Chapter 11
CLEMENTINE
There’s no cure.
At least not one that the witches know of.
When I woke up from my impromptu nap to find myself alone with Griffith, he was quick to get up and call the others in.
A woman with warm brown skin and a gentle smile introduced herself as Zara a moment before I remembered her from a few grades ahead of me back in school.
She sat beside me with a sketch pad as I detailed the appearances of the two hunters—particularly Luke.
Apparently, Zara is now the town’s veterinarian, but she’s an artist in her free time.
Her renderings were accurate; plus, she managed to draw a likeness of the weapon that had cut me based off the few glimpses I got while my attacker sliced it through the air.
After we were done, she even gave Shrimp a quick checkup, deeming him healthy and a very good boy.
Next came Ame’s sister, Mor. The witch who runs the lakeside library shares the same red hair as her sister, but their personalities are vastly different.
Mor seemed less … odd. After taking a long moment to study Zara’s drawing of the blade, she spoke to me in a no-nonsense manner, asking how the wound looked and felt—even how it smelled.
Weirdly enough, Griffith helped with that, claiming he detected a hint of sulfur.
I try not to think about how weird it is, knowing the wolf can smell every detail about me.
But even after all Mor’s clarifying questions, the encounter ended with a promise from the witch that she’d scour her texts for an answer.
No immediate ideas for treatment. No promises that an answer exists.
The car ride back to Griffith’s house is quiet and not because I fall asleep again.
“Can you turn on some music?” I ask, feeling like I’m going to crawl out of my skin, knowing that Carl is sitting in the backseat, spiraling.
My brother hates being helpless, and now I’ve brought a potentially unsolvable problem to him.
One that might end my life.
When I was a teenager, I rejected his attempts to love and protect me. All the pain I had about my parents walking out on us needed to go somewhere, and I aimed it in the absolutely wrong direction. I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
Maybe I was scared Carl would leave me too. And if I was a terror, at least it would make sense why I was abandoned.
Now though, I’d like to think I have healthier coping mechanisms. I might not have collected friends on my travels, but I did see a therapist or two. They didn’t fix me, but they helped me understand the sources of my hurt and gave me directions on how to go about growing.
So, as I sit here, scared and in pain, I’m not going to search for a method of causing chaos to distract from my negative emotions.
Instead, I just want some music and a moment to figure out the best way forward.
Griffith fiddles with the radio until a local country station comes on.
Lainey Wilson belts about “Wildflowers and Wild Horses,” and I let her rich voice wash over me.
By the time we reach Griffith’s house, I don’t have any answers to my problems, but I also don’t feel quite so much like an exposed nerve.
“We need to figure this out,” Carl says the moment we’re through the front door.
When I face him, I take in the dark circles under his eyes, the bloodshot redness around his irises, and the tinge of gray to his skin.
He’s exhausted.
And in need of a swim.
“You need sleep,” I tell him, focusing on the more immediate problem.
“I’ll sleep later.”
“Everything that can be done right now has been,” Griffith says. “Get some rest, and then we’ll figure out the next step.”
Carl paces around the open living plan of Griffith’s farmhouse as he runs his hands through his hair until the blond strands stand up at odd angles.
Not sure if there’s anything that can calm him down, I do the only thing I can think of.
Stepping in his path, I open my arms and pull my brother in for a hug, pressing my face into his shoulder so he doesn’t see the way I wince when the gesture tugs at my side.
Carl lets out a ragged breath, then hugs me back, careful with his embrace.
“Please go sleep.” I rub soothing circles on his back, briefly acting like I’m the responsible one in this dynamic. “I promise I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
“Fine.” He eventually relents. “I’ll take a power nap on the couch.”
“You’ll sleep for at least two hours in your bed.” I step away and turn him toward the door. “Griffith and I are going to watch TV while you rest, okay? We need the couch.”
Carl stares down at me, then glances over my shoulder to share some kind of silent best-friend communication with Griffith.
“Fine.” Carl agrees. “Just a few hours. Then we’ll plan.”
“Then we’ll plan,” I agree as I walk him toward the front door.
Carl sighs, then heads out, crossing the yard to his apartment.
Leaving Griffith and me alone.
When I turn to face the werewolf, I find him watching me.
“You didn’t used to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Care about him.”
Five years of therapy threatens to go out the window at his harsh statement, and I suck in more than one deep breath through my nose to keep a cutting insult behind my teeth. If it wasn’t for my midday library nap, I’d probably eviscerate him. Or at least tell him to fuck off.
“You knew me during the worst part of my life,” I grit out. “It would be lovely if you stopped bringing it up like I was still some angry, petulant seventeen-year-old. You don’t know me anymore.” My voice lowers to a mutter. “Shithead.”
Therapy can only do so much.
Griffith snorts. Then huffs out a breath, kicks off his boots, and strides deeper into his house. I squat down to untie my white Converse, and as I do, I spy a few specks of red on the fabric.
At first, the significance doesn’t register. Living in Georgia, I got used to stains from red dirt. But those always lean more orange on the color spectrum. These dots are a dark brick shade.
I suck in a startled gasp.
“What is it?” Griffith reappears like he’d never been far from my side.
I scoop up my shoe and shove it in his face. “Sniff this!”
“Is this some kind of revenge?” he asks, pushing my hand away.
“No.” Once again, I force my footwear under his nose. “This is blood.”
He frowns. “Yeah. You were bleeding not too long ago.”
“On my left side.” With my free hand, I wave at where my wound is, just above my left hip. “This is my right sneaker. I think it’s Luke’s blood. From when I punched him.” I shake the shoe, as if that’ll convince him of its significance. “Does this blood smell like me? Or someone else?”
