Garret instantly felt like an idiot. With shoulders slumped, he turned to Sarn.
Sarn watched him openly until Garret had to drop his eyes in shame.
“It’s the way it is,” Sarn said quietly.
* * *
Garret shucked his shirt and swilled himself down under the pump. The water was cool, but not cold enough to make him jump. He knew the black grit covering him was turning the water grey, but he couldn’t see it in the dark. Pa hadn’t come back to work at all, leaving Garret to do the whole day’s work by himself. It had taken until long after dark.
His shoulders and back ached with a constant, dull complaint. He shucked the water from his torso and arms and picked up his shirt, which was, after today, far too dirty to put back on. The warm glow of the porch lamp pulled him across the yard like a moth to a flame. He climbed the steps onto the porch and went through the front door. A lamp burned in the sitting room, shedding a low light across the edges of the sturdy furniture and rugs. Garret passed it and headed for the kitchen. He was tired and hungry, and he didn’t care about much other than food. Another lamp burned on the kitchen table, doing little to dispel the gloom.
Where is everybody? Garret wondered dully. Not that it was unusual for the house to be empty these days. Sarn was probably already in bed. Pa probably was too, after spending the day crying to somebody about how terrible his life was. Ma was probably out with her newest boyfriend, shaming their family while Pa lay in bed and felt sorry for himself.
Garret clenched his jaw.
There was no food lying out, so it would be scrounging again. The ice box contained a pat of butter, and a few empty dishes. Garret slammed the door and went to the pantry. He found apples, and a bunch of baking goods. Apples. What about a meal? What about real food? He leaned on the counter and hung his head.
In the bread box he found a pile of flapjacks from the morning. Fine.
He’d layer them with butter and they’d fill his stomach.
“Garret?”
Garret turned, and at the opening of the hallway stood his mother, holding her reading lamp.
He’d heard the town’s men say she was the most beautiful woman in the county, and he hated it. He didn’t hate her, just the fact that every one of them turned to stare when she passed, and Garret couldn’t do anything about it.
Her hair was soot black, glossy, and fell in perfect waves past her shoulders, as it always did whether she was working in the garden or sitting on her favorite chair, reading. Her face and eyes were what men in town described as “smoky.” She turned every male eye until Garret was red with shame. He knew not even the most modest dress would hide her figure, and when the dancing girls were taking a break outside the Red Stallion, they looked at his Ma with green eyed jealously.
She smiled her smile, perfect, white, and beautiful. “How was your day, Garret?”
Garret fidgeted, suddenly aware he wasn’t wearing a shirt in the house.
She crossed the kitchen and tugged on his ear like she had since he was a toddler. “What’s wrong? Where’s your Pa?”
Pa’s not here. That rarely happened. Garret felt cornered. He shook his head without saying anything.
“Did you bring me some money?” she asked.
Looking at the floor, Garret reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple dollars. He held them out. His Ma took them. “Thank you Garret. You know your Pa won’t give me anything.”
She set the lamp on the counter beside him and ran her thumb over his forehead. It hurt a bit. He’d hit his head on something or other. She cupped the side of his face with her hand.
Her face melted in concern. “Garret, what happened?”
“I, uh,” Garret stammered. His throat felt like it was closing up, and he couldn’t think straight. He was going to confront her about Mr. Framer. Demand the truth for once. Demand an answer, wasn’t he? But he could only think about wanting more space. Wanting to be somewhere else. She was so close that her right knee was touching his.
Her other hand, the one holding the dollars, was hooked through his belt.
He flinched back against the counter.
“Garret, what’s wrong?” Her voice was suspicious.
Garret opened his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them.
Her own eyes opened wider, then she took the lamp and retreated.
The glow of the flame faded quickly down the hall.
Garret scratched the semicircular scars on his wrists and turned back to his food. The goosebumps faded quickly. Within two minutes, he’d completely forgotten it had happened.
No recollection at all.
