Condemned

12 | Jael

Could this night get any worse?

I'm glad Sam is safe at work and has no reason to suspect I'm in the woods behind the Old Town Drafthouse Cinema, not far from her Volkswagen. I haven't had any opportunity to defend her virtue, though.

I have to admit, I need that right now, to stay sane and remind myself that there is a noble cause at the root of all this strife. Without it, I'm not just falling apart. I'm tearing myself apart, with teeth and claws and otherworldly strength.

When a wolf, blacker than the darkest night, ambles over and sits on its haunches besides me, the night gets ten-times worse.

Why doesn't anyone think I can handle this? I convey by way of greeting.

Because you can't, Rollin answers.

Our communication isn't exactly "mind-reading." I can't explain how it's done, but there's a difference between thinking and speaking. Usually. We have some privacy, as long as we don't think "too loud." On a typical day, and with regular practice and if we can keep the emotions in check—easier said than done sometimes—we have to want to be heard. But, for any non-wolf, or wolf in human form, the chatter goes dark, so I suppose, in a way, it's a wolf-specific form of telepathy.

Someone needs to protect her from you. Rollin scoots forward, obstructing a piece of my view, the one I've meticulously chosen, something he feels he can just take. No one wants to sully her more than you do. Except me, of course. He shifts another few inches into my space and licks his chops. There are 'loopholes' I wouldn't mind sinking a few things into...

I lurch forward, nudging him with my shoulder. The force of it shakes the branches that are shielding us from the unwitting public. Try anything, and I'll rip your fucking throat out.

His snicker floods my awareness and I growl aloud.

Natural or supernatural, there aren't a whole lot of wolves in these parts, so I should be more careful. Everyone in Virginia has a gun. Bullet wounds can be fatal if blood loss or organ damage outpaces our fast-healing capacity.

I shouldn't let Rollin get to me, either. He pokes and prods, testing me for weaknesses all the damn time. Because he wants what I precariously have—Ivy, seniority, preferential treatment. I'm sure he assumes, if he rides me long and hard enough, I'll make a mistake I can't fix, and he'll be my permanent replacement.

See what I mean? Rollin turns his head away from me, sensing what I sense. We aren't alone, but our hackles don't rise.

Shilo trots in from behind. While I'm a tawny brown, she's a handsome black and gray. Her paws and abdomen are pure white. She's smaller than the two of us and lighter on her feet. Her scent wafted in before she was seen or heard.

She lays down in a ready position beside me, putting me in the middle. In Rollin's company, she's better off with a buffer, too. Why are you about to kill Rollin? This time?

He doesn't like to share, Rollin jumps in before I can cough up something brief and vague. Or admit that I'm right.

Why are you still here? I ask him. I've got this. You can go. And please. Do us both a favor!

Sorry, you're stuck with me. I have orders, Rollin states.

Ishmael?

No. Ivy. Didn't she tell you? Oh, right, you're still in the doghouse.

Yes, I am. And I'm being kept there in chains, with no food or water, and meanwhile, there's a feast on the table that I can see through the window, and there's this delicate hand beckoning me inside...