by Forthright
“Oh.” Her expression softened and brightened, and she cast a shy glance in the wolf’s direction.
As she drew back, Jiminy caught her wrist and slid his hand down to tweak her little finger. “Do that.”
Melissa seemed surprised. “That’s all?”
Jiminy shrugged. “There are dozens of ways to respond, but that’s the most appropriate for Rook. It means something like, ‘This is where I want to be. I’m glad you’re by my side.’ It’s used for close kin or trusted friends.”
“Let me try?”
He cheerfully obliged, initiating the exchange. Her hands were warm, her touch firm, her gaze locked. She was as serious about this as everything else she did. Jiminy offered a low hum, his version of the customary wolvish rumble.
“Now him,” he whispered.
She nodded and went back to sweeping.
Not wanting to miss out, Jiminy grabbed an apron and started work early. Rook patted his cheek in passing, mingling affection and approval.
Nearly an hour passed before any chance came. Jiminy saw Rook’s familiar touch and the way Melissa reached back. She managed to come off bashful and bold, and the look on Rook’s face was priceless. Without even checking first, the wolf scooped her up and twirled her around.
Good thing Jiminy had been ready to deflect notice.
It made him happy to see Rook happy, but Melissa’s reaction, while subtler, buoyed Jiminy. The next look she gave him didn’t qualify as stern. Maybe it was just the afterglow of the delight she took in Rook, but it still knocked Jiminy off-balance. For the first time in ever, he wasn’t sure what to say.
Melissa stepped right into his personal space and asked, “Teach me more?”
Settling into a receptive stance, Jiminy answered, “Glad to.”
SIXTEEN
Air of Importance
“Melissa, your phone.”
She shook her head. “I left it in the back.”
“I know.” Rook smiled softly. “You’ve been receiving messages in quick succession. It may be urgent.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. Maybe she should have turned her phone off during working hours. “May I?”
He shooed her away, and she hurried to her locker in the changing room. Pulling her phone from her pack, she strolled toward the breakroom while opening her messages. They were all from Tami. She must have been texting at regular intervals for the last hour.
Sorry. I’m here.
Something has come up at home.
Are you able to get away?
I’m at work, and I have a
practicum this afternoon.
Can someone cover for you?
Could you skip class?
A principal is asking
me to skip class?
I’ll give you a note if it would help.
What’s going on?
Hard to explain.
Grandad thinks you’ll understand.
Why me?
What came through next wasn’t an explanation. It was a snapshot of Uncle Abel holding a child who was clearly of Amaranthine descent. Only, the little girl didn’t resemble any clan Melissa was familiar with. But identification wasn’t her first concern. When it came to Amaranthine children, protection always came first.
Let me talk to my boss
Might take me a while to reach you
But I will be there asap
Thank you.
No rush. Be safe.
We’ll be waiting.
Melissa’s thoughts were reeling when she came out of the back, just as two gentlemen stepped up to the counter. The African-American was built like an athlete, though he gave an air of maturity that suggested he’d be coaching rather than playing. He spoke softly to a beautiful man with a profusion of artfully disheveled gingery curls. The former was smart with his tailored suit and spectacles, while the latter was arrayed in an ensemble that looked both offbeat and expensive.
They radiated importance, and Melissa wondered how they were affiliated with Bellwether—guest lecturers, board members, wealthy contributors, museum curators, symphony members, patrons of the arts. At the very least, they could be alumni who’d made it big.
Where was Rook? Until she could talk to him, it would have to be business as usual. When the taller man looked up, she said, “Good morning.”
Usually, that worked. Customers generally rattled off their order without further prompting. But the man’s eyebrows drew together, and he demanded, “Where is your nametag?”
“I’m new,” she murmured apologetically.
“I am aware. But that was not my question.”
“I don’t have a nametag. Yet.”
“Ah!” interjected the other man, amusement shining in his tawny eyes. “But you must have a name.”
They didn’t need her name to order coffee. So she simply asked, “May I take your order?”
The taller man’s gaze flicked to the menu board. “What would you recommend?”
Melissa was more concerned about the weight of the phone in her apron pocket than in discussing coffee blends. In her frazzled state, she went off-script, offering her own opinion instead of the stock descriptions Rook had made her memorize. “Cozy Cottage is rich and mellow, good for sipping, and Harvest Herald has hints of spice, a nice reminder that autumn is close. Personally, I prefer Founders Favor, which has a wild bite. It’s not for everyone, but it pairs well with the baked goods from next door.”
“Interesting.” He held out a hand.
She glanced between it and his face. And a distressing idea crept into her mind. The resemblance wasn’t terribly strong, for the angles were different, the build thicker, and the eyes behind his glasses frames entirely shrewd.
Rook hurried out, and his arm came around Melissa’s shoulder, but his voice thrummed with warmth and gladness. “Welcome home, Brother.”
Doon-wen twitched his fingers impatiently.
This time, she placed her palm on his. He leaned forward and said, “Melissa.”
“Yes,” she whispered, rather glad Rook was there.
He bent to press his lips to the back of her hand. “Thank you for making True comfortable.”