The day before Molly’s birthday
Garret slogged onto the porch and to the front door. He’d finished Molly’s gift, though it had taken him well into the night. He picked up on the knob as he closed the door to keep it from squeaking. The lamp in the hall was lit. Odd. Garret crept down the hall and into the kitchen.
Sarn sat at the table in the dark. He had his chin propped up on his hand. He stared at the kitchen wall, but even in the gloom Garret knew Sarn wasn’t seeing it. Garret moved to the table and sat catty-corner to Sarn. Neither said anything until Garret asked, “Whatcha thinking about?”
“Deciding what to have for dinner,” Sarn said after a pause.
It was after midnight. Garret smiled weakly. “Been deciding for a while, huh?”
The smallest of smiles bent Sarn’s plain features.
At the sight of the smile, Garret rose and opened the pantry. He rooted around. As usual there wasn’t much. A few dry goods. Flour in bags. Good lord, twenty-five pounds of brown sugar. A sack of potatoes.
Garret recalled the ham hanging in the smoke house. He picked up the sack of potatoes and moved to the counter. Pa had bought a ham and hung it in the smokehouse out of habit, even though they didn’t have time to cure meat anymore. There was so much whining, feeling sorry for oneself, and whoring around that needed to be done instead.
“Wanna go cut us a couple slices of ham?”
“What?” Sarn turned.
Garret glanced through the window towards the little smoke house, visible under the stars, then selected a knife from his Ma’s cutting block and began peeling a potato. The knife was razor sharp. She hardly used her knives, but she kept them sharp enough to shave with. Come to think of it, maybe that was how she did her legs, that huge butcher knife there in the corner. Whatever.
“Ham,” Garret repeated. “I’ll make us some dinner.”
Sarn looked at him with another of those expressions Garret didn’t understand. Then Sarn went out the backdoor. Garret peeled potatoes and watched Sarn through the window. As Sarn crossed the yard, a slight spring returned to his step. Garret’s shoulders sagged with relief.
Sarn soon returned with a couple slices of ham the size of pink and white loaves of bread. Garret nodded his approval. Sarn laid them on the counter.
“Now what?” he asked.
“I forgot to ask you to get the butter from the cellar house. Sorry.”
Sarn shrugged. “No problem, brother.” He went.
Garret retrieved his Ma’s biggest skillet and stoked the stove fire back to life. Sarn returned and set a round pat of cold, hard butter on the counter, then turned to Garret expectantly.
Garret nodded to the pan. “Use a lot,” he said. “We’ll fry the potatoes in there too.”
“How much is a lot?”
Garret showed him, using his knife to break off almost a cup of the frozen butter. Sarn tossed it in the pan, then retrieved a knife and started peeling potatoes beside Garret.
“Did you hear that the Stantons are getting a divorce?”
“What?” Not that Garret cared, but divorce was unheard of. No matter how bad it got, families stuck together and made each other miserable.
“And Mrs. Dagget left her husband,” Sarn added.
Two in a row.
They peeled in silence for a while.
“Thanks, brother
,” Sarn said hoarsely.
Garret fuzzed Sarn’s hair, leaving potato funk in the boy’s blonde locks. “Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t tasted it.”
Sarn tried to smile at the joke, but couldn’t. Garret’s heart fell, but he waited. For about ten seconds. That was as long as he could stand it.
“What’s bothering you, brother? Other than the fact that our family’s crazy, of course.”
It took Sarn a long time to work up to it. Garret watched him struggle, winding tighter and tighter until Garret thought he was going to snap, before Sarn opened his mouth.
“Ma was really mad this morning when I came home from the mill.”
He shouldn’t have been home from the mill early, Garret thought. That’s bad. But not as bad, he sensed, as what was coming after.
“What did she say,” Garret asked.
“Brother,” Sarn started to cry. “She said I’m not—”
A footstep scuffed behind them.
Garret spun. The anger monster rose inside him, ready to attack, to defend, to do whatever had to be done. The monster was not a wise being, it knew only that it was enraged.
“What are you doing?” It was Pa, blinking sleepily in the light of the lantern in Ma’s hand. Though her beautiful hair was tousled and she was wearing a rumpled dressing gown, she didn’t look sleepy. Her lips were pressed in a hard line. Her eyes narrow.
