Ravensong (Green Creek 2)

“To bring me here instead of to the pack house.”

I felt his eyes on me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A beat of silence. Then, “I think you do. At the house, you don’t have… you stay, sometimes. But not like the others. You always come back here. You’re pack, but this is your home. It smells like you. This place. The weight of you, it’s… everywhere. You knew that bringing me here would help.”

“Go change, Mark.”

He went.

I listened to the sounds of him moving slowly through my house, the wood creaking under his feet, his fingertips dragging along the walls, leaving his scent behind. I knew what he was doing. I knew what we were headed toward, and I didn’t know if there was anything I could do to stop it. I didn’t know if I wanted it to stop. When was the last time he’d been here? When was the last time he’d felt like he was welcome here?

My skin felt too tight. The ink on my skin was thrumming with something I couldn’t quite name. Either that, or I didn’t want to face it. There was something here, some precipice we were standing on, and I didn’t think there was any turning back after this. If we tried, I didn’t know if there’d be enough pieces of us left to put back together.

Once, there was a boy.

An extraordinary boy.

And as an Alpha held him down, this extraordinary boy’s father whispered in his ear while taking a needle to his skin, etching ink and leaving a trail of magic in its wake.

Once, there was a wolf.

A brave wolf.

And as this brave wolf grew, he followed the scent of dirt and leaves and rain, his Alpha telling him that he had found the one to make him whole.

The boy had loved this wolf.

But it hadn’t been enough.

Once, the moon had loved the sun.

But no matter how hard she tried, the sun was always at the other end of the sky, and they could never meet. She would sink, and he would rise. She was dark and he was day. The world slept while she shone. She waxed and waned, and sometimes disappeared entirely.

Once, an old blind witch had spoken words of choice, of truth and prophecy.

He said, You will be tested, Gordo Livingstone. In ways that you haven’t yet imagined. One day, and one day soon, you will have to make a choice. And I fear the future of all you hold dear will depend on that choice.

I was tired of being angry.

I was tired of the whispers in my ear, telling me the wolves didn’t love me, that they only wanted to use me.

I was tired of always being at the other end of the sky, of waxing and waning and disappearing entirely.

Roses bloomed.

The raven’s talons tightened amongst the thorns.

I pushed away from the counter.

And I did what I should have done a long time ago.

I followed my wolf.

The bedroom door was open.

I couldn’t hear him moving.

It felt like this was a dream.