he gets hot easily.
But this morning, Shrimp lies plastered to my side, doing a pitch-perfect imitation of a chainsaw in my ear.
I roll away from the racket and wince at the jab of pain in my abdomen. The discomfort brings the last few days back to me.
The truth about Luke.
The fight and the knife wound.
The frantic drive from Nashville to north Georgia.
The encounter with the most judgmental werewolf to ever exist.
The bad news from the healing witch.
Carl’s fear.
Out of everything that happened, that last one hurts the most, even compared to the still-unhealed wound in my side.
When our parents decided they were done raising kids and fucked off, I did not take it well.
I let my resentment and hormones make all my decisions for me.
Very bad decisions. There were many times during my teenage years I didn’t even feel like I was in my body.
It was as if I were watching from a few feet away, haunting a girl who had been hurt by the two people who were supposed to love her unconditionally, and so she rebelled against everything.
She made it make sense that no one would love her.
But Carl always did. No matter what, my brother was on my side, supporting me and offering an endless round of chances. He never wrote me off, though everyone told him he should.
Once the fog of grief cleared enough that I recognized the damage I had done to him, I couldn’t stay in Folk Haven. Guilt was an illness that could only be cured with distance.
Or so I thought. Because nine years later, I feel just as shitty about how I treated the one person who did love me unconditionally. And I only came back because I have violence on my tail.
“I’m a shitty sister,” I mutter to the ceiling of Griffith’s guest room. “Carl deserves better than me.”
Griffith obviously agrees, from the contemptuous looks he sent my way. Honestly, if I hadn’t been on edge from the gash in my stomach I was hiding, I probably would’ve taken his ire last night as my due. But when I’m in pain, I get selfish and short-tempered.
With a groan, I push myself upright, and either the noise or my new position wakes Shrimp up.
He lifts his blocky head with a huff, stretches his mile-long legs, and yawns wide enough to show off all his teeth.
Then he gives me a few searching sniffs, and I push him away while also scratching his ears.
“I’m fine. I bet you need the bathroom, huh?”
His answer is a couple of heavy pants.
Maybe I spoke too soon about how well I’m doing because the moment I stand, pain shoots up and down my left side.
Lifting my shirt, I find the same pale not-quite-skin covering Madeline cast over my wound last night.
The witch said her Band-Aid would keep me together, stop the blood loss for now, but it was fragile and temporary.
If I don’t find the original weapon or another fix, then the witch bandage will dissolve and need to be recast.
She warned that each new seal will last for a shorter length of time.
“How am I going to fix this?” I pose the question to Shrimp, but he only stretches in response, used to being my silent sounding board.
Outside of the bedroom, we step into a spacious, brightly lit sunroom I vaguely remember passing through the night before. I was in a zombielike state, relying on Shrimp to pull me after Griffith.
The wolf is letting me crash in his house.
Not something I ever would have expected the guy to do. As Carl’s best friend, Griffith was witness to much of my teenage fuckery, and even back then, I could tell how much he despised me.
Hells, I despise that version of me.
I know this offer of accommodation is only because of my brother.
That I’m on a thin ice of generosity. If Griffith wants to kick me out on a whim, he can.
But if he does, that’ll fracture his relationship with Carl.
And as much as the wolf aggravates me, I don’t want to be the reason Carl is fighting with his best friend.
“We’ve got to be on good behavior,” I tell Shrimp as I let him out a glass door into an expansive backyard that eventually butts up with the dense forest surrounding Folk Haven. “From here on out, we need to be perfect houseguests.”
My dog’s response to my declaration is to take a massive dump in the middle of the lawn.
“Note to self: find a poop bag,” I mutter, hoping I have a roll in my car somewhere.
Normally, I’m always ready to clean up after my dog, but we left in such a rush that I might have missed a few essentials. Hopefully, I can grab a plastic bag and sneak back out here before Griffith notices the mountain of feces Shrimp just expelled.
