by SM Reine
I sit up, pulling my legs off his lap and tucking them under me. I suddenly feel very young and rather stupid. “I know she’s your hero and everything—” I begin.
“I don’t want to be my father,” Will interrupts. His voice is quiet, and there’s a thread of determination running through it that makes me forget whatever I was about to say. He looks a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting to say that. I just sit still, waiting for him to continue.
“He’s…he wasn’t a good man,” Will says with difficulty. His eyes flick away from mine, and even though I am a sheltered rich kid from the suburbs, I understand.
“He hurt you,” I say in a low voice.
Will starts to nod subconsciously, catches himself, and shrugs. “My sisters and my mom more than me. Eventually I got big enough for him to realize I wasn’t going to put up with it for much longer. He left us before I got to beat the shit out of him.”
He takes a deep breath and blows it out hard, pasting on a bright smile. This one doesn’t light up the room. “I’m sorry, that got really heavy all of a sudden, huh? Let’s talk about something else.”
I ignore this. “My dad left us when I was eight,” I tell Will. This part of my life is always hard to explain to humans, but I don’t want to lie to him, so I tell as much of the truth as I can. “There was some trouble in London, and my mum decided to emigrate. My dad decided it was a good time to follow his lover to Brazil.” I quirked a wry smile. “His male lover.”
“Oh,” Will says, blinking in surprise. “Do you ever hear from him?”
I shrug. “He used to send postcards on my birthday, but that petered off about, mmm, six years ago. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”
My hands are in my lap, and I realize I have been worrying at my cuticles as I spoke. Will reaches over and takes one of my hands, lacing his fingers through mine. I love the sensation of his hands: so warm and dry and powerful, but so gentle with me. I meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. I can tell he means it.
I nod. “Me, too. About your dad, I mean.”
Without letting go of my hand, he asks, “So what happened today? When I saw you in the lobby you looked…”
“Disastrous?” I offer. “Hideous? Like I might scare the small children I’m supposed to be entertaining?”
“Like you’d been crying,” he finishes with a small smile.
It’s been years since I’ve had the impulse to tell a founding—a regular human—about my magic, but I suddenly long to do exactly that. I want to tell this boy how much it hurts when I connect with someone’s body as they are suffering. I just instinctively feel like he’d understand.
I shake my head, unable to speak for a long moment. If I say it’s hard to spend time with cancer patients, Will might be insulted, since he used to be one. Or, worse, he might misinterpret my words and think I’m some kind of saint who’s moved by the plight of the ill.
I am not a saint.
Will waits, patient. Finally, I mumble, “I don’t think I can go back tomorrow. I’m not strong enough.”
His eyes search mine for a long moment. I don’t know what he sees there, but he murmurs, “I think you’re plenty strong.” Then he pulls our still-connected hands to his mouth and kisses my knuckles, keeping his eyes on mine. It could just be a friendly gesture, but my breath catches in my throat.
“Do it again,” I whisper. He bends his head and obeys, and my stomach flips over. I release his hand, and lift a finger to his face, stroking his cheek where it meets his jawline. His free hand begins to trace a slow circle on my skin just above my knee. The contact sends an excited shiver through my body.
The first clap of thunder echoes from outside, the sound like a metal ball rolling across a wood floor, and it breaks the spell between us. Will pulls back, looking suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“I’m not,” I tell him. Before he can respond, I lean forward and kiss him.
He hesitates, neither stopping the kiss nor getting too caught up in it, and I can practically feel him thinking about how he should resist, should go home and call me for a proper date. He is that kind of guy. But then something inside him unfurls and he returns the kiss hard. His lips are warm and deliciously rough, and I feel my whole body leaning into him, craving the contact, the connection with another person. For a moment my magic threatens to surface, but I push it down. That’s not that kind of conversation I want to have with Will’s body right now. His tongue probes mine and I moan. His hands find my ass, shifting me roughly into his lap until I am straddling him, my rumpled hair falling around us. I smile around the kiss and then pull back so he can see my face, my eyes. So he can see that I am sane and willing and me. “I want this,” I say huskily, “I want you.”
