by Forthright
No. At least, Ash seriously doubted it.
He’d been around more than his fair share of reavers—male and female—and none of them appealed to any kind of baser instinct. Ash didn’t go in for tending, didn’t crave it the way Kip did. So Tami interested him for simpler reasons. She was his choice.
And he’d never felt more vulnerable in his life.
Maybe it was time to listen to Kip, to call in Cyril, to talk to Rook.
Shaking out his rag, he swiped at a lingering streak and stared unseeing at the brilliant blue showing through patchy clouds. He needed to tell Tami. Soon. Before his secret came out another way. Before the reavers made other plans for Tami, ones that didn’t involve the confused pinings of an unacknowledged crosser.
Once Tami was back, they’d talk.
Even though his pledge would likely shatter him. The handful of decades would pass, and her human life would fade, and he would be alone with his grief.
If he survived the sorrow, it would probably be thanks to Kip.
But he was getting ahead of himself.
She might reject him as a monstrosity. The reavers might find out and make him a test subject … or a celebrity. The clans could object. Questions of parentage might arise. And even if, by some miracle, Tami embraced the whole of him, his desires might doom her. A child of mixed heritage—surely even one with quarter blood—often ended their mother’s life when making their way into the world.
Ash’s hand wavered and fell to his side. It was like he’d told her last night. “I shouldn’t.”
He’d been afraid to tell her why.
Still was.
“I shouldn’t,” he repeated. Returning his squeegee to its place, he touched the blue paperclip at his collar and whispered, “But I still want to.”
He plodded through empty halls toward the security of the janitorial closet to stow his supplies, trying to figure out the best way to steer a conversation along the perilous courses he would need to navigate.
Like not officially existing.
Like being older than America.
Like having a wingspan.
“There you are!”
Ash started and whirled, wincing when a backward step turned into a crush of unseen feathers against the janitorial closet door. “Tami! What are you doing here? You should be … home.”
Except Kip was at her home. So maybe it was better that she was here.
Fumbling behind for the doorknob, Ash sought retreat. Times like this, when he couldn’t lift his wings high and out of the way, he felt crowded, cornered. A flash of uncertainty showed in Tami’s lovely blue eyes, and Ash watched her gladness dim into something guarded. His fault. Batting aside old habits and necessary caution, he glanced down the hallway, grabbed her wrist, and tugged.
She followed.
Wrapping one arm around her, he reached out with the other, shutting the door. Her hands settled against his chest, where his heart was hammering. “You shouldn’t be pushing yourself,” he said, gruffer than he intended. He slipped his fingers into her hair, searching for the knot. “Does it still hurt?”
“I’m fine. Don’t fuss.”
But he couldn’t stop for all the same reasons he should. This was preening.
She was smiling, and there was an expectancy to the tilt of her chin.
Ash bowed to her wish and his want and touched his lips to hers. This time, there was no hurry. Slowly, softly, they explored their mutual attraction, and Ash liked what he found. It was as if his two halves stopped pulling against each other, for they both agreed that Tami was exactly what he needed.
Her interest was straightforward, and he detected an underlying impatience that sent his blood racing. As kisses deepened, he stumbled into a more intimate connection, touching the beauty behind the amethyst wards.
She weakened his knees, strengthened his need, and left him surer of himself than he’d ever been before. There were so many things Ash needed to tell her, but only the essential one made it into the open right then. “I love you.”
“I’m making the call,” warned Kip.
Ash barely heard him. The room was all wrong somehow. Why had he never noticed how wrong it was? He pulled his mattress through the room, angling it across one corner, and shoved their battered sofa into line opposite. Stealing its cushions, he barricaded the third side.
“Want my mattress, too?” asked Kip.
Without a word, Ash ransacked his best friend’s area, closing off a rough circle with the second mattress. But what about sharp edges, hard corners? And there were too many fragile things lying about.
Kip backed toward the front door. “Calling. Now.”
