by Alex Stone
Now, it’s nearly 8:00 in the morning. Thursday morning. Had Grandma not died, I’d be clocking, or clucking, in at Mason’s tonight. “The boys” have been downstairs for about a half an hour. The teens are home— their parents, including my mom, took them home a few minutes ago. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in days. My grandmother is dead, murdered. The home that embodied love and safety and every positive childhood memory has been burned to the ground, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot distract myself from what’s in front of me. She’s dead. She’s dead. They killed her. They tried to kill us. They could’ve killed my fourteen-year-old brother, and I don’t have the stomach to get the information we need to protect the rest of the pack, the family. They could attack again next week, tomorrow, today.
I continue to pace back and forth in front of the door to the basement as screams carry throughout the house. My eyes find those of Aunt Angie, who gives me a pointed and worried glance before leaving the house with her briefcase. She clearly doesn’t approve. I hear Ricky yell something, then Dante cries out. This seems so drastic, wrong, but maybe Ricky is right. This is war.
It’s another half an hour before Ricky, Ashton, and Austin emerge from the basement. When Ricky comes out, his hands are clenched and spotted with blood. All three are sweaty. The twins’ long, straight hair sticks to their necks. Ashton and Austin nod to me before heading for the door.
Ricky tries to walk past, too, but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. “Ricky?” I ask.
He bites the inside of his check before replying, “We beat ‘im. We beat ‘im good, too.” Ricky licks his lips and looks away from me. “But he wouldn’t tell us nothin’, just that he knows nothin’ and was followin’ orders to attack wolves in our area. Maybe you can jog his memory. I doubt a second knows nothin’. I need to get out of here, though.”
“Look, I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I don’t think you are completely right either. We do need to protect our family, and we do need to stop them. We all are pissed and hurting, which is why if we don’t occasionally stop and question what we’re doing, we risk losing ourselves in all of the chaos, and death is becoming too normal. It shouldn’t be normal, Ricky.” I can’t help but think about the brown wolf. Maybe he really was just trying to protect me. My paranoia has been far more present recently.
He just nods.
I give his shoulder a squeeze. “Get some rest.”
Again, he nods before leaving the house.
Ricky may need to think to avoid losing himself, but I do need to adjust and realize these are not normal circumstances. I can’t allow a moment of doubt to turn into weakness. If I do, if I create a weak spot for them to attack, I risk losing someone else— everyone else— that I love.
I muster up all of the confidence and composure that I can and open the basement door. I expect the stairs to creak, but they don’t. This is Uncle Carl’s custom-built house, after all. The basement has four switches, all but one are off, so the room is poorly lit, except for the work lamp Uncle Carl uses for construction on his jobs, often for drying paint. One of those lights shines directly on Dante, who is strung up by his arms to metal poles on the ceiling by a combination of ropes and chains. His shirt is off, revealing a well-toned and tanned chest. He’s wearing an old pair of what I assume are Ray’s jeans. His head hangs loosely down. At first, I am uncertain if he is even conscious, but he lifts his face to look at me, revealing startling blue eyes that contrast with his darker skin, which is marred with dozens of tiny cuts. His five o’clock shadow does little to hide the bruises on his face. Luckily, I doubt he sees me or my shocked expression well with the light in his eyes and my being behind it.
“What are you, the good cop? Here to show sympathy and wash my wounds and tell me how much pain your pack has had?”
I snort before walking over and turning off the construction lamp. “Think again,” I say, pulling over a wooden chair from beside the stairs. I set it about eight feet in front of him and sit down. “I’m the alpha,” I say, only half lying. I just hope I can get something out of him. I’m not a monster, but I’m not some soft little butterfly or honey-do sweetheart that’ll nurse him back to health, even for information. I did think about that approach, but it’s not me. Clearly, Ricky’s strategy didn’t work. Beating the hell out of this guy and threatening him won’t do a damn thing. I have to be smart.
