Chapter 5
You want to know the good parts about me leaving Miguel and going back to my parents’ den? First, my parents were fast asleep, so they didn’t know I’d left pack lands, which meant they hadn’t been fretting. End of list.
Were you waiting for something else? ’Cause I can’t give you no more. That was the only pro. Truly.
I know you might be thinking another good part was that I hadn’t been injured in the fight with the half-souls, but here’s the thing—it wasn’t as if I was fit as a fiddle anyhow. The paralyzing feelings inside me weren’t new: lungs that seemed unable to open enough to take in necessary air, heart pushing so hard I swore it was fixin’ to beat out of my chest, skin so tight it almost burned. Those kinds of pains were the reasons I’d never been able to keep up with the other cubs in the pack. So, yeah, the discomfort, the pain, they weren’t new.
What was new, though, was that I finally felt like I knew how to remedy it. For the second day in a row, I’d not only stopped hurting, but I’d shifted. And both things happened after I’d been wounded.
I was quiet as a mouse when I got home, tiptoeing into my bedroom and then slowly shutting the door so I could lift it a tad and prevent the hinges from squeaking. I shucked off my shirt and pushed my shorts down, leaving them where they dropped on the floor. Then I knelt in front of my dresser and gently wiggled the bottom drawer open. I kept all my extra whatnots in that drawer, so I had to dig past worn paperbacks, a pinecone that struck my fancy a couple of seasons prior, a photo album, three pencils, a smooth rock, and an eraser shaped into a tree silhouette by repeated and strategic use, and then I found it. My pocketknife.
Wearing only my drawers and clutching the knife tightly, I walked over to my bed and sat on the brightly colored quilt my mother had spent hours stitching. I didn’t move. Heck, I was barely breathing. I just held on to that knife and considered my next step.
My hand trembled as I pulled out the blade and set it against my wrist. It seemed backward, I realized, hurting myself to stop the pain. But it had worked before. I pressed down and watched the skin turn red, then white, and then, just as I was about to pierce through, I pulled the blade back.
This wasn’t a decision I should make in the middle of the night after a long, emotional day. I forced myself to peel my fingers off the knife and set it on my nightstand. I’d get some sleep and figure out what to do in the morning.
“Who is Miguel?” my father asked when I walked into the kitchen the following morning.
I froze.
“You was calling his name in your sleep, Ethan,” my mother added softly. She wiped her hands on a towel and set it next to the sink before walking over to me. “Is he one of the vampires who attacked you and your friends?”
I understood why that was her first thought. After all, she knew everyone I knew. I rarely left pack lands without my parents, and when I did, it was with their permission and other pack members were always there.
“It sounded like you was crying.” My mother hugged me and petted my hair. “You’re safe now. They can’t hurt you none here.”
My night hadn’t been peaceful. That much was true enough. I had tossed and turned, dreaming of Miguel, aching for him. By the time I woke, I was sweaty, frustrated, and more exhausted than I’d been before I went to sleep.
He was one of the vampires from the other night, obviously, so that was true too. And he had injured the others, true again. But the kind of attack he’d waged on me wasn’t anything my mother could imagine. I trembled at the memory of his scent, his taste, his hands on me. Lord, I needed him.
My father, misreading my reaction and concerned about my lack of verbal response, pushed back his chair and stood. “We know you must be right petrified about what happened, but your mother’s right. The bloodsuckers won’t dare come onto pack lands. That there Miguel will never be able to get to you here.”
Hollow, that was how I felt upon hearing those words. My eyes were wet and I was practically gasping for air. My father was right. Vampires and shifters didn’t mix. The feud between our kinds was so long-standing, so assumed, that I honestly had no clue how it had started. It just was.
My mother squeezed me tightly. “Ethan, son, you’ll be fine.”
“How about we shift into our wolves and go for a run?” my father suggested. “I ain’t ever had a chance to run with you.”
No, he hadn’t. I had often longed to run through the woods with the other males, hunting and enjoying nature in all her glory. And I knew my father was disappointed that he’d not had that experience with his only son. On the tail of the comments about Miguel, my gut said my days on pack lands were numbered, which meant my father might not have that opportunity again. He was due. We both were.
“Okay, Pop. I just need to, uh, do something right quick. I’ll meet you outside shortly.”
He nodded and I walked into my bedroom and shut the door. I already knew what would happen if I tried to shift, but I decided to give it a go anyhow. After removing my clothing with shaky hands, I opened the window, crouched on the floor, and called my wolf.
The pain was blinding, literally blinding. Everything went black as I tried with all my might to shift into my other form. My heart felt like it was going to explode, I couldn’t breathe, and then I felt a warm trickle on my upper lip. It drizzled down and I darted my tongue out to get a taste. Blood.
I knew what to do. Letting my wolf rest, I breathed deeply and tried to calm my body. When I could see again, I swiped the back of my hand across my nose, wiped away the blood, and stood on weak legs. My pocketknife was still on the nightstand. I took it with me as I climbed out the window.
Hiding behind one of the trees next to the house, I opened the knife again. I was still nervous, but also determined. My father deserved to run with his son, and I wanted this memory to take with me, whether to the grave or to wherever it was I’d have to go to be with my mate for as many days as I had left. So this time, when the blade pressed down, I didn’t stop.
