Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
I switch the pestle to my other hand and go back to grinding. As the humans say, it’s a lot to process. “So what does this have to do with ‘it’s all come to pass,’ then?”
“Well, despite the fuck-ups of my youth, Iam a witch of uncommon power and foresight. And—as it turns out—patience. When that poor, unnaturally conceived boy was born, I asked Fate to reveal his mate to me in a vision.”
“It’s me.”
“Imagine my surprise.”
“You didn’t pick me to be your apprentice because I’m magical.”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on now, Rosie. We both know you couldn’t magic your way out of a paper bag.”
“Am I your revenge?”
For the first time since her story began, her lips soften into a genuine smile. “I’ve been training you as an herbalist, not as an assassin.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What’s the second rule of magic?”
“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” The rules of magic were the first lessons Abertha taught me after which mushrooms are poisonous and which are fun.
Abertha nods, and her expression becomes grim again. “The day Broderick Moore led the pack out of the foothills, he screwed with nature. Shifters in cars. Wearing suits. Sitting behind desks, clickety-clacking all day, sleeping at night. Packmates alienated from each other, the poor huddled on rafts in the water to avoid the evil that roams the woods, ignored by the lucky ones safe in their high towers.”
Her eyes gleam like the inside of an oyster shell. She leans forward, and Apollonia bounds down to the floor.
“Mate bonds perverted,” she goes on. “Magic working counter to nature.” She skewers me with her gaze. “Cadoc Collins shouldn’t exist.”
“Is that why his wolf is—weird?”
“His wolf—” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what it is, but it shouldn’t be.”
The words send a chill straight through me. I don’t like what she’s saying. Maybe it’s true, but the wolf’s as alive as any living thing I’ve seen.
“It’s all wrong, and it must be put to rights.”
“I’m not going to assassinate the alpha heir,” I cut her off before she can even ask.
Her jaw drops, her eyes bulge, and she busts out laughing. “Oh. Oh, no. I can see how you’d think that but no. That’s not what I’m saying.” A tear leaks down her cheek.
I didn’t think it was that far of a leap. I frown and grind harder.
“Sweet Rosie.” She swipes her nose and pulls herself together. “I’ve trained you to do exactly what you need to do to put things right. The future of this pack is on your shoulders now.”
I don’t understand her at all. “You taught me how to garden and forage.”
“I taught you how to be true to what you are. How to be a real shifter, value what’s really important. And some odds and ends about medicinal plants. It’s all you’ll need.”
“You’ve seen my future?”
“More or less.'” Abertha slaps the table and stands. “Well, enough story time. I owe you a trade, don’t I.”
She shuffles to the fireplace, reaches up to the roughhewn plank of wood that serves as a mantel, and takes down a blue tin. I swear, it wasn’t there until her fingers touched it.
The buttons.
She plonks the tin on the table. I snatch it up, shake it to make sure it’s full, and shove it straight into my backpack.
“I hope what you’re looking for is in there,” Abertha says. The words are a blessing and a lie—we both know that what I’m looking for can’t be found.
And we both know the powerful hold of the things we’ve lost.
* * *
By the time I finish with the dragon’s tongue, it’s almost midnight, and Abertha’s gone. She told me not to do anything she wouldn’t do and drove off toward Quarry Pack territory.
I’m hot and sweaty again. Another wave of heat hit me when I corked the last vial, and it hasn’t receded. A sense of impending doom hangs over me. Abertha’s story didn’t make me feel better. It made me feel like the foundation of everything is even more rickety than I thought it was.
If she’s betting on me somehow changing the course of Moon Lake’s future, she’s got the wrong female. I’m not being humble or unwilling or cowardly—it’s just facts. I’m not a legendary wolf.
Well, except for maybe Big Bertha inside me, but she doesn’t have the temperament of a badass. She’s a lot like Apollonia lounging half-in and half-out of an empty box, lazily swatting at dust balls between naps. That’s not a criticism. I love her how she is, but she’s not about ruling the world.
I lock up the shack, and my intention is to drag my ass home and take a cold bath, but it’s so cool outside—and I’m so out of sorts—I collapse in the rocker on the front porch.
How much longer am I going to be able to hold out?
A few hours ago, after I finished my tea, the cramps started. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since. There’s no way I could keep anything down.
I keep waiting for the discomfort to ease like before, but this time, it only gets worse. I’m slick with sweat, and everything is prickly and sensitive—my skin, my nipples, my clit.
My hair is matted to the back of my neck, the elastic legs of my panties are chafing, and I want to dunk myself in the lake, but I don’t have the energy to haul myself out of this chair.
Derwyn’s skulking out in the woods, downwind so at least I can’t smell him, but he’s playing some game on his phone with the sound up. I want to beat him with the noise he’s making.
At some point, he talks to someone. He says, “She’s not going anywhere. She doesn’t look too good. I think it’s time, man.”
What am I supposed to do?
Be true to myself? What the hell does that mean?
Value what’s really important? Right now, I’d kill for an ice bath or a cast iron frying pan to knock myself the fuck out. Important is relative as hell.
I rock, and the old wood creaks, both the chair and the floorboards. There’s a sliver of a crescent moon tonight, high and far away. The dark woods crack and rustle.
I’m scared—of the unknown. The future. I’m afraid of what I’ll do when my body takes over. The shame that’ll come after. I’m terrified that Abertha, the wisest woman in the five packs, seems to be betting that I’m going to swoop in and save the day, and she’s wrong—big wrong.
I rock and sweat, my brain growing fuzzier and fuzzier, as a fierce wind rises, whipping down from the foothills.
I am so scared and alone.
And then my nose catches the scent of cedar and smoke, and Cadoc strides up the narrow path that winds up from the lake. He’s got company. Nia is with him. She’s hauling a big black trash bag.
They both stop when they see me. It’s dark, but I have my wolf’s night vision. I can see Cadoc’s pristine white sneakers, the jeans molded to his thighs, the gray pullover hoodie that looks worn but is probably as brand new as his shoes. As baggy as its cut, it’s tight across his shoulders. He looks like all the other nobs.
His face is grim and cold, but it isn’t blank. I recognize the expression now. I see his wolf in it. The solemn sentry.
My wolf rumbles in greeting.
Nia elbows Cadoc to come closer.
No. She can’t touch him. I bare my teeth and growl.
She snorts, but she hangs back, putting some space between them. “Easy girl. I’m not after your man. I ran into him on the path.” She holds up the bag. “I come bearing gifts.”
I stand and prowl closer. I don’t like another female here, but she’s Nia. I love her. My wolf growls in the back of my throat.
Nia raises her hands in the air. “If you shift and eat me, Rosie Kemble, I will carve my way out of your stomach like Jonah and the whale.”
“You should go,” Cadoc murmurs. He doesn’t spare Nia a glance, his eyes riveted on me. As they should be. My wolf settles down, placated.
Nia drops the bag at Cadoc’s feet and digs in the pocket of her big-and-tall man’s jacket. She pulls out a small cardboard box and slaps it against Cadoc’s chest, dancing off before my wolf can get her dander up again.
“When in heat, package your meat,” she sings and waves, already tripping back down the path. “Have fun, kids.”
For a minute, Cadoc and I stare at each other.