He groans and shifts me in his lap, and I can feel the evidence that he wants me, too. We kiss again as rain begins beating down on the roof, and Will’s fingertips slide under the hem of my shirt, stroking my sides until I shudder. Finally I break the kiss for long enough to rip my shirt over my head, thankful that I am wearing a decent bra. It’s nothing fancy, but it is soft and flattering, an emerald green that sets off my olive skin. Will must like it, too, because he immediately begins planting little kisses along the edges of it. I tilt my head back, letting him drive me wild, and when I can’t take it anymore, I pull his face back to mine, losing myself in a long, hot kiss. The room has chilled around us, the air-conditioning over-compensating for the cooler temperature outside, and goosebumps break out on my arms and legs. But Will’s mouth is so warm—
There is another sound, which I don’t even register at first, since the rational part of my mind isn’t exactly in charge right now. But then something way back in my thinking brain recognizes it. Will realize the same thing at the same time, because he pulls away from me, a look of horror on his face that must mirror my own.
It was the garage door opening.
5. Sashi
Nothing throws a bucket of cold water on your libido quite like the arrival of an overbearing mother.
I scramble off Will’s lap so fast I get a little dizzy. “You have to go, now,” I hiss as I struggle into my T-shirt. He is straightening up the pillows on the couch. I grab the lunch plates in a panic and shove them under the couch, reminding myself to clear them up later. Mum will kill me if we get mice.
“Is it really that big a deal—” Will begins, but I am already pushing him toward the front door.
“Go, go!” I tug the door open and turn to glance at the interior door to the garage. Will snags my wrist, pulling me back to him. He kisses me hard and fast on the mouth.
“This has potential,” he tells me, with a quick grin. “To be continued.”
Then he is gone, pulling the door shut behind him.
I stand there stupidly for a second, smiling at the closed door. Then I remember myself and fly back through the house toward the garage door just as my mother is coming through it. I manage to skid to a stop before we collide.
“Sashi!” she cries. “Are you okay?”
I nod, and her eyebrows narrow with sudden suspicion. “Why are you out of breath?” she asks. “And why is your shirt inside out?”
I glance down. Son of a bitch, she’s right. I pull it over my head, turn it rightside-out, and put it back on, using the moment to think of an excuse. “I was just about to take a shower when I heard the garage door,” I explain. “I came down to see what’s wrong. You’re never home this early.”
“Oh.” Her face relaxes momentarily, but then her nose wrinkles with distaste. “Yes, well, Luke called. Full moon, remember? One of the werewolves snapped a femur. They’re on their way now.” Her jaw clenches with indignation. The great Dr. Stephanie Noring, being summoned away from her life’s mission to fix up a moronic werewolf. It burns her to be reminded that for all her skill with magic, when Luke plays the tune she still has to dance.
Then something unfathomable crosses her features, and she eyes me with sudden wariness. �
��Go upstairs and change, Sashi.”
I look down at my T-shirt and skirt, which aren’t any worse than when I got up that morning. “Why?”
“Please, Sashi,” she pleads, and I am taken aback. Dr. Stephanie Noring does not beg her daughter for anything. “Jeans and something with a high neckline. Don’t argue.”
It’s in my nature to argue with her, but there’s no time, and for once I just nod and run for the stairs. “And then grab the tarp,” she calls after me.
I throw on musty jeans from the bottom of my closet and a clean crewneck T-shirt, then tumble back down the stairs toward the garage. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been around for one of Luke’s calls, but I remember what to do. I tug a big sterile tarp out of a box in the garage and spread it out on the pristine floor, next to my mother’s BMW. This kind of thing is exactly why I have to park in the driveway.
I am glad the storm cooled everything down, so we don’t have to set bones in the sweltering heat. As I set up the tarp, I realize I’m also a little nervous. Being around the pack has always put me on edge, and I’m still keyed up from this morning…and from Will.