Not when I felt the sharp pain. Not when I felt the hot flow of blood drip down my skin and onto the ground. Not after the first cut, nor the second. Not even when I lost count of how many slashes covered my arms and legs. I didn’t stop until my hands turned into paws so I could no longer grasp the knife.
Taking in a deep breath, I reveled in the ability of my lungs to fully expand. A few moments alone was all I allowed myself before I trotted over to the front door and yipped.
My mother popped her head out a minute later. She laid her hand on her chest and gave me a watery-eyed smile. “I do declare, son, you are a gorgeous wolf. We didn’t see you walk out here so we reckoned you was taking your sweet time. I’ll let your father know you’re ready to run.”
The screen door slammed shut and I heard my mother call out, “Gerald, you might should get a move on. Ethan’s waitin’ on you.”
It was better than I ever imagined. Running with my father, I mean. He was a kind man, and while I knew he loved me, in human form he wasn’t particularly affectionate. He was different as a wolf, though. Nudging me with his snout. Jumping on me playfully, his front paws on my back as he barked quietly and then darted away, asking me to give chase. We ran for hours, hunted rabbits, and then napped in the shade of the trees before running again. It was a special time, one I knew I’d hold close to my heart always, and I was grateful to have been able to hang onto my wolf the entire time.
As the sun sank on the horizon and the sky darkened, I could feel the blood I’d lost regenerating. Well, that wasn’t it, exactly. I could feel my heart working harder, my lungs faltering as I tried to take in deep breaths, my veins throbbing. Now that I knew what to expect, I reckoned that meant the effect of that morning’s bloodletting was wearing out.
“There y’all are,” my mother said when we got home. “Go on and get washed up. I have supper ready.” She was smiling and drying her hands on a towel. Her hair was slipping out of her ever-present bun, and her long, flowered dress was belted with a white apron embellished with eyelet around the edges. The whole picture was so familiar, so comforting, and I knew my days of experiencing it were numbered. A heap of emotion flooded me. I shifted back into my human form, rushed over to my mama, and threw my arms around her, then buried my face in her neck.
“I’m glad you had a nice day with your father,” she whispered to me. Then she patted my back and cleared her throat. “All right now, no more lollygagging. I done made pork chops, and they’re gettin’ cold.”
I lay awake in bed that night and waited until I was certain my parents were fast asleep. My sheets smelled like sunshine and pine ’cause my mother hung them on a clothesline in a clearing surrounded by trees. The scent of vinegar was there too—she used it to mop the floors.
A tiny wooden box sat on my nightstand. It was a construction project I’d made with my father when I was barely starting school. My sister had painted it. That was one of my earliest memories: Crissy sitting on the floor, a cup of water on one side, a few paints on the other, and a faraway look in her eyes. That look became familiar over the years. It was the same one I’d seen the day prior.
I flipped on the light and picked up the box, examining Crissy’s art for the first time in years. A full silver moon graced the top of the picture, beams shining from it. The golden sun was barely peeking up from the bottom edge. And between the two, there was a person alongside a wolf, running toward the sun.
I’d always reckoned the drawing was of me and my sister. She had painted it, after all. But now that I looked more closely, I realized the person didn’t have curves, the shoulders were broad, and the long hair was black, not my sister’s dirty-blonde color. I shivered.
All right, then, time to move on along. I had me a mate to track.
I climbed out of bed and found a piece of paper and a pencil. It took only a few seconds to jot a note down for my sister. It was the only one I’d write. I’d leave it in Crissy’s mail slot and she’d explain things to our parents, to our pack. She’d know the right words.
The big question on my plate was whether I should go after Miguel in man form or as a wolf. I’d be able to make better time in my wolf form. But even if I could shift, which wasn’t a sure thing, I didn’t think I’d be able to maintain the shift. Plus, I’d have nothing to wear when I returned to my human form.
With the decision made, I put on my shoes, stuffed a couple of changes of clothes, all the money I had, and the wooden box into a knapsack, then grabbed a jacket. I folded Crissy’s note and slipped it into my back pocket, planning to deliver it on my way off pack lands. Then I opened the window and climbed out.
A quick stop next to the tree where I’d shifted earlier was first on my agenda. I rescued my pocketknife from the ground, spit on it a few times, and then wiped it on my pants leg until it looked clean. I folded the blade inside and dropped the knife in my pocket as I took a long look at the only home I’d ever known. I wondered when and if I’d return. Tears welled in my eyes, but I blinked them away.
No crying. It was time for me to fish or cut bait, and I wasn’t going to be sad about it. I was twenty years old. A man. For the past couple of years, I hadn’t been sure I’d live this long. I hadn’t been sure I even wanted to.
Now I’d been rewarded for my patience and my pain: I had a true mate, and I could shift. If both of those things had come in unexpected ways, well, they could join the club with the rest of my existence. Nothing worth having comes easy, that was what Crissy done told me. She had a solid track record for being right about most all things, so I reckoned this weren’t any different. I had a chance at a life here, for however long it lasted. And I wasn’t fixin’ to give it up. Not for anything or anyone.