Toting anything glass to the nearest closet, where it wouldn’t be in the way, Ash discovered a fresh supply of soft things. He dragged out sweatshirts and flannel, extra blankets and the spare pillows. The bathroom yielded towels, washcloths, and a plush rug. He was still mounding and amending when Kip’s voice preceded him back inside.
“… actually, yeah. Now would be good. The sooner the better.”
Ash rummaged for dishtowels, disgorged a tissue box, and wished there was more blue.
Then Kip was in front of him, gripping him by the shoulders, and Ash noticed a generous amount of blue in the plaid of his shirt. He tapped a claw against the top button. “Can I have this?”
“Yeah, of course. But not this second.” A gentle shake. “Ash, what’s going on with you?”
“I love her.”
Kip’s expression softened. “Yeah, I know.”
“I told her.”
His best friend nodded. “That must have made her day.”
Ash shook his head. “That’s the only thing I told her. She doesn’t know about … about me.”
“Okay, okay. So you left out a few details.” Kip reached up, placing big hands on restless wings. “But she must have responded favorably. Her scent’s all over you, and you obviously didn’t spend a whole lot of time chatting.”
“No. Yes.” He leaned into Kip. “She’s a reaver.”
“Yeah, I figured.” A soft sigh, a softer voice. “It’s going to be okay, Ash. Better than okay.”
Ash looked around the wrecked room and doubted him.
Kip took hold, framing Ash’s face. “Listen up. There are things she hasn’t found the words for either. Tami’s not any old unregistered reaver. She’s tree-kin.”
He blinked. “Like … like in the stories.”
“Auriel and then some. So instead of tearing apart your old nest, maybe think about building a new one under her twin’s branches.”
“Joe’s not a tree.”
Kip kissed his forehead, called him an idiot, and patiently explained what was happening at Red Gate Farm.
“You’ve redecorated!”
Ash hadn’t even heard a car. Then again, his adoptive father didn’t necessarily need one. Neither did Rook. The big wolf stood just inside the door, surveying the room with eyebrows shot high.
“Tumbledown chic,” continued Cyril. “A trifle makeshift, but possessing a charming innocence.”
Disentangling himself from Kip, Ash stood wavering in the middle of his mess. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Their home was in shambles.
Cyril strutted along the edge of the room, eyes bright with interest. “Not a bad start, considering what you had to work with. I approve of the flannel. Used the stuff myself last time I was nest-building. Naturally, there was significantly more padding. And an extravagance of silk. My skin is so sensitive in this form.”
Ash’s chin trembled. An instant later, he was in Cyril’s arms.
“Not a bad start, you hear me? I know many a mated pair who would blush to confess the hasty rummage and rustle that christened their nest. The flocks are teeming with impetuous souls.” Cyril pressed their cheeks together and began a soft litany of bird noises in the back of his throat. Low and drawn out, like a coop filled with drowsy chickens. They weren’t really words, but they still translated to c
omfort and concern.
This was how it had always been.
By some strange confluence of events, Ash had been taken in by the head of the Sunfletch clan. Why a fussy pheasant with glorious plumage wanted anything to do with a drab little half-crow had never been explained … or questioned. Cyril was his first and fiercest advocate, with Rook as his second. The wolf’s devotion to a surly, somber winged boy had earned him his pack nickname.
Today was proof that Ash hadn’t outgrown his need for his kind-of father or his sort-of mother. He cast a pleading look at Rook.
The wolf waded through the tangle of textiles and lifted Ash. Mindful of his wings, he sat on the blanket-strewn floor. Slouching into the lumpy slope of Ash’s striped mattress, Rook settled Ash just as he used to. Chest to chest, so Ash could lay down his head and listen to Rook’s heartbeat.
A low rumble started, as far from annoyance as a sound could be, and Ash went limp with relief, eyes tight-shut against the threat of tears.
Cyril knelt beside them. “I take it you’re in love?”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely. You’re clearly nesting.”