I have barely finished with the tarp when I hear an engine in the driveway. “Mum!” I call, and she emerges from the house, dragging her small rolling suitcase of medical supplies. From long force of habit, I go still and concentrate on listening. Trying to hear the werewolves as they walk around the house is like a game. It’s also surprisingly useful for figuring out just how hurt they are. An injury has to be pretty serious for the silent predators to make any noise. Within moments, I hear a few muffled curses as someone walks from the driveway around to the back garage entrance. Must be a bad break.
Mum motions to me, and I hurry over to open the exterior door, just as Luke barrels through it. He’s immediately followed by an older man carrying a woman in his arms. She appears to be in her late twenties, although werewolves age slower than we do, and she has cropped blonde hair and cords of lean muscle on her bare arms. She’s wearing a tank top and cutoff jeans, and there are deep scratches on her face, but they look like they’re already healing. My gaze moves downward, and I have to fight down a scream when I see her right leg. The bone isn’t just broken in there; it’s twisted wrong. The woman’s foot is pointing in a 60-degree angle toward the floor. She pants, obviously trying not to scream. I swallow hard.
“Why, little Sashi!” Luke cries jovially, as though we have bumped into each other at Starbucks. He’s only a few inches taller than me, maybe 5’10”, but there’s no mistaking him for anything other than an alpha. “Look at you.” He makes a little “yummy” noise in the back of his throat as he looks me up and down lecherously.
I feel a tinge of revulsion. I don’t mind the werewolves, necessarily, but the thought of one of them touching me that way makes my skin crawl. It’s actually somewhat unusual for members of the Old World species to be attracted to anyone but their own kind or maybe foundings, which my mother claims is part of our biological drive to reproduce. Apparently Luke is the rare exception, though, because he’s staring at my breasts with a hungry look, and I have to resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest. From the corner of my eye I see my mother wince, though she doesn’t look at me. Oh. So that’s why she didn’t want me wearing the skirt.
Then Luke’s face gets cagey. His nostrils flare, and he abruptly steps closer to me, making no effort to hide his sniffing. A leer breaks out on his face, and I curse to myself. Despite the change in clothes, he can smell Will and hormones on my skin. I am such an idiot.
I know that if I get agitated they will smell that, too, so I am careful to take a slow breath. I thrust out my hand. “Hello, Luke,” I say as calmly as I can.
Luke smiles mischievously, raising an eyebrow, but he shakes my hand nonetheless. He looks like he’s considering further comment, but then he remembers the people beside him. “Oh, this is Astrid,” he says carelessly, nodding at the injured woman. “She’s new. And you remember Kelly.”
I say hello to the pack’s second-in-command, a reed-thin redheaded man with freckles and uneasy eyes. His eyes are fixed on Luke as he waits quietly for his leader’s next order. My mum once said sourly that Kelly is too weak to be the beta—and that’s exactly how Luke likes it.
At Will’s instruction, Kelly goes to lay Astrid on the tarp. I can tell he’s trying to be gentle, but Astrid’s face screws up with pain, and her panting breaths get shorter and shorter. Mum hastens over.
“What happened?” she says, snapping on sterile gloves as she kneels next to the female werewolf. Luke used to tease her often about the gloves, since the werewolves can’t get infections, but Mum insists.
“Does it matter?” Luke says with a little sneer.
“It might affect how the bone needs to set, yes.” My mother’s voice is very careful, which surprises me. The last time I helped her with a werewolf case, she and Luke barked at each other the whole time—no pun intended—neither willing to concede control of the situation to the other. I have clearly missed something while I was away at school.
Mum looks hopefully at Kelly, who just shrugs. “I arrived right after,” he says.
“Bitch can’t accept her place in the pack,” Luke says dismissively, sensing that my mother isn’t going to drop it. “She needed to learn a lesson.”