Proud of how well he did his business, Shrimp kicks up a few giant clumps of grass, as if wiping his feet, then lumbers back to me, tongue lolling.
Since the day I went to the animal shelter in Nashville and found him sitting in a kennel, smelling like sewage and recovering from an ear infection, I fell in love.
The adoration is mutual, and now—despite Griffith’s complaints—Shrimp smells as clean as a normal dog can, has a spotless bill of health, and sticks to me like glue.
Whenever I put a leash on him, it’s only for show.
Shrimp heels like it’s his job, never reacts to anyone more than a curious sniff, and is gentle to a fault.
My dog is a good boy, and I’ll defend him with my life.
When we reenter the house, he stays at my side as I head in the direction I think I recall seeing the kitchen. Belatedly, I realize there are voices emanating from the doorway. I pause before crossing the threshold, not sure what I’m about to walk into and trying to discern if I’m ready for it.
The answer is probably no, seeing as how I only feel equipped for returning to bed and sleeping another twenty-four hours.
But Shrimp needs to eat, and I don’t remember if Carl grabbed his food out of the trunk when he gathered my things last night.
“Come on, Clementine,” Griffith calls out to me a room away. “I’ve got breakfast for you and the beast.”
Did he read my mind?
As if his statement summoned the sensation, I suddenly realize how hungry I am, and for some reason I find the idea of entering the unknown less intimidating now that I’m sure Griffith is there.
Probably a sign that I’m still lightheaded from blood loss.
I shuffle forward, my fingers digging into the fur of Shrimp’s neck so I have support if I lose my balance.
What I find surprises me.
At a large wooden family-style table sits a group of people who look like they were in the middle of a discussion. Now they’re all turned to face me. But I lose sight of the eclectic bunch when Griffith comes to stand in my eyeline, his brow furrowed as he studies me.
“You look wrecked,” he says, the charmer.
And oddly enough, instead of bristling at his observation, I snort. “Glad the outside matches the inside.”
He frowns.
I try to pull in a deep, bracing breath, enjoying the fresh-cut pine scent that emanates off of him, only to wince when my expanding rib cage tugs on the barely patched wound.
Griffith catches the flinch and goes full scowl. I swear the wolf has never smiled at me once and will refuse to until the day he dies.
“Sit here.” He sets his hand between my shoulder blades and gives me a surprisingly gentle nudge toward a cushy armchair.
“I don’t get to be part of the group?” There’s no real complaint in my voice as I wave toward the gathering that’s still quietly watching us.
All except for the baby strapped to the chest of a dark-haired man, that is. The kid plays with a ring toy, waving it around, then trying to chew on it.
“They want to ask you about the hunter. But you need breakfast first.” Griffith gives me a final, barely there push, and I collapse into the armchair. “No questions until you’re fed.”
Assuming the directive doesn’t apply to me, I ask, “Do you know if Carl grabbed Shrimp’s food? It was in a big plastic bin with a blue top.”
“Haven’t seen it.” Griffith arranges a TV tray in front of me, but I make to nudge it away so I can stand. “Stop that.” He pushes my hands into my lap.
“You stop. I need to find Shrimp’s food. Is my car still at your bar?” Mentally, I try to sort through everything I hastily shoved in the trunk. Realizing my error, I suck in a shuddering breath. “Shit. I think … shit.”
“What?” Griffith presses his palm flat on the TV tray so I can’t move the barrier. He looms over me, gaze intent on my face, and I hate that he can probably see my lip quiver.
Normally, I’m not a crier, but I’m still tired and hurting. Plus, being back in Folk Haven reminds me of what a fuckup I used to be and has me forgetting that I grew up and learned how to solve my problems with mature solutions.
“I forgot Shrimp’s food,” I confess. “I couldn’t lift the bin.
” When I tried, the strain was like a fire poker getting shoved in my abdomen.
