Wild Hearts

by Bridget Essex

Am I really going to go out on a limb and even think that thought?

  Because that's very obviously not in the realm of possibility.

  That's in the realm of the not-real, a dreamland. Pure fantasy.

  Right?

  Right.

  And if I start to think like that...what does that mean for me?

  I close my eyes and open them again. I didn't really think that by doing this tiny gesture I might alter what's in front of me. But we do stupid things when we're panicked.

  And I'm kind of panicked.

  So cue me doing something stupid.

  I reach out hesitantly, with my one free hand. I'm exhausted, my muscles—all of them, turns out—are screaming in agony from doing way the hell too much running.

  So my hand shakes.

  But I reach out anyway.

  I slowly, gently, bury my fingers in the wolf's thick fur.

  She's warm to the touch—almost too warm, actually. Like she's burning up. Her fur is thick and heavy, as if each strand has a weight to it, all its own.

  As I press my fingers through the fur, seeking her skin, the wolf sighs out in her sleep.

  Sighs out and stretches her forelegs a little longer beneath her.

  My breath hitches on the intake.

  I'm not going to ask if this—all of this—is real again, because the radiating pain pulsing through every part of my body tells me in no uncertain terms that I'm absolutely awake. That I'm absolutely experiencing this and this is absolutely happening.

  But it's just really hard to believe.

  It's hard.

  Because the wolf's fur...

  I'm just going to come right out and say it. I know it sounds impossible. Trust me.

  I know.

  But the wolf's fur...

  It's glowing.

  I stare, mouth open, at the wolf lying beside me, her heavy weight pressing my arm deep into the mattress.

  It's the weight that marks the moment as real, somehow.

  The weight is heavy, like I said, but it's also...comforting.

  Have you heard of those weighted blankets, the kind that folks with anxiety use to calm themselves down? Well, I read something that said you don't necessarily need to have anxiety to use them: that they calm anyone.

  Which is to say that, right here, right now, even though I'm experiencing something completely out of the ordinary (extraordinary, if you will)...

  Somehow, I'm calm.

  Her weight is steady, solid. Soothing.

  And her fur...

  It's glowing.

  I stare at the strands of fur closest to my face, the ones on top of her wide, lupine head. She's not a completely white wolf. This close up, it's easy to see the many, many shades of gray that are spread throughout her coat in patterns of slight color that undulate, rise and fall across her. Like waves.

  I can't see the base of the strands of fur: I can't make out her skin, her coat is much too thick. But, anyway, it's not the base of the strands that are glowing.

  Only the tips of her fur shine in the soft light of the motel lamp.

  If I squint, almost close my eyes, I can explain it away. Her fur is white, surely it'd reflect some of the lamplight.

  Yeah.

  Absolutely.

  That's a thing.

  But, in the face of something so incredible...I'm just not the squinting type.

  I stare at her fur, mesmerized. With each slow, even exhale she takes, the fur mutes itself down in its glow until there's hardly any light at all. And then, when she inhales, she starts to glow brighter and brighter.

  There's a rhythm to it. It's fascinating.

  It's...beautiful.

  My breath catches in my throat at this thought, and I stiffen. Maybe it's from all the running, I don't know, but my lungs constrict, and then I'm coughing a little, haggardly.

  The wolf opens her eyes.

  It's a smooth motion, almost indolent, the way she turns her head ever so slightly. Her jaw was lying on my upper arm and shoulder, and she flicks her gaze to my face.

  It's an inch from her own.

  I'm a mere inch from that wolf's mouth.

  And I've seen what that mouth can do.

  A man is dead because of it.

  But...I'm not afraid.

  Maybe it's because I'm still exhausted. Sleep separates me from the events in the convenience store, but I kind of feel like I'm going to have to sleep for a week straight to recover from the adrenaline, the strangeness of last night.

  But it's not my exhaustion that makes me unafraid.

  Actually, I'm going to tell you the truth: I don't really know what it is.

  When I look into her eyes, there's a calmness that falls over me, by degrees.

  Everything in me goes quiet.

  There's only the stillness. My breathing. Her breathing.

  Our hearts moving blood.

  That's it.

  There's a simplicity in that. A simplicity that I haven't recognized or felt in a long time.

  I blink as I realize how long.

  I haven't felt anything serene at all...

  Not since Ma passed.

  My entire body tenses at that thought. That's what grief does: it tightens you. But the wolf raises her head at this, and—I swear to God—her brow furrows, just a little.

  As if she's staring at me questioningly.

  And, I mean, she probably is.

  If she's really a woman, after all...

  And that's when I sit up in bed. My head's spinning, but I move slowly. The wolf remains lying down on the edge of the mattress, sphinx-like, with her forepaws stretched out before her, her head raised, watching me.

  I sit up on my knees, and then I stare at her.

  There are so many things I could ask or say, so many things I could do. A million reactions run through my head in a weird cartoon montage (you have to remember, I hit this head pretty hard last night), and then I sit back on my heels, spread my hands.

  “What the hell?” I whisper into the stillness.

  Yep.

  I think that about covers things.

