Page 31 of Ravaged Wolf
Abertha hollered for boiling water and a cup, and after she scrubbed my face clean with a handkerchief that smelled like weed and patchouli, she pressed a pill into my palm and brewed me a pot of chamomile tea. She told Momthat the pill was to calm my nerves. She told me I didn’t have to worry about anything but healing.
Every evening during those early days, Abertha came and sat beside me for hours. Someone found her a rocking chair, and she rocked, slowly, back and forth on the high heels of her black granny boots.
She told me all kinds of things—that Fate feels cruel because she’s tempering steel, that time heals all wounds, that she knew nothing she said would make anything better, but she’d keep talking just in case.
She said that my wolf wasn’t broken, she was scared, and she’d come when she’s ready. Abertha said everything happens in its own time.
Abertha talked for hours, day after day, rocking, her silver hair glowing in the moonlight that shone in through a high window, and she was right, nothing she said made anything better, but I didn’t feel alone.
I wish I understood how she was able to sit with me when everyone else bailed as soon as they politely could, how she had no problem looking me in the eye when no one else could, but the questions didn’t occur to me ’til years afterward, and I didn’t see much of her after I was discharged. She won’t enter the High Rise or the Tower. She says they stink of betrayal and avarice, and it messes with her sinuses.
Thinking of Abertha reminds me of the infirmary, and as I stride toward the lake, my steps take on purpose and direction.
I leave the tall buildings of downtown behind and follow the promenade along the water, passing the Academy to the left, and the statue of the Great Alpha Broderick Moore’s wolf, larger than life, gazing into the distance, with his foreleg raised as if he’s about to run off the pedestal.
Now the scavengers live in the dens he left to come here.We hear through the grapevine that rogue shifters from other packs are finding their way there, too.
Is Trevor there?
Where did they send him?
Did he go feral? I don’t think so. I’m sure I’d feel that even though I keep the bond muted. I figured out how to do that early on. I don’t think about it.
It’s weird—I don’t think about the bond, but I think about Trevor every day. I search color swatches on the internet and try to find the exact blue-gray shade of his eyes. I picture his smile, close my eyes, and trace my own lips so I don’t forget the shape. I take him out of a box in my brain and put him carefully back a dozen times a day.
But I never, ever talk about him.
Mom acts like he’s the kind of devil that shows up if you say his name three times. She always lowers her voice when she brings him up. Dad leaves the room if anyone even alludes to what happened.
I’m supposed to hate him. Fear him.
I’m afraid when I remember that night, and I hate what hedid, but I don’t hate him. I don’t even know him. I never got the chance.
The loss is a weight, but for once, it doesn’t sap all my energy. I stroll along the empty promenade and fill my lungs with the breeze coming off the lake. There is no one around. Everyone’s at work.
Before the brick walk turns to gravel, I veer off onto South Street. I don’t have a clear plan in mind. I follow my gut, and I’m sure it’s my imagination, but I feel a sensation like wind at my back, urging me onward. I pass Food Services and the off-site Facilities Maintenance compound.
My heart thumps faster as I get further from the water and closer to the woods. I know where I’m going—back to the scene of the crime. Not to the clearing where ithappened. I’m not nearly brave enough to go there, but the infirmary.
I spent enough time there five years ago. Shifters mend quickly, but as Abertha explained, my body had too much to do, dealing with the loss of a mate and the physical injuries. The worst was the bite Trevor took out of my shoulder. A human plastic surgeon had to assist our healer to reconstruct the muscle enough so my shifter healing could take over.
I try not to look at the scar, but sometimes, when I shower, I catch sight of it in the mirror, and I’m transfixed. It’s too jagged to be a mating mark, but it’s in the right place.
Did Trevor want to claim me or kill me? I can’t make up my mind. Did he even have conscious intent, as lost as he was in the rut?
I wish there was someone I could ask, but I’d sooner stick a poker in my eye than talk to Mom or Aunt Catrin about it.
My head is so busy that I arrive at the infirmary before I realize it. I don’t remember much from the night Trevor brought me here, just the pain and how desperate I was to get away from him and how heartbroken I was when he left me.
The infirmary is bigger in my memory. In reality, it’s a simple, one-story building with white siding and a concrete ramp leading to the front double doors. Next to the entrance, there is an enclosed bulletin board with a little slanted roof with a bunch of faded flyers posted.
FLEAS ARE EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.
Reminder: Report Workplace Injuries Promptly to Human Resources at x4567.
You’re a Shifter, Not a Superhero—Wear Your Safety Gear.
I pretend to read as I sweat bullets and breathe througha wave of delayed panic. What am I doing here? This is stupid. Unnecessary. I have work I need to do at home.