“We’re making dinner,” Garret spat.
“At midnight?” Pa asked, clearly not getting what was happening, could be happening, or ever had happened.
“Yes, at midnight!” Garret barked. He glared daggers at his Pa, who was too stupid to leave, and at his Ma, who was, well, too whatever to leave. But after a protracted moment, they went. First Pa, then Ma. Her eyes narrowed further before she did, and she seemed ready to say something, but Garret dared her silently, and she didn’t. When they were gone, Garret turned back to the sink and leaned against it with both hands.
Sarn was still staring at the empty hall where his parents had stood. His tears were gone, his face bearing as much expression as the half-peeled potato in his hand.
“What did she say to you?” Garret asked after a time.
“Nothing,” Sarn said, turning emotionlessly back to the counter.
No, not this time. Garret thought. Whatever that was, it was important.
“Tell me, little brother,” he said.
Garret expected Sarn to slough him off again because he was already gone, deep behind the mask. But this time it cracked. The boy burst into tears. “She said I’m not Pa’s son.”
The knife and potato fell from Garret’s hands.
Sarn was sobbing. “She said that’s why I have blonde hair.”
How could she… how could ANYONE be that cruel?!
Sarn’s hands fell to his sides, dropping his potato on the floor. “She said I’m not your brother.”
Sarn came apart. Garret grabbed him in a tight hug.
“You are my brother,” Garret said flatly. “I don’t care what anybody said. You’re my brother and nothing can change that.”
Sarn sagged and cried like a baby. Garret held him tight, one hand gripping a handful of Sarn’s hair. It didn’t take long for Sarn to cry it out, really, but while he did so, Garret worked on steadying his breathing, and he made several promises to himself. He would protect Sarn until the world came down around them. Nothing else mattered. Not Pa and his sorry, ball-less attitude. Not Ma and her… her what-the-fuck-ever.
Garret held Sarn until it was past, but before it went, a new thing had made a home inside of Garret. It was born as he held his brother and glared in the direction his Ma had gone.
It was cold, and it was dark. It was hate.
Germany, 1589
Men were in the forest. Invading Youngblood’s world, pushing his pack away from the hunting grounds that had fed them for generations. Each night, the men stomped their way through the forest, crushing, breaking, bumbling, yelling in their strange, confusing sounds, and wiping their scent everywhere. Worst, they carried their roaring branches: the smooth wood and metal things with a little round mouth at the end. Merely to look into the mouth could kill, even though it had no teeth. Youngblood had seen it happen. A man would raise a roaring branch to his shoulder and point the mouth at an unwary animal. The branch would make its terrible boom, spit Crackling Terror and smoke, and the animal would die, even at a great distance.
For that reason alone, Youngblood had a small amount of hope. The men were hunting the deadwalker, and perhaps their roaring branches could kill it. Worry, however, laid Youngblood’s ears low. Men were hunting the deadwalker, surely in grief for their ravaged females and torn-asunder pups which were scattered through the forest, but did they understand what they were hunting?
Youngblood did not have much faith in man’s ability to understand. Men tromped through the forest, going here and there and paying no mind to anything, as if they could not smell, see, or hear. Men always made Youngblood shudder, but recently they had become so angry and brutal with their roaring sticks and orange terror that even the birds were leaving the forest. Youngblood was nervous at all times when he was outside the pack’s den.
Apparently his uncles, the alphas, were even more concerned. As the sun settled towards its night home under the hills, hunger had stirred the pack from rest, but just as they were leaving in search of the alphas, who’d been scouting, the alphas returned with bristled hackles. With growls and snaps at the youngsters, they herded the pack back into the den and made it clear no one would leave that night. Youngblood wondered what his uncles had seen or smelled. He wondered how his oldest uncle, the One Who Leads, had gotten the cut running from his left rear hock all the way to his foot.