  So, I think I should point out at this juncture that I don't have a lot of experience with dogs. We didn't have any growing up, my grandmother didn't have any, I had no friends who had them.

  But, I mean...I know enough, right?

  Like, I know that a dog—or a wolf—shouldn't be able to grin.

  But I swear: that's exactly what's happening right now.

  This wolf is lying on the bed beside me, and then...she just starts grinning at me.

  It's almost as if my vision blurs, just then. I blink, rub at my eyes, but the white fur is definitely blurring...isn't it? I blink again, a longer one this time, rubbing at my eyes with the heels of my hand for a long moment.

  And when I finally open my eyes again...

  There's a naked woman lying on the bed beside me.

  Well.

  That escalated quickly.

  It's not just any woman, of course.

  It's the woman from last night.

  Who killed the man.

  Who...who says she saved my life.

  So, now I've got light. Last night—or whenever the hell it was, I don't know how long I slept—I couldn't see much of anything. It was pretty dark, and I could make out some features of the stranger. I knew she had high cheekbones, a strong jaw, knew she had white hair.

  But that's about it.

  Now, in the soft light of the motel room, I can see...

  Everything.

  The scent of the room, overpowering with its disinfectant smell, the pounding of blood in my ears, the chafe of the old comforter against my arms...all of these sensations fade away.

  Most of the world narrows down to a single point:

  Her.

  Her legs are long, stretched out down the bed, a graceful collection of curves leading up to the bend of her hips that, even in her languid ease, radiates intensity. She's on her side on the bed, and I guess I'm pre
tty grateful that she's not standing, that I can't see quite all of her (with one leg drawn up, the “v” between her legs is hidden to me), because if I could...

  Oh, if I could.

  There's power in the way she lounges on the mattress, her upper body's weight pressed into one elbow, long fingers elegantly pressed against the side of her face and beneath her chin. The curves of her breasts, erect nipples the color of ripe peaches, the slope of muscles in her arms and stomach...these are all things that I see, but distantly.

  And they are lovely. God.

  So lovely.

  My stomach tightens, my blood pounds.

  For, beyond all of that, there is a profound wildness to her.

  It draws me in, pulls at my gut, drawing me toward her.

  The force of attraction rising in me is raw and staggering.

  But it is also full of heat.

  And that heat cools as my gaze drifts over her body, up to her face...and to her eyes.

  We stare at one another, and even my heartbeat fades into the distance.

  Everything else fades away.

  The cool blue of her gaze is riveting, yes.

  But there are depths there.

  Stories and promises of stories and yes, I don't know this person...

  But somehow I know, already, that she's important to me.

  Trust me: I have no idea why that crosses my mind. It's just a feeling, really. It's profound, and it's solid, this feeling, and it settles into the pit of my belly, cool and smooth and round and full.

  I open my mouth. I whisper into this stillness a handful of very important words.

  I ask her: “who are you?”

  She does not answer right away. This stillness we both occupy: it's absolute.

  Well. Almost.

  For, outside the walls of the room, I hear it now.

  The winter storm, still raging, still howling.

  Still going strong.

  We stare at one another across the small distance between us on the bed, the small distance that divides us.

  We two are perfect strangers.

  Yet here we are.

  Together.

  The woman sighs, and then she's pressing on the bed with her palms, rising. She ascends into an upright position, in a single, smooth motion, unfurling.

  As she shifts her weight on the mattress, as she sits back into her heels, the muscles beneath the taught skin on her thighs moving visibly, I lift my gaze to follow her face, because it would feel...well. Wrong to stare at her nakedness.

  She possesses great dignity as she sits up on the bed. It doesn't matter that she's nude. It doesn't matter that we're about a foot, foot and a half apart.

  This should be erotic or awkward or uncomfortable.

  It should be a lot of things.

  But it is only this:

  Important.

  I feel that weight, too.

  This, us, her...

  All of it.

  Important.

  So a full minute passes. The planes of her face shift and move almost imperceptibly as she considers me, studying me.

  And then, soft and throaty, she answers:

  “You can call me Silver.”

  I flick my gaze to her white hair, curled—not elegantly, but tangled—and flowing over her shoulders to about breast-height. Her hair is white...

  Or silver.

  I look back into her eyes, trying to gauge if she's putting me on. It must be a nickname. Surely it's not her real one.

  But I lose my train of thought as she drops her chin, looks down at me with those dazzling, bright eyes (even seated across from one another, she's taller than me).

  “And you are Ella,” she murmurs.

  Her voice is warm, her lips turning up almost imperceptibly.

  Like she enjoyed saying my name.

  There's that moment of uncertainty and coiled silence.

  But then I'm shaking my head.

  Everything I've just experienced—everything—is too strange, and I need answers, or...or...

  I'm not sure.

  But my nerves are jangling like wired bells, my heart thrums inside of me.

  And when I close my eyes, I see a dead man lying in a pool of blood...

  Nothing in life could have prepared me for this...this sitting across from someone who just transformed from a wolf.

  Who just killed a man.

  Yes.

  That.

