Groaning, I faceawayfrom his presence, desperately praying that this pain will fade the further I get from him and the more time passes.
If it doesn’t…
That’s a road I’ll cross alone when I come to it. Better not to let Gran worry.
So I gather what little remaining strength I have left, re-braid my damp and dirty hair, and pick my way through the forest toward the fringes of Pack Jade land.
We’re deep in uncharted territory, far from highways and interstates, in land seldom marked on human maps, if anyone is able to remember it exists. Technically, Pack Jade lands are supposedly an old chemical waste dumping ground, right next toa landfill. Reality is far different, but the magic that keeps us safe also keeps us from being noticed.
That means that I have to pick my way through unbeaten paths meant more for a wolf shifter’s paws than my human feet. Worse, the shoes I wore are already falling apart, and my sundress does nothing to keep me from shivering in the damp.
It would be easier to just give up. But some part of me wants to keep going, to go… somewhere. I’ve never even been to the fringes of our pack’s land, but I know people live there. Maybe I can find a place to crash while I figure out something else.
It’s that vague hope—and the fact that I can’t turn around and risk seeing Gran’s pitying face, or worse, Kieran—that keeps me going long after the blisters on my heels open up and my teeth start to chatter from the damp.
At some point, a few hours in, the rising sun shows me a distant road that looks promising. So I set off down it, focusing on the ache in my chest to orient myself, goingawayfrom the pain of the broken bond.
I’ve barely walked a few feet down the road when my left shoe falls apart. I stumble, fall to my hands and knees, and re-open the scabs on my palms. Crying out, I force myself up and hobble further down the road, only to stab my right big toe on a giant rusty nail.
Just when I’m trying to figure out if my slow-ass shifter healing will protect me from tetanus or not, I hear a car engine behind me. Turning, I take stock of an old red Ford truck, shiny and well-kept, with the driver’s arm resting on the open driver side window.
The truck pulls to a stop in front of me, and the driver—a woman with dark hair and an even, well-maintained tan—pushes her sunglasses down and frowns in my direction.
“Are you oh—wait.” She pauses, her olive-green eyes taking me in from head to toe. I can only imagine my current state: wet,dirty, bleeding, and limping, in nothing but impractical shoes and a once-beautiful yellow sundress with little blue flowers on it. “Is that… Aurora Blackburn?Seriously?”
Blinking, I hold my hand up to block the sun from my eyes and realize with a start who it is. “Dana LaFontaine?”
I hadn’t seen Dana in so many years that I’d just assumed she’d left the pack. Now she’s right here in front of me, driving a truck loaded full of what appear to be antiques—and staring at me like she’s seen a ghost.
“You look like you’ve been through some shit.” Parking her truck, she gets out, grabbing something from the passenger seat then approaching me. “Damn, girl, the last time I saw you we were both eight years old and knee-deep in mud out by that creek Alpha Cade said to never go to. Didn’t Grandma Carrie try to convince us it’d been cursed by witches? But we never believed her.”
“Waylaid Creek. Thanks.” The thing she grabbed was a towel, and as she hands it to me I nearly moan in appreciation of its warmth against my skin. “She told us that if we played in it…”
I trail off, wincing at the memory.
“We’d never find our mates.” Dana rolls her eyes, apparently behind enough on pack news that she has no idea what just happened to me. “She was always so dramatic. As if some old witch’s curse would make our fated mates reject us.”
Pain radiates from my breastbone with a newfound sharpness, as if the bond itself responds to my thoughts and emotions. Which will make the next however many years I live very interesting, I’m sure.
Dana seems to realize too late that she’s touched a raw nerve. Grimacing, she puts her arms on my shoulders and rubs them with the towel to dry me off. “Sorry, I… was getting wrapped up in the memories. I should’ve asked what happened to you. Hell—first, I better get you dry, warm, and full of good food. I have acabin out near the fringes now, not far from that old coven. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine, and you’re welcome to my guest room. Unless you have somewhere better to be?”
Looking at Dana, all I feel is an immense sense of relief to finally be with someone who doesn’t see a broken, wolfless little girl when they look at me.
“That would be perfect.”
That guest room is now my bedroom. Gran’s quilts adorn the bed, and she gets out here as often as she can, usually when one of her neighbors takes her this way since her eyes aren’t good enough to drive at night. Sometimes Dana picks her up, since my motorcycle isn’t exactly Gran-friendly.
It’s the best way I can spend time with her now that going to her house means reopening the wound in my chest where the bond is, a void like a missing limb I never got to use.
The “cabin” Dana talked about is more of a modest house, albeit one with an alarming amount of cedar wood paneling. Her parents had it built as their getaway spot, and after they both died in a freak car accident, Dana inherited it. She came back out here to fix it up and sell it, but stayed, never returning to her new home in Pack Amethyst.
It turns out that when her parents took her away, they were running from Alpha Cade and the elders. Dana’s never quite said why, and even Gran is a bit vague on the history, but I get the sense that it’s the reason she never really returned to the center of town or came to any pack meetings. Technically, on paper and according to the pack bonds, she’s still one of us—just barely.
Kind of like me.
With the warm memory of being found by Dana still thrumming in my thoughts, I take a quick shower and get ready for the day. I pick an outfit that’ll be cool, since the mid-summer sun warms even the Pacific Northwest, especially these days. With a well-fitted black tank and a pair of slim, water-resistant athletic pants picked out, I braid my long ash blonde hair back and stride over to the full-length mirrored cabinet that doubles as a jewelry rack, and in my case, a bit of a weapons rack as well.
Opening the mirrored door, I select a few of my favorite cold iron rings and slide them onto my left pinky, middle, and index fingers. I put more on my right thumb and ring finger. Then I grab both a long, loose cross necklace, and a tight, so-thin-it’s-almost-invisible iron choker. Finally, I pick out a slim iron dagger in a small sheath, draw it to double check its edge, and secure it at the base of my braid.