He flashes me a quick, amused smile. “My alpha would slap a woman for even speaking such blasphemy. Women can’t lead. Bitches are for breeding, he says.”
“You seem to be trying hard to make that distinction between what he says and what you…don’t?”
He narrows his bright eyes at me. “I follow all of my alpha’s creeds.”
“Do you? Did he tell to get captured by a woman’s pack, too? I doubt he expected that. He’s not a great planner, is he?”
The man stiffens and looks straight ahead without emotion. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Did I touch a nerve that quickly? This might be my chance, so I strike. I cross my legs and fold my hands together, placing them on my knees, before smiling politely with false modesty. “Well, please then, enlighten me? What was the grand plan here?” I allow the irony in my voice to drop to a darker tone. “Why did your alpha order you to slaughter my family?”
“Family?” he repeats loudly and doesn’t try to hide how entertained he is. “A pack is not a family; it’s an army.” That explains the short, military haircut. “You obey or you die, which is why we will win. You were the woman arguing earlier, weren’t you? It doesn’t sound like your pack respects you or fears the consequences of their disobedience.”
“That’s not how we do things here—” Before I can address his obvious deflection, he cuts me off.
“Which is why your old alpha is dead, and your pack is being led by an amateur.”
I feel my traitor face redden. He got me there, and from the gloating look on his face, he knows it. Damn my face! I try to sound amused when I respond. “I don’t need my pack to fear me. Respect and fear aren’t the same thing. Are you scared of your alpha, is that why you won’t talk? Scared to get an ass-whooping?”
“Of course; they’d kill me,” he says simply, almost prideful. “That’s how things are supposed to be,” he says, before adding a little quieter, “I’m probably dead already.”
“Why would they kill you if you don’t know enough to talk?”
He tenses, clenching his jaw, and stares daggers at me, and I know then that I’ve evened the score, but he also recovers quickly. “If you really want someone to talk, perhaps you should look into your pack! They have plenty to say!”
His words send a chill up my spine and leave a cold stone in the pit of my stomach. I’ve already had my suspicions, but this…this is a foreboding confirmation that is too much for me to ignore. This time, I manage to pull off an unchanging outward appearance and speak calmly. “I don’t need to question my pack’s loyalty because we really are a family, not just by loyalty but by blood. We don’t rule through fear because it doesn’t work,” I say before standing and grabbing the top of the chair. “Which is why you’re not really loyal to your own alpha. You’re just a frightened set of pecs. When you’re ready to break, let me know.”
He lifts his chin defiantly and responds stiffly, “That’ll never happen— because I am loyal.”
I give a closed-mouthed smile. “Okay,” I say, not hiding the amused doubt in my voice. Watching him from my peripheral vision, I push the chair over to his feet, slightly worried he may attack me with his legs, but my bet pays off, and he doesn’t. “For your legs, I’m sure they’re tired.” I walk toward the stairs as he places his feet on the chair. “Have a good day, Dante.” As frustrating as this meeting was, I won. On the surface, our chatter barely touched the surface, but I have him.
I’m almost to the top of the stairs, but I stop when he replies, “And you, Tala.” How the fuck does he know my name? “I hope your suspic
ions of your family don’t follow you too closely. Perhaps you can test their loyalty as your shadow of mistrust falls on them.”
I force myself to walk steadily and continue up the stairs. Once at the top, I close the door and lock it. He read me all too well. I thought I had the advantage, but he read me the whole time. He said nothing until I tried to end the conversation. He was playing with me, gathering information by watching me, before shooting back with what he had learned. And I still don’t know anything.
That’s not true, I tell myself. I know he’s just as close to breaking as I am.
Chapter 10
After leaving Uncle Carl’s, I go where the road takes me. Straight to Grandma’s. My heart seems to stop as I pull onto her road. I don’t know if I’m ready for this, but the pack needs a leader, not a terrified little girl who hides from the scary parts of war. The fact of the matter is there could be something there that could help me figure out why that pack has targeted us.