Ash rearranged the set of his wings. “All I did was wreck the house.”
“You’re a bit of a late bloomer, but we can’t really judge your maturity by the usual markers. All it takes to initiate a mating dance is the right lady. Or … gentleman?”
Across the room, Kip paled and waved his hands.
Rook asked, “Does she know?”
Even though confessing meant telling everything to the enclave’s second-biggest gossip, Ash rambled on. Rook stopped him from time to time, gently prying for more information. Cyril interrupted whenever his behavior showed some avian instinct at work.
“But you’re from a pheasant clan,” Ash muttered. “Wouldn’t it be different for crows?”
“When my black-winged son first entered the adolescent phases, I took the liberty of informing myself about pertinent rites and romantic inclinations.” Cyril caressed his cheek. “Tonight, I will expose you to every delicious detail of my findings.”
Ash looked to Rook, who chuckled. “Don’t expect too much from me, boy. I never courted anyone, though I know more than my fair share of ribald songs about seducing moon maidens.”
He was tempted to refuse both offers. This was embarrassing. He was well past the usual age for the handing down of mating lore. But … what if there were things he didn’t know he didn’t know?
Ash turned to Kip for reassurance, only to realize that his best friend had gone.
TWENTY-FIVE
Jumping Through Hoops
Company. How did one go about preparing for a secret guest? Joe didn’t have a whole lot of experience with making friends, let alone entertaining them. Having a twin had always meant he didn’t need anyone besides Tami. He’d spent high school on the fringes of her circle. Even Kip was one of her friends.
Were there things that reavers did for visiting Rivven? He’d only asked about greetings, but what came after the exchange of names?
Food. Based on Kip’s appreciation of those muffins, food would go over well enough. Hadn’t he even joked about his appetite?
Joe watched for his chance. After the dinner dishes were cleared away, when everyone else was watching television, he raided the pantry. With more stealth than was required to assemble meatloaf sandwiches, Joe filled a tray and sneaked it upstairs.
His room didn’t have much—bed, desk, rug. Dad called it a closet, but that was an exaggeration. His stuff fit fine. Still, the slope of the ceiling might cause trouble. Would Kip be too tall to straighten up?
Maybe that didn’t matter, since he could just become a squirrel.
Red numbers flicked by on his ancient alarm clock, creeping toward the hour when Joe usually turned in.
They hadn’t set a time.
What if Kip forgot?
Joe cast a sheepish glance at the food. Would it look like he was bartering for friendship? Maybe he was trying too hard.
Kip was a nice guy. Friendly. But Joe understood that nice guys had lots of friends. It was honestly embarrassing, knowing that if Kip dropped by to chat, it would mean more to Joe than it would to him. From what Tami had said, Ash was Kip’s best friend, so the redhead wasn’t looking for anything from Joe.
He’d probably offered to help for Tami’s sake.
But even if Joe was simply on friendly terms with the squirrel-person, he’d be glad. Why was he even worrying about this? Joe stared at his hands while searching himself. Maybe it was Kip’s promise of safety. That had been reassuring. Especially in the face of looming change.
Their farm might become an enclave.
All of them would need to learn about crystals and packmates and the sorts of things that came with being a Betweener.
And if he was a beacon, they’d surely come for him. Weren’t two of the Five married to beacons? There might be special rules for those rarest of reavers. Would they force him to leave his home?
Joe’s melancholy reverie was interrupted by a soft tapping against glass. His window was a smallish square, no sash or slider. Undoing the catch, the entire pane swung inward on its hinges. “Hi,” he murmured.
“Hi, yourself.” Kip measured the frame with a bemused expression. “It’s been years since I took truest form, but you’ve got me jumping through hoops.”
“Sorry.”
The redhead shrugged. “Clear a route. I’m coming through.”
Joe quickly backed away.
Kip tumbled through the window in squirrel form, coming out of his roll in speaking form, one hand braced on the sharp angle of the ceiling. Jiminy winced. He’d been right about Kip’s height. He had to keep his knees bent.