Melissa immediately brightened, for Doon-wen’s arrival meant the she-wolf’s wait was over. “She’s missed you terribly.”
Rook put in, “And no wonder, with you gone at such a time.”
Doon-wen straightened, but he didn’t release her hand.
“She’s restless in her confinement,” added Rook.
Melissa hadn’t realized True was pregnant. Perhaps that’s why she was being kept separate from the wolves in the main Kith shelter.
When Doon-wen released her, she reflexively caught his wrist and shyly tugged his pinky.
His eyebrows lifted.
“I’m glad you’re home,” she offered.
He drummed his fingers lightly on the countertop, then excused himself with a small bow.
As he disappeared into the back, Melissa remembered herself. “Rook, may I leave early?”
“What’s wrong?”
She wanted to tell him, but the second gentleman was still standing there, watching them with bright-eyed interest.
Rook said, “Cyril is both a friend and a founder.”
“Then you probably both know a little something about all the clans …?” she asked.
“Very probable, indeed,” Cyril said smilingly.
“Are there Amaranthine with leaves for hair?”
Neither answered, though they exchanged a long look.
Dipping into her pocket, she showed them her phone.
“Well, now,” murmured Rook. “That’s not something we see every day.”
“Been a fair few centuries for me,” agreed Cyril.
Jiminy, who’d stolen up behind Rook, offered a soft whistle. “I thought there was a strict ban on photographing … her sort.”
Rook huffed. “My office. And ward it.”
He herded them to the back, and Cyril cheerful
ly crowded in with them. Melissa explained what little she knew, and the two Amaranthine shared another long look, plus a few fleeting gestures.
Decision reached, Rook said, “Go quickly, and take Jiminy.”
“Want it warded?” he asked.
“Swiftly.”
Cyril asked, “How many acres?”
Melissa wasn’t sure of the exact number. “A little over two hundred, I think.”
“That’ll take some time. And an anchor.” Rook rubbed at the side of his face. “Stopgap measures for now. Take crystals from the stores. If you need back-up … well, take your pick of the Woodacres.”
Jiminy rubbed his hands together. “It’s been a while since I had a challenge on this scale. I’d really like Kip, if you don’t mind my bringing him in. He’d love this!”
SEVENTEEN
Truth Be Told
The wheels of a large, black rolling case droned along the sidewalk. How long had it been since Jiminy left the scope of his own wards? As he puzzled through the past several weeks, which had passed in ordinary ways, he eased closer to Melissa until their shoulders bumped.
“Too close.” She warned him off with an elbow. “Are you trying to run me off the road?”
“Not at all. Unless you want to take this cross-country.” The commuter lot was on the other side of a wide expanse of green lawn. “I’m always up for a bit of a romp. All wolves are.”
Melissa frowned. “You’re not a wolf.”
“Raised by,” Jiminy countered. “It’s practically the same thing.”
“It can’t be,” she argued. “You’re human.”
“I’m a person of reaver descent who’s been fostered by a wolf pack since birth.” Jiminy really couldn’t remember any other life. “Rook says I understand wolves better than humans, which makes me an excellent liaison for my pack … but an iffy barista at best.”
Her steps slowed. “You don’t have parents?”
His first impulse was to stick stubbornly to his usual rote—I am a son of the Nightspangle pack. But Melissa wasn’t asking about who had raised him. “All the reavers in the enclave where I was born have especially strong pedigrees. Thanks to certain resources and the support of their Amaranthine partners, they’ve earned a reputation for producing children with potent souls.”
Melissa stopped walking. “I’ve never heard of such a place.”
“You wouldn’t have.” Jiminy studied his feet. “Reavers in that place are encouraged to halve the usual wait between pregnancies, but they only keep every other child. Even numbered children are fostered out; odd numbered children remain with the enclave.”
“You were an even-numbered child?”
Jiminy nodded. “Clans with the right connections can apply for a child, but they never really know what might come their way—gender, rating, aptitudes. The Nightspangle pack needed a ward. They took a chance and ended up with me.”
“That’s quite a risk. What if you’d been a battler?”
“Both of my biological parents are wards, so the chances were better than fair.” Jiminy took a few steps to get her walking again. She followed, but she was focused on him.
“Have you ever met your family?”
“You’re not listening, Melissa.” Jiminy wagged a finger at her. “My family is here. From my perspective, I’m a wolf of the Nightspangle pack.”
“My biological parents are both battlers.” She pulled car keys from her pocket and unlocked the car doors. Popping the hatch, she manhandled his case inside. “I was born under contract, but my mother raised me.”
Jiminy hadn’t expected to learn so much. A rattled Melissa was a talkative Melissa.
Once they were underway, she asked, “Which academy did you attend?”
“Bellwether.”
“I meant your early courses.”
“I was bought and brought to become this enclave’s anchor, and I was raised in the Amaranthine style. They don’t send away their children.” Jiminy kept his eyes on the road as she guided the car toward the highway. “I don’t often leave campus, so this is something of an adventure.”
“They don’t let you leave?”
“Nothing like that. I go where they go, and I’ve traveled quite a bit.” He slyly boasted, “I’ve been to a Song Circle four times, if you count the year I was two.”
