Wolf Blood

|15| Deviant, the will to rise

Wolf Blood's recovery time was impressive. The pack had reverted to normal function in less than eight hours thanks to Dmitri and The Fantastic Five's efforts. They demonstrated delegation that inspired awe and respect for Wolf Blood's organization. If Dmitri was the Commander of Wolf Blood, The Fantastic Five were indeed his generals. I already knew that the pack's forces were split into three main divisions; Patrol, Tracking, Execution —captained by Gabe, Nik, and Jazz respectively. But Yuri's function was a bit vague to me, for he never seemed to be around doing any discernible tasks. I pondered it as I worked in the kitchen.

I had offered my assistance to Gretta since I figured she'd need it. After last night the Wolves weren't just hungry, they were ravenous. It surprised me that she had actually nodded and allowed me to help. I had been expecting at least one or two barbs. When I finished helping on her side of the kitchen, I took it upon myself to work on Dmitri's dinner. I still had a job to do after all.

The mark on my wrist reminded me of its presence with a dull, constant ache. I was grateful that my mind was my own again. I had attempted to feel the strange presence once again —summon it. But I knew not its name. Quiet mocked me when I tried and only exacerbated my suspicions of impending insanity.

I had concocted all kinds of theories as to why my body was behaving the way it was. I hypothesized that my Mother had perhaps left a bit of herself with me when she'd drawn the symbol. And that piece of her was triggered whenever I felt a particular emotion. While the thought was consoling, I wasn't at ease with that explanation. It was as though an old instinct was telling me otherwise. The visions of the three women —first in an oath of fealty and then in an oath of wrath and despair— what had caused the change? What had gone wrong? I remembered the woman sitting on the throne. I knew who she was. I didn't want to accept it, but I knew. That was my Mother. She was full of wrath then. Had she caused the divide?

The knife in my hand slipped on the onion and nearly sliced my finger. Staring at the knife in front of me but not quite seeing it, my eyes back in the plains of the vision, I questioned myself again. When did I accept the contents of the vision as truth? Why did it feel like a memory instead of a delusion? My hands shook as I realized that I was unwilling to disregard it as a mere dream. I felt like if I did, the presence sleeping in the quiet of my mind would snarl to life in a haze of rage. Could I face her if she did?

My dreams seemed to be the assigned medium for all these visions. From what I knew, my visions didn't lie. I'd been right about the fire. Whether or not I was right about the rest was left to be seen. As for the "entity", what she'd done with my body in the fire hadn't been a dream. Her power was real.

What did that mean for me as my Mother's daughter?

The questions seemed of so large a scape that I felt small against the canvas of my ignorance. I feared the answers to those questions. It felt as though the knowledge would alter the fabric of my existence and that I would cease to be. That this me I'd gotten to know over the past 19 years would disappear against what I would come to know. Considering that currently, this me was the only me I'd ever known, it was a scary thought indeed.