Actually, his knees were showing. As were his feet—or rather, paws. Was his whole lower body covered in fur? That didn’t match what he’d seen on television. Then again, it wasn’t as if Hisoka Twineshaft ever appeared in board shorts.
Most distracting by far was the squirrel tail, all billow and flick and fluff as it took up more space than either of them.
“Nice,” Kip whispered. “I’m a big fan of close quarters. How likely are we to be discovered?”
“Not very. Unless Biddie gets curious.”
“Okay if I work a little magic?”
“Sure.” Joe watched in growing amazement as Kip’s clawed hands wove through a series of patterns, etching glowing lines in midair—intricate, beautiful, and humming with purpose. “What’s that for?”
“These are sigils. Some for illusions, some for barriers. In a sec, we won’t have to whisper.” With a crooked smile, he promised, “You could jump on the bed and no one would be the wiser.”
Joe just nodded and waited for Kip to finish.
It was kind of pretty, the way shapes spun from his fingertips, orderly and extraordinary. They gleamed on walls, door, window, and floor.
“That should do it,” Kip announced at a more normal speaking level. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
Joe wasn’t sure where to look. Kip’s short, loose pants and faded T-shirt made him look less like a lumberjack and more like a were-squirrel.
Kip blinked a few times, glanced down at himself, and groaned. “I always get comfy after work, and I didn’t think. Want me to hide the strangeness?”
“I’ll … umm … I’ll get used to it.” Joe gestured to the desk. “Hungry?”
“Starved!”
Then it was easy. Joe felt nothing but relief when Kip sat on the rag rug, leaned against the side of the bed, and signaled gimme with both hands. He ate with appreciative little groans, interspersed with compliments to the chef.
When Joe unzipped the little six-pack cooler, Kip’s hand hesitated over a cola, then grabbed a beer instead. “Might need two,” he said in an odd voice. “But stop me if I reach for a third.”
“Is something wrong?”
Kip lifted his second sandwich as if making a toast. “Nary a complaint. You’re a godsend!”
But Joe somehow knew better. “You’re sad. I can tell you’re sad.”
The forced smile slowly faded, and for one terrible moment, Joe was afraid that the tears shining in Kip’s eyes were his fault.
“Can you keep a secret?” Kip asked softly.
“Another one?”
He laughed a little. “I suppose you do have more than your fair share.”
Joe felt all awkward about the sudden mood shift, but he nodded. “I won’t tell.”
Kip crammed the last of his sandwich in his mouth, chewed slowly, swallowed, and sighed. “Okay. Here’s the thing. My best friend is in love with your sister.”
“Umm … that’s not really a secret.” Joe quickly explained, “Tami tells me stuff. She loves him back.”
“Yeah. I know.” Kip pulled his tail around. It was hard to tell if he was hugging it or hiding behind it. “Head over heels. Hearts and daisies. Cute as can be. But I didn’t realize it would be this hard, watching him make an idiot of himself.”
Joe wasn’t sure what Kip meant, but the way he said it made it obvious that he and Ash were really good friends. It made him a little jealous. And then something that should have been obvious finally occurred to him. “Is Ash like you?”
“Yes and no.” Kip gestured vaguely. “Those two really need to talk.”
“He’s Rivven?”
“Not my place to say. Also, not really the point.”
Kip was avoiding eye contact, something Joe did all the time. Strange how something so small could make you feel both understanding and understood.
“I’m going to be happy for them … eventually,” Kip said. “But that doesn’t really make my part in this any easier.”
Now they were getting closer to the underlying sadness. Joe asked, “What’s your part?”
“Heartbroken.”
Joe blinked. “You’re in love with my sister, too?”
Kip laughed weakly. “You’re kind of an idiot, but that’s okay. I clearly have a weakness for idiots.”
And it clicked. “You love your best friend.”
The redhead snorted. “Who doesn’t? A friend loves at all times.”