When I pull into her driveway, I’m shocked to see part of the house still stands. The brick supports hold up the second story of the house. The portions of the house that were added later, the “new” kitchen and den, which were built in the 90s, and jut out with no floor atop them, are nearly gone. The yellow vinyl siding that remains on that part of the house is bubbled, warped, but most of it is gone, as are the wooden walls that had encompassed the kitchen, leaving a gaping hole. Parts of the wooden posts are blackened like charcoal and lay horizontally, obscuring my view into the kitchen. From what I can see, it doesn’t look like the kitchen I grew up making enchiladas in. The roof is collapsed there. Part of it appears to have been drug out of the way. The first responders likely had to dig to—
I swallow. She had been buried in her home.
I sit in my car and breathe, bracing myself as if I am waiting for an oncoming blow to the face. This kind of hit isn’t physical, but it hurts all the same. I fling open my car door and get out before I can think myself out of this. Part of the house almost resembles what I remember. Except for the ash. Somehow the porch still remains. I take the steps two at a time and move the police tape out of the way, careful to not remove it. I reach out, my hand shaking, and open the front door, which seems so fragile now. A layer of black covers everything in sight. The stairs to the second floor have collapsed. Windows are busted. Little remains of the walls that had been stained with blood when I was last here, a small grace. But this house seems too familiar, yet so foreign.
I catch a number of scents, and there are clear footprints and pathways made in the chaos. Of course, I’m not the first person here. The firefighters and other responders had to be here…to collect her body. But there’s another scent among the others, it’s faint, so faint I can’t place it, but it’s familiar, which is enough for Dante’s taunting warning to replay in my head. Perhaps, I should be worried about a traitor, but since the pack is quite literally my family, I can’t imagine who would do this. Who would actually kill the matriarch, the corner stone, of our family and traditions?
I continue through the house, careful of each step I take. I don’t have a clue how stable the house is, and I don’t want it to collapse on top of me too. I jump, my heart in my throat, as my phone starts blaring an ABBA song. It’s Mel.
“Hello?” I say, somewhat confused about her calling me now.
“Tala! Hey, you’re not going to believe this!” she sounds excited, almost giddy. “Aaron called!”
“Yeah?” I say, only half listening as I step, nearly climbing, over a fallen beam, not really sure where I am going or what I am looking for at this point.
“It’s not what I thought at all,” she continues through the phone. “He had gotten a phone call; it was an emergency. His grandfather was really sick; they thought his cancer was back, so he flew out to Vermont that night, but with all the chaos, he didn’t think to tell me until after he got settled, but there was no reception. Apparently, the area was really remote? But it seems…”
I walk toward the kitchen, though, I don’t enter. The scene isn’t gruesome or bloody like it was before, but it’s little more than wreckage. Aside from the box that slightly resembles the stove, nothing is recognizable. There’s no breakfast table; I can’t see the fridge among the rubble.
“…I don’t know, though. Isn’t it all too convenient? I mean, couldn’t he have called me when he was outside the hospital? I want to believe him so badly, but am I being naïve? Is he just telling me what I want to hear?”
Shit. I completely zoned out on her. Great job, Tala. “I don’t know, Mel…have you spoken to him in person? You’ll probably have a better idea of if he’s bullshitting you that way.”
“Y-yeah, he’s coming over, remember?”
“Oh, I must’ve missed that. Sorry!”
Mel’s voice grows concerned, “Tala, what are you doing? It’s not like you to ignore me.”
“I’m sorry, Mel. I’m—I just have to look into something.”
She sighs. “That’s really specific, Tala. Let me know when you’re done. I heard what happened last night, and I want to make sure you’re all right. I’ve got to go, anyway. Aaron is here, and Ricky said he would be coming over as soon as he’s done at Uncle Carl’s. Love you— bye.”