  Let's focus on that.

  “I watched you kill someone—” I start, then stop. I stare at her, uncertain what else to say.

  I mean, that says it all, doesn't it?

  She watches me from beneath long lashes now, her eyes hooded. She nods slowly.

  She doesn't deny it.

  “I did what I had to.”

  “You had to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  I stare.

  She stares back.

  “I just...I mean, I watched you murder him...”

  She takes a slow, even breath, like someone counting to ten, though there's not a flicker of annoyance on her face. Her expression has not changed. “Yes. Because he was going to kill you.”

  “Kill me,” I whisper. I shake my head. I know she told me yesterday (or earlier, still not sure), but it was just as absurd then as it is now.

  “No one wants to kill me,” I tell her, and I can hear the laughter rising in my voice.

  I've never been hysterical in my life, thanks: I don't want to start now.

  But it sounds like a joke, so I react to it like it's a joke...

  But she doesn't look particularly jokey at the moment.

  Her eyes are narrowed, her mouth is pressed in a hard line.

  She sighs.

  “Unfortunately, Ella...yes. Yes, they do.” She holds up a hand as I make a noise of disbelief, and she shakes her head again, once, sharply. “Listen, all right? Just...just listen to me. If you do, I think I can manage to explain things. Well...” She lifts her chin again, eyes flashing. “Mostly.”

  I take a deep breath, and though my nerves still jangle, though my stomach turns with anxiety...

  I nod.

  What choice do I have?

  I listen.

  Chapter 7: Wolf at the Door

  “I knew your mother.”

  She begins with the most important thing. And she's said it before, but here and now, in the quiet of the room, the edges of the words burn bright.

  “I knew your mother,” she repeats to me, voice low, urgent. “And they killed your mother. And now they're after you.”

  I don't say anything.

  I can't.

  My throat's tight. The blood's pounding in my veins. I suddenly can't take in enough air.

  But I stare at her.

  And I keep listening.

  “Didn't you...didn't you ever wonder about your family?” she asks, searching my face, hands spread. “About where you came from?”

  I shake my head, clear my throat. “Family? What family?”

  “Your mother's.”

  I frown. “We lived with my grandmother—”

  She shakes her head, mouth tight. “That was your dad's mother.”

  I blink.

  That's...not what she told me.

  Am I even entertaining the validity of this? She could be lying, she could be manipulating, she could be...

  I stare at her, at the furrows in her brow, at the unabashed concern in every line of her.

  I open my mouth, then shut it.

  And I keep listening.

  “Your mother...she left the family when she was pregnant with you. Because...” Silver trails off, glances to the side, spins a finger in the air almost listlessly. “God...this is harder than I thought.” She snorts in frustration, rakes long fingers back through her tangled hair. “I didn't think I'd be the one to have to do this.”

  “...This?”

  “Tell you the truth...about yourself. About...everything.”

  My blood pounds har
der as Silver's gaze settles on my own.

  And, across from me, a mere foot away, the naked stranger—Silver—gives me a soft, cautious smile.

  I'm surprised by this. I don't know why, in particular. Maybe because this moment is so weighty, so important...maybe because I'm in this strange situation, one I could never have predicted.

  But that softness to her smile: it's disarming.

  Silver spreads her hands and shrugs, her muscles rippling beneath her pale skin. “I'm not good at this sort of thing,” she rumbles, “but I guess we can start at the most important part. And this, at least, is a pleasure.” She lifts her chin, her voice strong, unwavering: “because, yeah, the rest of all this stuff is hard. But at least I get to tell you the truth.”

  I wait.

  Silver's eyes flash as she leans forward, as her voice lowers.

  And then she whispers to me, soft, urgent:

  “You are a wolf, Ella.”

  I didn't expect her to joke. Not when all of this is happening, not when I'm in this unknown motel room with an unknown person, when she expected me to trust her...

  But the way she's looking at me...

  She's...

  I think she's serious.

  I stare at her, and she watches me.

  And the moment draws out.

  Uncomfortably.

  “You're joking,” I whisper, and then I'm shaking my head, gesturing between us, back and forth.

  My hands are shaking.

  “You're joking?” I say again, but I can hear the question in my own voice.

  She does not move.

  She only stays as she is:

  Watching me.

  I laugh a little, but it sounds like a sob. And that's when Silver reaches out across the space between us.

  She reaches out, and she gently takes my moving hands within her own.

  Her hands are warm. There are callouses on the palms, rough ones, but the lines of her palms are smooth as stone. They are solid, her hands, and her long fingers have a gentle strength to them as they curl through mine.

  “I can't imagine what you're feeling,” she tells me gruffly. “I can't imagine what it's been like to have something so essential to yourself be...be locked away. It's going to be a hard pill to swallow. I understand that. But if you're going to survive...you've got to try to believe me.”

  I stare at her.

  I stare at her through tears.

  “You...all of this...” I swallow. “You killed a man. I watched you do it, right in front of me. You...you can change into a wolf. This isn't possible, none of this is possible. I'm having a psychological break, obviously. Obviously,” I whisper into the stillness.