Page 49 of Ravaged Wolf
He is so beautiful, even in despair.
My wolf doesn’t know what to do. She whines. His wolf inches over so he’s pressed against her side. She leans on him. They stand together and watch Trevor stare blankly at the moon as he twirls a partridge feather in his fingers.
11
IZZY
“So is today the day?”Nia asks as she sails into the apothecary at noon in her Cookie Monster pajama bottoms with a cup of coffee.
I shrug. “Are you still in your pajamas?”
She blinks down at herself, feigning surprise. “Well, shit. Sure am. You know what they say—it’s three a.m. somewhere.”
We grin at each other. We kind of have a thing going where we bust each other’s chops.
I shouldn’t be surprised by the pajamas. Time is weird at Old Den. There are no standard working hours or meal times, per se. Things seem to happen when people get around to them, and honestly, everything seems scheduled around pots of tea. I’ve been here for five days, and it feels like I’ve heard “let’s do that after a pot of tea” or “let’s get this done so we can have a pot of tea” a hundred times.
Lucky for me, Rosie keeps fairly normal hours, and she’s the one who’s working with me. She says she was Abertha’s apprentice back at Moon Lake, and I’m sure that’s true—she knows the names of things and what they’re for—but that’s pretty much all she knows. I had to throw out a trashcan fullof milk thistle and St. John’s Wort that was so old it wasn’t good for anything but kindling.
I’m actually feeling pretty useful, which I didn’t expect. The nurse from Moon Lake is assigned to their infirmary, one of the newly constructed cabins in the nearby woods, but I’m working in the Old Den itself, in an alcove under the skylight that’s been set up as part indoor greenhouse, part apothecary.
Folks dip in and out of the nearby pool all day, in fur and skin, so there is always a background hum of laughter, yips, and splashes. It’s nice, the opposite of Moon Lake’s stiff silences that make you feel like you’re walking on eggshells, or another shoe is about to drop.
It'd be downright peaceful except for Rosie and Nia going on about “Operation Soda Pop.” They have a plan, and it’s a simple one. I take Trevor a drink while he’s at work. The problem is that’s as far as their plan goes. Nia and Rosie aren’t worried about what I say to him, or what happens next, or how I summon up the courage. They’re focused on logistics.
They have Rosie’s nephew Danny reporting on Trevor’s movements, which has actually reduced a lot of stress. I’m not going to run into him by accident again. I’ve only seen him at a distance at meals. He grabs his plate, checks on Granddad Cameron, and bails. Nia says Trevor built a platform in the woods that he’s pitched a tent on with the intention of building a cottage. He’s settling in here. He’s accepted.
Yet again, I find myself jealous. I really like it here. No one barks at anyone. No one ever bends neck, except sarcastically. Or playfully. Last night at dinner, for example, the blonde female from the pool, named Enid, stood, stretched her arms overhead, yawned, and cocked an eyebrow at her mate, Derwyn. Derwyn immediately bared his neck to herand crammed the rest of an enormous turkey drumstick into his mouth as he leapt from the table and trotted after her.
I was jealous of that, too. How quickly he came. How easy it was.
I’ve started counting down the days I have left, and when I think about it, a resentful ball forms in my stomach. Trevor is building his own cottage in the woods. I get sixteen more days until it’s back to a windowless bedroom in my parent’s apartment. I never dreamt of a cottage in the woods before, but now, for some reason, it sounds like the best thing ever, and I’m pissed as hell that he gets one, and I don’t.
I know it doesn’t make sense. I can’t figure out how I feel, and last night’s dream isn’t helping. I can’t remember it clearly, only feathers flying, and I woke up with my heart pounding and wet cheeks. Thankfully, the other females in the dorm were dead to the world.
Today should not be the day. There are no auspicious signs. It’s not even a Tuesday.
But.
It could be the day. I could make it the day.
My heart beats a little quicker. My hands tremble and dirt scatters as I knock the fenugreek I’m repotting against its container. “I don’t know where he is,” I say.
Nia practically squeals. “Danny!” she hollers. “Report!”
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t do what he’s told.
“Stay here,” Nia says, “I’ll find him and get a pop and be right back!” She hollers the last part over her shoulder as she races toward the part of the cavern where the young males watch television on overturned buckets.
I straighten my fingers to stop their shaking and focus on the fenugreek. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. What’s the worst that could happen? He sees me, barfs, and runs away?
Or tells me I should leave. That he can’t bear the sight of me.
Or I see him, it all comes rushing back, and I collapse into a weeping, mewling mess?
No. I already saw him. I freaked for a second, but I was okay. I can do this.
After giving the dirt around the fenugreek a few final pats and watering it, I wash my hands in the utility sink. I catch sight of myself in the shard of mirror propped on a nearby shelf. My eyes are so buggy, I look like a possum caught in headlights. My ponytail is neat, though, and there’s no dirt on my face or my sky-blue collared shirt.
