Curse of Ferreus

14 - Dinner in a Wolf Den

I don't watch Rowan fight. In fact, I go to great effort to keep him out of my line of sight as I head for the woods, leaving thuds and grunts and cheers behind.

A part of me is curious to see Rowan in the heat of a fight. I only saw a glimpse, back in the alley. After nearly being choked to death, though, even I have to admit I need some space. I need to think.

I need, most of all, some time away from werewolves. They're messing with my head.

The woods glitter with emerald flecks as a cool breeze stirs leaves into mournful ballets in the air. Golden sunlight filters through the canopy, casting a speckled, warm cluster of spotlights across the forest floor.

If I think hard enough, I can pretend I'm back at the den, making the most of a peaceful afternoon before Esme hauls me into another round of training.

I'm not entirely certain if I've happened upon a quiet area of the woods or if any lurking wolves have swiftly retreated to avoid close contact, but either way, as I sit myself against a tree trunk, I'm greeted by nothing but trees sighing and birds singing and wind whistling.

My guard has been up for so long that I simply cannot imagine what it would feel like to sit back and close my eyes and let this peace sway me to a serene state of mind. The rivalry hounds my thoughts, and my every waking moment is dedicated to keeping myself alive and hidden. There's no room for peace.

Despite this, in the whispering woods, my thoughts drift. In just a few days, my entire life has been torn apart. I watched my sister get shot because a werewolf bit her. I killed my cousin. I ran from my home and found myself in this quaint town I can't seem to leave behind. I've stumbled into the middle of a rivalry between my sworn enemies and to get rid of one pack, I've gone against all my morals and sided with the other. What a fucking mess.

It all flickers through my head. Esme's limp form in my arms. Myles' neck beneath my fists. The Welcome to Crescent Valley road sign. The body torn apart. The Othala. Seb and his friends crowding into the alley. Rowan's shoulder against the wall as he studies me and suggests an arrangement. Esme. Myles. Othala. Rowan. Esme. Rowan. Esme.

Tears sting my eyes but I force them back and sniff, stamping on the embers of grief until nothing remains. Eager for distraction, of any kind, I search the mossy forest floor around me until I find a substantial, flat rock. After tossing it from hand to hand a few times, I deem it worthy enough, and I set about sharpening my blades.

It's a ritualistic practice— and one that, usually, would require a bit more effort and time. But this rock is all I have, and it will work as a replacement.

I swipe the edge of my knife against its surface, the sharp hiss like a sort of therapy.

Time melts away as I lose myself to my task. The distraction doesn't work. Thoughts drift stubbornly over the past and the rivalry and Seb's warm blood on my hands. I find myself thinking of Esme, of her bright smile and her annoying laugh and her constant jibes at me to do better, to plant my feet, to swing with greater force. She was annoying as hell, but I loved her. And now she's gone.

"Planning an ambush?" an unexpected voice asks pleasantly.

I startle, tensing to send the knife flying for the source— and it's an effort to keep hold of the hilt and back down.

Rowan raises his hands in surrender as he emerges between two trees stretching lazily for the sky. His approach is punctuated with snapping twigs and rustling leaves, as though he's making the effort to be heard to keep from alarming me further. "Sorry. I hope you're not planning on killing Lachlan in his sleep with that."