That earned him a look. “You can’t be that old.”
Song Circles convened once every ten years.
“The circles in different regions each mark time differently, probably to encourage visitors from far and away. I’ve only been to this area’s Song Circle once.”
Melissa cautiously asked, “How old are you?”
Ah, they were in personal territory now. He smiled and asked, “How old are you?”
He was sure they’d reached an impasse, but she shot him a mutinous look.
“Twenty-four,” she snapped.
Jiminy figured his own transparency had earned him the right to ask, but he chose his words with care. “Will it offend you if I ask about the nature of your contract?”
“I don’t have one.” They were beyond the city limits, speeding through increasingly rural territory. “I paid my late fee last Dichotomy Day, and I’m saving for this winter’s fine.”
Okay, that was really surprising.
Jiminy ventured, “Are you … waiting for someone younger?”
Melissa snorted.
“Well, most of the reasons I can think of for a reaver to put off their obligation are either really delicate or really sad … or both.” He quietly added, “I was raised by wolves, Melissa. You have to know how we are.”
“I would rather have a Kith partner than a husband.” Melissa stiffly added, “I’m aware of how irresponsible that sounds, and I will do my part. Eventually. But right now, I’m focusing on the only kind of partner I’ve ever wanted.”
“Oh. That one hadn’t occurred to me.” Jiminy looked out at passing cornfields. “I’m twenty-six.”
Her lips compressed, but she rose to the bait. In a lightly mocking tone, she asked, “Will it offend you if I ask about the nature of your contract?”
“If there have been offers for me, I haven’t seen them. Doon-wen is very protective.” He idly drew a series of sigils on his pantleg. “And … well … wolves.”
“Your pack won’t let you marry?”
“Oh, nothing as ominous as that. But when Doon-wen took me in, it was for keeps. Biologically, I’m a reaver. I hold a reaver’s rank, title, and classification. But I’m not in the reaver registry, nor am I bound by reaver laws.” Jiminy met her startled glance with a small smile. “It’s like I’ve been trying to tell you, Melissa. I’m a wolf.”
Joe sat back and watched his family do what they did best—Tami taking charge, Dad befriending the child, Mom asking questions. But Grandad wasn’t giving answers. His jaw was set as he hauled out a big, old map that showed their boundary lines. Grandad unrolled it on the center of the kitchen table, and Joe quietly helped him anchor the corners with the sugar bowl and a potted violet.
“What’s this for?” asked Joe.
“The ward.”
“What’s a ward?”
Grandad snorted. “Reaver classification. Hope they’re sending a halfway decent one.”
Joe waited, but that’s as much as he was getting. Unsure what else to do, he slipped outside to take care of the chores. But even being outdoors didn’t ease the tension in his gut. Biddie had thrown the whole world off-balance, but the chickens still needed him. And in a couple of hours, they’d have customers. Letting himself into the apple barn, Joe checked the schedule. No school buses, at least.
Back outside, he started his usual routine—feeding, watering, gathering. They’d missed breakfast, and the resulting emptiness was getting to him. He picked a couple of apples and kept moving. Maybe if he concentrated on setting the farm to rights, he’d find his feet.
He heard the car coming. Melissa was driving a little too fast, and that added to his
worries.
She knew what was going on, and that worried him, too.
Nobody had outright said it, but Grandad’s scant explanation pointed in one direction. Melissa was some sort of Betweener spy, and she was bringing a reaver to the farm.
Finding a little girl in the orchard really might have set off an international incident. And Grandad was turning the kitchen into a war room.
Melissa hurried over. “Are you all right?”
Joe shrugged and glanced at her companion. He seemed awfully young to be coming to their rescue.
“You must be Joe.” Smiling and offering a hand, he said, “I’m Reaver Foster, but everyone calls me Jiminy.”
Even though his folks would have been shocked by his rudeness, Joe kept his hands firmly in his pockets and turned toward the house. “Everyone’s in the kitchen.”
Grandad was waiting on the porch. “Classification?” he demanded.
“Ward, sir,” Jiminy reported.
“Battler, sir,” added Melissa.
Even though Joe had guessed, it still hurt to have his suspicions confirmed. Their so-called cousin was a reaver. Why had she come?
Grandad actually seemed pleased by Melissa’s revelation, like she’d confirmed his suspicions, but he narrowed his eyes at the ward. “Where do you rank?”
“Bit of a personal question,” said the young man with a laugh.
“This isn’t the time or place for the best intentions of middling whelps. State your digits, or I’ll have to insist on a documented replacement.”
Jiminy looked embarrassed. “May I … whisper it?”
Grandad rolled his eyes but waved him forward. Whatever Jiminy said certainly startled him. “Really?”
“Truly.” Jiminy indicated the house. “May we?”
He waved them past, then met Joe’s gaze. “If he’s telling the truth, we’ll be okay, Joey-boy.”
“What about Melissa?”
Grandad patted his shoulder. “Times like this, it’s nice to have a battler in the family.”
Joe quietly asked, “Are we reavers?”
“We’re Reaversons.”
