Page 39 of Depraved
“Better to hate someone else than to hate himself.” I step forward, moving away from the conversation toward the last task I need to complete this evening.
In the shifter ceremony, the pack always knocks down a pine tree. It’s a tradition that dates back to our early days living in the forest in a time when trees were more plentiful than people. The dead would often be umbrellaed by tree branches back then, stuck in the shadows. The pack used to knock down a tree in order to clear a path for the moonbeams to carry departed souls up to the moon goddess in the sky.
We continue that tradition to this day.
Placing my hands on the rough bark, I enjoy the way it bites into my skin. I like the way it pushes back and the fact that I’m going to get to shove violently against it and unleash some of my strength, some of this negative pent-up energy that’s been building inside me since the bomb. I’ve had to maintain control, be logical since then. This is the first time I’ve been able to take out my rage. I inhale deeply in anticipation.
Seven other alphas crowd around me, some of them crouching low by my waist to get their hands on the tree trunk, some of them reaching up near my shoulders. We huddle together so close we can taste one another’s exhales.
Once everyone is in position, they wait for me to give the signal.
I say the words recited by my grandfather and his grandfather before him, “May the moonbeams carry you to bliss.”
All around me, other alphas take up the chant. Then behind us, the crowd says the same.
I shove against the trunk, straining. My body becomes a diagonal plank as I push with everything I’ve got, and the tree tries to resist our power.
Even though this tree is symbolic andwasn’t planted in this field originally, we always have the trunk buried seven feet down for a funeral so that the struggle is real, so that the effort is real. Our dead deserve that much.
My heart starts to pound as I push and release, then push and release again, trying to create some momentum and make the tree rock a bit so that it will loosen the dirt around it. The other alphas do the same beside me, quickly picking up on a rhythm so that we’re all pushing and releasing at the same time. We work in tandem, and the dirt beneath our feet begins to shift. The needles above our heads begin to waver. The pointed tip of the eighty-foot pine starts to sway.
Behind us, the pack members who have gathered to mourn start chanting louder, encouraging us and encouraging the souls of the departed who are about to take their first steps into the great beyond. A few people must have shifted because howls join the cacophony of sound.
With another massive shove, I hear wood start to splinter and snap. Fuck yes. I shove my shoulder into the wood, relishing the way the rough bark scratches at my skin as I try to keep up the momentum. Alphas shift into their monster forms all around me, and I follow suit. Our muscles stretch and realign as we push and, with the magical strength added, the tree trunk starts to crack.
“Timber!” Someone behind us yells out.
I quickly turn, shift into full wolf form, and bolt away while the giant tree cants sideways, and its needles clash together with a sound that resembles a waterfall. It wavers and then collapses against the earth with a thud that makes the ground quake and echoes through my bones.
I shift back into my human form when I reach the crowd. Unabashed about my nudity, I turn around and watch the moon bleach the side of the fallen tree, the goddess creating a crystal-clear beam that rises right through the sky for our pack mates to climb.
I hope they run through the stars for all eternity.
All around us, gasps and sobs rise up, and sorrow sucks all the oxygen from the air.
My eyes prick, and my throat tightens but not because I’m sad.
I’m angry.
We shouldn’t be here tonight. No one’s soul should have to climb that moonbeam.
My wolf growls inside my head, pacing out from my mind to where I can see him projected on the landscape. His avatar stands on the base of the giant fallen tree, his white fur gleaming. His fury only bolsters my own until my blood is surging beneath my skin.
Suddenly, his head jerks to the side, and he gazes into the crowd. His shoulders tighten, and his growl intensifies as he stares at something I can’t see.
Call it wolf’s intuition, but something’s wrong.
Instinctively, I turn and tear across the grass in my bare feet, ignoring the scratch the tiny little green strands make on my skin as I let my mouth and nose transform into a muzzle so that I can better scent danger.
Immediately, I can smell something. Something that wasn’t there before the ceremony. Like a tiny penny gleaming in the parking lot, I pick up on a faint scent that stands out from the rest. There’s a metallic, coppery feel to it.
Blood.
My monster bursts from my skin, and I snarl to get the crowd to part for me. I tromp past clumps of visiting wolves and huddled families until I get to the caskets of the ten lost Lobos. Solemn black blocks, the caskets are lined up like dominoes that have been knocked over.
One of the caskets has a smudge, a handprint. I scrabble at the side, scratching the smooth surface as my claws clumsily undo the latch. I yank up the lid, ignoring the gasp that goes up behind me.
Immediately, I know exactly why we had a closed casket service. The body inside is so mangled that I can’t even tell which shifter it once was.