I try to respond, “I love you, t—” but she’s already hung up. What stands out the most to me is Ricky. Once again, Ricky is being odd, or in this case, not telling the truth. If he told Mel he would be there after he was done at Uncle Carl’s, he should be there already. He left well before I did, and I’m already at Grandma’s.
I have no choice. I’ll have question Ricky later. There’re too many inconsistencies in what he’s done: knowing how Grandma was killed, snapping the neck of the brown wolf before he could give me information, and now he’s lying to Mel.
I realize that at this point, continuing to look around the house is probably moot. The place is so scorched I won’t find anything. Still, even with my other responsibilities, I can’t bring myself to leave, not quite yet. I finally step into the kitchen and attempt to go around and over some of the debris. I move slowly. With parts of the roof in the building, I don’t want to risk slashing my leg open. I don’t know why in the hell Grandma chose to add a metal roofing rather than shingles on top of the kitchen last year. Just the kitchen.
I step onto part of the roofing, but despite wearing boots, I slip. I manage to grab the edge, stopping my descent, but I cut my palm in the process. The layers of ash on the soles of my shoes must’ve fucked up my traction. I haul myself over to a clearer part of the room, finally close to my destination.
I’ve never been into all that spiritual magic stuff that Grandma swore on. The closest I’ve ever been to spiritual is my wolf form. Being one with nature, hearing the call of the souls from the past— nope. But as I enter my grandmother’s craft and herb room, I swear I smell honeysuckles and feel the sun on my skin. The smoke damage is as evident here as it is in the dining room. The craft room is no longer a reflection of its occupant, beauty among chaos. It looks like corrupted memories, just like the rest of the house, but it feels the same. I close my eyes to test it. Maybe it’s nostalgia or grief, but I could swear the room is exactly as it was before. I open my eyes again, and there’s the same disconnect between what I see and what I feel.
I know I should turn away, but something inside of me urges me forward. Taking a reluctant step, I enter the craft room, which is about as a big as a bathroom. I half expect the images before me to change, as if all those protection spells Grandma casted are actually real and somehow an illusion guarded this place, but that’s only a fantasy.
“Why am I here, dammit?” I cry out my frustration. There’s nothing on the shelves that stands out, just old burned labels, melted plastic tubs, jewelry making kits, and— I realize as I take another step further into the room— apparently, loose floorboards that somehow didn’t get burned to hell. Vexed about as much as I can handle, I turn to storm out of the room like a petulant child, but
stop in my tracks.
“Really? I am going to feel fucking insane if it’s nothing.” I shake my head at myself. Why am I saying anything aloud? There’s no one here! I turn around and kneel, pressing down with one hand on the loose floorboard while I use my other hand to try and pry it up. I strain harder than I expected I would need to, so hard that when the floorboard finally comes free, I nearly fall backward. Beneath the floor is a hollow compartment with a tiny box, resembling those that department stores place small trinkets in. I stare at it, half in disbelief that it is actually there and half relief that I’m not completely insane. Eagerness finally overwhelms me, and I lunge for the box like the pack on a buck. Scrambling, my fingers manage to lift the little cardboard lid. Inside is just a key with a sticker and the number 21786 scrawled in blue ink.
I hold the tiny key with two hands and shake my head. I still can’t believe it’s even here, but now that I have it, what am I supposed to do with it? I am too sleep deprived for these kinds of mysteries. I need coffee. Badly. Acknowledging my exhaustion only seems to make it worse as I feel my eyes grow heavier.
Nope. Not here. I slip the key into my boot, place the box in a tub, and return the floorboard as best as I can before climbing my way through the kitchen and leaving the house altogether.
Once in my car, I grasp the steering wheel tightly. Realizing that I very well may look like a wild woman, I flip open the mirror on my visor. My appearance isn’t nearly as bad as I thought, but I clean myself up a bit with the last Lysol wipe in a container on the floor. At least now I could pass for was-up-early-doing-yard-work. On a second thought, I clean up my boots a bit. “Here goes nothing,” I say aloud before starting the car and leaving the house.
