Page 22 of Rejected Exile

"That?"

"If Delilah ever comes back to town," her name was the ashes of hope in my mouth, "I'll do whatever it takes to run her out."

"Good boy."

I made a promise, and I meant it. Though I'm not sure that I have the strength to keep it. Turning her away the first time broke me so much that I've been a shell of myself ever since.

If she comes back to Glass Pack Territory, it'll undo everything I've done. That mistake I made seven years ago, the biggest one of my life, will be for nothing. Every heartache since, every blackened piece of me—all of it won't matter if Delilah sticks around.

So I'll do what I have to keep her away.

Even if it kills me.

Eight

Delilah

If there was one thing my father was bad at, it was organization. Cleaning out his bedroom proves this. Once I'm done with the wretched witch shit—and all dead things have been put in a trash bag and driven to the edge of town to be dumped far from the house—I have to go through all the less pressing stuff. Which includes the dirty laundry, empty bottles, piles of recycling, and of course, the unsorted mail.

Bills, bills, and more bills.

That's what my father piled up on his nightstand and left in the cupboard of his bathroom medicine cabinet. I find a water bill in the freezer, and a bunch of overdue gas bills wedged in the bookshelf.

Really, it's a miracle his utilities weren't shut off. Niall probably made sure of that. He may not have been able to pay them for my father, but clearly he got some deal that kept the lights on and the water running.

Once I have all the bills gathered, I spread them out on the dining room table and write checks for them. It hurts a little as I total up the amount and make sure I've got enough in checking to cover it all, but some things have to be done. Hopefully, once I've got the house in semi-working order I'll be able to sell it for a tidy sum that'll pay for the trip here, the time off work, and all the unpaid bills.

I definitely know by now that I won't be seeing a single cent of inheritance. Whatever money my father had, the last seven years has sucked him dry.

Because all the bills are overdue, I decide to post the checks at public works instead of mailing them off. The building is right next to the records office where I need to go to get the deed for the house. Once the checks are dropped off—after an arduous wait in a long, long line—I pop over to the building next door to pick up the deed.

The buying of selling of land in pack territories is strictly regulated. After a few too many human investors tried to snatch our land away and sell it back to us at inflated prices, we put an end to that. Now any house or land that's sold in pack territory or even passed on to family members has to go through a bit of bureaucracy to change hands.

Thankfully I fit the requirements to inherit pack land, even though I don't have the wolf. I still have the runic tattoo on the inside of my right forearm that marks me as a born member of the Glass Pack. The lines are faded, and more than once I've contemplated getting it removed, but the pain and money always stopped me.

Besides, I'll always be a born member of the pack, exile or no. They can kick me out and refuse to let me back in, but they can't change that. I refuse to let the truth of my birthright be stripped from me the way all safety and dignity was.

The woman on the other side of the counter spends a long time staring at the tattoo. She then takes my fingerprints, runs a quick background check, and makes me produce two forms of ID. It takes an hour of waiting in the lobby of her office before she calls my name and hands over the deed.

Taking it, I stare at the white paper for a moment. It's crisp and thin at the edges, with a red seal of authentication. The woman slides a thick envelope over to me, "for safekeeping," and considers her work with me done.

I can't believe that's it.

What was once my father's is now mine.

Something like grief rises inside me and chokes me. I have so many questions still. No one knows if he forgot to take me off his will, put me back on it after Queenie died, or worse—simply didn't bother because he didn't think he was going to die.

Sliding the deed into the thick envelope, I chase away the ghosts haunting me and head out into the parking lot. The sun is already shining brightly overhead, and my stomach is rumbling for lunch. Since I haven't had the chance to clean Dad's filthy old oven, I decide to eat out somewhere—preferably in a human-run establishment where I'm less likely to run into people who knew my father.

As I cross the parking lot, a shiny sleek black electric vehicle pulls into a spot. The license plate reads FINN20, and I find myself dawdling at my car with a smile tugging up the corners of my mouth. Of course the hot guy from the liquor store would have an expensive electric car and a personalized license plate.

Finn isn't the one who gets out of the driver's side, though. A white man with summer-tanned skin and bleached-blond hair gets out and pulls sunglasses over his eyes. I stare at him, something like recognition thrumming through me, but I can't quite place him. Maybe he's new to the pack, or maybe we never met as kids—though the latter seems unlikely, since I knew every werewolf kid my age from here to the mountain ranges.

The other door cracks open, and my eyes skip to it. Finn must be in the passenger side. He'll know the guy who drove the car, and be able to introduce me—maybe he can even help me place him. If the driver is someone who knew my father, I can invite him to the wake I'm tentatively planning, and use that as an excuse to talk to Finn again.

I head over, catching the driver's attention, and he frowns as he looks at me. Approaching the car, I step towards the passenger side, ready to call out a greeting. I see frayed blue jeans, worn leather boots—Finn must have come from some kind of outdoor event to be dressed more casually than he was yesterday.

It takes him forever to get out of the car. I start to feel self-conscious, aware of the way the driver is looking at me, fidgeting with my car keys.

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