Griffith pries the footwear from my fingers, and like he doesn’t even care about foot odor, he presses the shoe right up against his nose and inhales a lungful. Then he blinks and mutters, “Got you, fucker.”
“You do?” Hope thrums in my chest. “That’s not my blood?” Maybe I’m not totally useless when it comes to defending this town.
“Not yours,” he confirms. While still gripping the sneaker, he slides his phone out and shoots off a quick text. “Someone from the packs will be by to grab it.”
On a past catch-up with Carl, he told me about another wolf pack moving into Folk Haven, meaning there are now two, who have had to learn to coexist.
“They’ll pass it around so everyone on guard knows the scent.” When Griffith meets my eyes, he sports a tight yet still somehow-genuine smile. “This’ll help.”
Relief washes through my veins, clearing out some of the toxic guilt from bringing danger to this town. At least I’m helping prepare everyone as best I can.
Still, I can’t help wishing there were more I could do.
We settle on opposite ends of a massive sectional, my shoe resting on the coffee table. Shrimp sprawls on the rug, and Griffith picks up the remote, navigating to streaming services, apparently taking me at my word about wanting to watch something together.
As he flicks through the endless options, I pick at the corner of the couch cushion and try not to think about how Luke could be driving to Folk Haven. That he could be passing the town’s Welcome sign right now.
And that his arrival would be my fault.
Even when I’m not trying, I’m a chaos agent. Griffith is right to resent my presence.
“I think I should leave.”
Griffith pauses his search for something to watch and levels me with a look that says he thinks I’m talking nonsense.
I bristle and grab a throw pillow to clutch against my chest, as if it’d lend my argument more weight. “It makes sense. What if I’m being magically tracked in some way? I’ll lead them right here.”
“Good,” Griffith growls. “The town is better equipped to handle hunters than you are on your own.”
I gape at him, bowled over by him immediately shooting down my plan to leave. Would have thought he’d start packing my bags for me.
“But there are vulnerable mythics here,” I point out. “Children. I’m putting them all at risk.”
“Mythics living in this world is a risk. You didn’t invent hunters.” He shakes his head. “And you’re still injured.”
He’s making sense, and it annoys me, even if staying is what I want to do deep in my heart.
“And how am I supposed to wait out the danger here? Ride along with Carl every day? He has a job that’s not all about me. I’m a distraction.”
I know my brother would never make me feel that way, but I also know he’ll go out of his way to keep me safe. To keep me healthy and happy.
But that’s not his job anymore. It never should have been his responsibility.
“You can come to the bar.”
“What?”
Griffith sighs. “The bar. That I own. You can hang out there. Carl said you work remotely?”
I blink, then nod, trying to process that they talked about me and Griffith bothered to retain any of the details of my life.
“Well, we’ve got Wi-Fi. Good beer and good food. Open every day, except for Monday because I’m not trying to compete with Margarita Monday at the Marina.” He leans back and props his feet up on the ottoman as if the matter is settled.
“You think the best way to ensure my safety is to have me hang out at a bar?”
“My bar. Where I’ll be.” He pops up an eyebrow. “You think there’s anyone Carl will trust more than me to keep you safe?”
I grunt. “Think it’s more likely you’ll be the one to kill me if we’re forced to spend so much time together.”
Griffith snorts. “It’s a big bar. You can sit in the far corner.”
I’m saved from having to respond by a knock on the front door. Shrimp jerks upright and lets out a warning bark.
“It’s okay, big boy.” Griffith heaves himself to his feet and spares Shrimp a pat on the head when he passes by.
He disappears around the corner, coming back a moment later with a vaguely familiar face. The man is tall, lanky, with a complexion as dark as a moonless night, and a wide, wicked grin. When he shoots it my way, I recognize him from behind the bar at Local Brew.
“Can you double-check?” Griffith asks his coworker. “Want to make sure I’m not mixed up.”
“Sure.” The werewolf—I’m assuming—offers me a smile. “Hey. I’m Rodney. Okay if I give you a quick sniff?”
“Clementine. And go for it.”
I extend my hand. Instead of smelling my palm, he cradles my arm and presses his nose to the inside of my elbow. The inhale tickles, and goose bumps erupt over my skin. Out of the corner of my eye, I could swear that Griffith stiffens.
Is he worried I’m going to snap at his pack mate?
I know the guy is here to help, not like Juan, who decided I was bad news because I’d once convinced his daughter to skip final period to go swimming in Lake Galen.
Naked.
“And the shoe?” Rodney holds out his hand, and Griffith swipes my Converse off the table and hands the footwear over. The wolf doesn’t even need a full breath. “Yeah, definitely different. I can pass this around. Make sure everyone knows who to track if their scent pops up.”
“Thank you.” I smile up at Rodney, and he returns the expression with his own charming grin.
“You should get on that.” Griffith claps a hand down on his shoulder and turns his pack mate toward the front door. “Now.”
“Right. Yeah. Bye, Clementine!” Rodney’s voice echoes back to me from around the corner as Griffith all but shoves him out of his house.
Guy is eager to get security in place. Not that I can blame him.
I slip my hand under my shirt and gingerly test the magicked bandage.
Already, it feels more tenuous than last night.
In a day or so, I’ll need to get it redone.
On top of the overall suck about my unhealing wound is the fact that witch magic doesn’t come cheap.
My savings are likely to be nonexistent after this.
Griffith returns and settles back onto the couch. He props his feet up, which reminds me of what I just lost.
“Damn.”
“What?”
“That’s the only pair of shoes I packed.”