Into the Dark (Red 1)

“I’m an old woman,” she says. “They won’t come after me, honey, but you need to run. Do you hear? You need to run.”

She’s right, and for once, I’m glad I don’t have any weird ideas about staying behind to try to take on a group of angry wolves. Part of me thinks I should challenge the Alpha. If I was the one in control of the pack, things would be different. Things would be better.

I’m not the one in charge, though, and right now, it’s hard to see through the tears that are still falling for Elise. There will be plenty of time to cry later, but right now? Right now I need to get out.

Aunt Germaine starts rustling through a box under her bed, and pulls out some clothes.

“These were my husband’s,” she says, thrusting them toward me. I’m already undressing and pulling the new garments on. “They’ll mask your scent long enough to get you out of the cave. Take the back entrance,” she warns me, and I nod. She doesn’t give me money or food, but where I’m going, I won’t need it.

I kiss my aunt one more time and try to memorize her face.

“I’ll be back,” I tell her, and she nods.

“Take care of yourself,” she warns, and then I’m gone.

I grew up in these caves. I know every hall, every tunnel. I know every entrance and it doesn’t take me long to get outside. There, I run like mad, keeping my clothes and shoes on as I do. I would be faster if I shift, but I want to have these with me in case I need them.

Hours pass, but I keep pushing on, keep moving through the woods. I’m afraid if I slow down, the darkness will find me. He killed Elise in cold blood and I wasn’t there to stop it. My heart is torturing me. The physical pain of losing her is overwhelming and I stop more than once to vomit before I keep running.

When I finally find the dilapidated hunting cabin, it’s well past midnight. The tiny home looks abandoned and I wonder how long it’s been since someone last stayed here. I stumble up to the porch and look around.

“Home sweet home,” I whisper.

Home sweet home.

1.

Red

It’s already dark when I pull into onto Grandmother’s street. I should have hurried, but my boss has a nasty habit of keeping me long after I’m ready to leave. That’s my fault. I should stand up for myself, I know. It’s just that when you’ve been kissing ass your entire life, trying to get ahead, learning how to stop and stand up for yourself can be hard.

It can be damn near impossible.

Cute two-story homes line the street of Gram’s suburban road. I feel good about her living here. She might be getting older, but she deserves to be happy, and I know that here, she’s surrounded by kids and young families. She gets to spend her free time baking cookies for the neighborhood kids and babysitting and listening to their problems.

She loves it, and I miss her.

She’s left the porch light on for me and it glows like a beacon of hope: a beacon of safety. Her car is in the driveway and her neighbors are obviously all home because the curb in front of her house already has a car in front of it. I park a ways down the road from her house and haul my duffel bag up to her porch. I’m ready for our weekend getaway.

I don’t need to knock, but I do, anyway. Old habits die hard. Even though I haven’t lived with Gram in awhile, I still try to show her respect by knocking. It’s a little thing, but it’s one way I remind her that I know that this is her space. I’m her guest and she’s invited me. I don’t expect anything from her.

She doesn’t owe me anything.

I hear the pitter-patter of her feet against the hardwood floor and I smile as I imagine her peeking through the peephole. Gram never lets anyone in without peeking first. She’s a stickler for safety that way.

In some ways, I’m glad she’s so stringent when it comes to her own safety. It means I’m not constantly worried about her. A lot of people feel fear when it comes to their grandparents living on their own, but not me. Gram is one independent, happy ol’ gal and I’m lucky to have her in my life.

“Red,” she says finally, opening the door with a smile.

“Thanks for letting me sleep over,” I hug my grandmother tightly. I don’t care how cliché it is. She smells like freshly baked cookies and Christmastime.

Always.

“Anytime, dear,” she says softly. “Anytime.”

It’s been awhile since I lived with Grandma. Now that I live in the port town of Nellenston, working at a law firm, I don’t see her nearly as much as I ought to. I went to college in Ashborne, where she lives, and we made wonderful roommates. When my parents died freshman year, it made sense that I would live with Grandma. We were both heartbroken and lost, but we managed to get through the darkness together.

Without her, I don’t know what I would have done.