I want to ask if Luke was the one who gave her the lesson, but Mum shoots me a look, and I stay silent. She reaches down to prod Astrid’s leg, and now the werewolf can’t contain a short yelp of pain. Tears are streaming from her eyes, and she bites her lip so hard I’m sure she’ll draw blood. Mum and Luke are talking about angles and force, but I tune them out and go over to crouch on the other side of Astrid, then pick up her hand. She looks at me, in too much pain to speak, and I see the beads of perspiration on her forehead. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a werewolf sweat before—it’s obvious that Astrid’s pain is excruciating. There’s no help for it, though: werewolves metabolize painkillers too quickly for them to work.
My training with Mum kicks in and I automatically try listening to Astrid’s body. Magic doesn’t work very well against other magic, which is why a witch can’t be turned into a werewolf, and why vampires have a hard time pressing either species’ minds. But there are a few…well, my mother calls them “evolutionary work-arounds.” For example, combat witches can’t hurt a werewolf with a spell, but they can hex the ceiling right above one to crash down on its head.
Along the same lines, I can’t tap into the magic that keeps this woman healing fast and aging slow, but in theory I can converse with the basic structure of her original body. But I’ve only tried this a couple of times with a werewolf, and it never came to much.
To my surprise, though, I easily access Astrid’s body. And it is screaming.
Startled, I drop the woman’s hand. Then I touch it again, closing my eyes to mentally study the problem. As far as I can tell, her werewolf magic is trying its damnedest to heal around the fracture, which is badly out of alignment. “We have to break it again,” I say quietly. My mother nods, and I see she’s reached the same conclusion.
She tells Kelly and Luke to hold the woman down, and without comment they simply sit on her, Kelly restraining her good leg while a slightly smug Luke perches on her chest. She is crying now, her attempts to muffle the sounds only making them more pitiful. I see Luke rolling his eyes at Kelly in a “this is what happens” way, and I can’t help myself. I have to try. “Mum, one second,” I say, and I pick up Astrid’s hand again, concentrating as hard as I can, as fast as I can.
Inside, she is still screaming, an endless howl that never has to pause for breath. Calm // relief // ease I tell the woman’s body, trying to get the message to register underneath all the layers of magic and agony. Astrid’s eyes widen the slightest bit, then a puzzled look replaces the pain on her face.
“Sashi!” comes my mother’s startled voice, but I am too absorbed to respond. The howling in Astrid’s body stops, and I can feel it sor
t of tune in to me for the first time. Ally // champion? it asks me.
Yes, I assure it. Ease // quiet.
The body relaxes just a little, like a muscle unclenching. Without looking away from Astrid, I nod at my mother.
The next few minutes are sickening, and it’s hard to keep down my mediocre turkey sandwich. Luke has to help my mother crack the woman’s leg again, and he does it with such casual disinterest I want to club him. Astrid continues to cry, but silently now, her expression resigned. My mother gets the bones in alignment by feel, which must hurt nearly as much as the break itself, but finally Mum nods at Luke and he and Kelly climb off Astrid.
My mother has already spread a simple, felt-and-velcro splint underneath the woman’s thigh, and I help her with the straps. She starts at the top, I start at the bottom, but when we meet in the middle I see her fingers fumbling. I glance up at her face, but she is not looking at me or at what she’s doing. She’s looking at Luke.
Who’s staring right at me.
“Now that is an interesting development,” Luke drawls. “What did you do to her, little Sashi?”
Oh, shit. I realize for the first time that I have given away too much. Luke has a sense of the power Mum and I have, but he must have assumed it couldn’t be used on the werewolves. Or maybe Mum can’t communicate with werewolves’ bodies. We’ve never really discussed it.
Luke tilts his head, waiting for my answer, and I automatically glance at my mother, who jumps in. “She just held this woman’s hand, Luke,” Mum says. “Looks like even werewolves need a little comfort every now and then.”
“That’s not it,” comes a raspy voice from the floor. It’s the first time Astrid has spoken since the werewolves brought her into the garage. She props herself up on her elbows, staring at me in shock. “I don’t know what you did, but I felt better after you did it. Calmer, too,” she says, wonder in her voice.
I shrug, trying to appear careless. “I just did what my mum does,” I say. “Told your body to get better.”