So Youngblood lay with his pack in the back of the den, bunched together in comforting fur and family scent. On warmer nights, like this one, they usually sprawled all over the back of the den, but not tonight. With his chin resting on his forepaws, Youngblood watched his uncles. The alphas had lain down together at the mouth of the den, where the tree roots hung thickly around them and obscured the entrance. They formed a two-wolf line, blocking the outside world away from their family. Their forepaws were almost touching, and their noses would have been as well, if they had been facing each other. Instead they faced the outside world, keeping watch. They made no move other than a twitch of an ear or tail. The One Who Leads’ blood was mingling with the dirt on which he lay.
Youngblood’s brother had fallen asleep while lying across Youngblood’s behind. He whimpered and his younger uncle, the One Who Stays Beside, shot him a stern glance. Youngblood wriggled out from under his brother’s chin, bringing a sleepy chuff from his brother and a warning stare from his uncle. Making sure to stay on his belly, Youngblood crawled towards The One Who Leads. At a respectful distance, he stopped and averted his eyes. The bleeding alpha studied him for a moment. Youngblood crawled a bit closer to the injured leg. The alpha turned his attention back to the outside world.
Youngblood crawled the rest of the way to his uncle and began to delicately lick the blood-matted fur around the cut. Outside, the ground sloped all the way to the river. On the far side of the river, tall trees stood thickly in the dusk. Both of his uncles stiffened. As Youngblood cleaned dirt and bits of bark out of the cut, he followed his uncles’ gaze. They craned their necks, aware of something Youngblood could not yet discern on the far bank. He continued to lick, but listened until he picked up the faintest echo of footfalls over the river’s song. The footfalls belonged to the deadwalker, but their sound was confusing. At first, the footfalls came quickly and smoothly, then they became heavier and farther apart, though the deadwalker’s speed had not changed.
Besides being pungent, the deadwalker’s scent trail had never made sense to Youngblood. Sometimes the patches of touch-scent fell neatly, like they did from his own four paws. Other times, the deadwalker’s scent fell in choppy, more distant patches, like the trail of a man walking in the woods
. As he listened to the changing sound of the footfalls, Youngblood understood. The deadwalker could move on four legs like a wolf, or on two legs like a man, whichever it wished.
Fear filled Youngblood. The deadwalker was close to his family. His parents, cousins, sisters, brother, and aunts were asleep in the back of the cave and the deadwalker was only a short swim and a moment’s run away from them. Youngblood raised his head and sniffed the wind. It wasn’t stirring inside the den, but past the opening, it followed the course of the river, so though he would not be able to smell the deadwalker, neither could it smell his pack.
The One Who Leads was staring at Youngblood. He had stopped licking. He went back to it intently, but higher on the hip so he could better see the far side of the river. Night drew on quickly, sinking through the branches and riding down the river, but on the far bank, the deadwalker continued to move downriver, a few paces inside the tree line.
It was big and furry, and though Youngblood couldn’t see it clearly, it appeared to have the deep chest of a bear, but with a narrow, wolf-like waist. Its hind limbs were short and powerful. Its front limbs were thick and strong, but much longer than the rears. All four of them propelled it effortlessly forward. Part of the time it used its forelimbs as Youngblood used his. Other times, it used them more like a man would, reaching up to pull against a branch or push off of a trunk. Its head was wolf-like, but twisted and gnarled, with long ears and a snout with enormous teeth. Its long, bushy tail didn’t just perk and wag like a tame wolf cousin, it flowed and curled as if it had a mind of its own. The deadwalker moved slow and steady, propelling its heavy body in the easy manner that came only to animals of great strength. It kept looking back over its shoulder.
Only then did Youngblood catch the distant howl of one of man’s tame wolf-cousins. The deadwalker shambled through the trees, gliding over everything in its path. It took another look over its shoulder.
The howl of the wolf-cousin was joined by two more, then four, then six. The pack stirred behind Youngblood, a few of the members rose in agitation, but The One Who Leads laid them all back down with a flat-eared glare. When wolf-cousins came, men would soon follow. Youngblood had stopped licking and laid his head on his uncle’s back, but his uncle allowed him to stay.
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