“I was going to put it in smaller containers, but I got distracted.” Every second of packing, I had one ear on the door, one eye down the street, expecting the hunters to show up at any moment.
“I need to go. Need to find him something to eat.”
They probably won’t have his normal brand at the local grocery store, but he’s not picky.
I’ll get him the best they have, then order a bag of his specialty kibble with expedited shipping.
Shrimp, patient boy that he is, sits beside my chair, his head on the armrest, liquid brown eyes gazing up at me with utter trust.
“I have food for him.”
At Griffith’s words, I glance up at him in surprise.
“You have dog food?”
“I have food dogs will eat.”
Not really what I was asking.
“He’s allergic to chicken.”
The werewolf sighs, then holds my gaze, pinning me in place with the weight of his attention. “Sit here. Eat. I’ll feed him.”
The two commands he gives prick at my pride, demanding I toss back a snarky answer.
But he just offered to feed my dog, so I put a leash on my childish urge and give him a sincere, “Thank you.”
Griffith blinks, then straightens and stalks to the kitchen.
The people at the table started up a quiet discussion during our exchange, eyes now purposefully averted from me.
Griffith returns, setting down a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage links, and a stack of toast. There’s also a glass of orange juice, a bottle of Tabasco sauce, and a jar of raspberry jam.
My favorite jam. But I doubt he knows that.
“Don’t give Shrimp your sausage,” he warns me a second before I plan to do exactly that. “His breakfast is coming next.”
I’m just finished dumping a generous amount of hot sauce on my eggs when Griffith sets a metal bowl on the floor in front of Shrimp that’s full of chunks of red meat.
“Venison,” he explains.
Shrimp starts to drool.
“Eat,” I direct my pup before a puddle forms on the floor.
Shrimp dives face-first into the feast. Looking up, I find Griffith watching my dog, and I catch a twitch at the corner of his mouth, something like a satisfied smile.
A weird warmth blooms in my chest, and I scoop up a forkful of eggs so I can blame the heat on the sauce.
I expect Griffith to rejoin whatever meeting is taking place in his house, but he grabs a steaming mug that smells like coffee and returns to my side, standing in between me and the visitors.
“Is Carl still working?” I ask while spreading a thick coating of jam on my toast.
“He got off not long ago. He’s bringing your car here. Should be back soon.”
I nod and chew and commend myself for the fact that Griffith and I have been in each other’s vicinity for almost fifteen minutes without tossing insults at one another. As long as you don’t count his wrecked comment, but that was more of an observation than anything.
“Who are your guests?” I wave my fork toward the quietly talking group.
“Finish your breakfast.”
“I can eat and listen at the same time.” To prove my point, I take a big bite of sausage and chew it slowly, my cheeks puffed with food as I glance up at him expectantly.
The wolf stares at my mouth for a moment, and I wonder if he’s had a chance to eat.
Eventually, Griffith blinks and tears his hungry gaze away, clearing his throat before responding, “They’re the current members of The Folk Haven Mythic Council.”
“Hungry members,” a vaguely familiar woman with a shaved head, onyx skin tone, and subtle air of power calls out.
I swear I saw her around town when I used to live here, but as a teen, I didn’t pay much attention to adults who didn’t directly influence my life.
“I expected some food at this morning meeting. A witch can’t live off black coffee alone. ”
“He’s not obligated to feed you,” a broad-shouldered man rumbles. Despite the years, I still recognize him—Juan Greymark, beta of the local werewolf pack. His daughter, Rosa, was in my class and might have gotten caught up in a few of my schemes.
Doubt he’s a member of my fan club.
Is he the alpha now? If so, that means he can give Griffith orders.
Not sure why, but I don’t like that thought.
Juan glares at the woman who called for food like she personally offended him in some way before he turns his attention to Griffith. “But I think we’ve waited long enough.”
“Long enough for what?” I ask in a stage whisper.
The wolf meets my eyes with a hard look. “To hear about the danger you brought to our town.”