The doctor cocks his head. “I highly doubt that’s true.”
“Koen’s a grown man. I- ” I blink, feeling a burst of anger. I cannot worry about Koen. I need to make sure that Misery and Ana are safe and taken care of, and . . . Does Dr. Henshaw not get it? “He can handle wanting to fuck someone and being told no,” I say, voice acid with worry and something that feels too much like regret. “If he can’t, that’s his problem.”
I walk out, pretending not to hear Dr. Henshaw tell me that if that’s the impression I’m under, either I was lied to, or I’m lying to myself.
Jerzy’s only question is, “Are you sure?”
He shakes his head, because no, of course he isn’t.
“I hope I’m wrong about her.”
“And if you aren’t?” Karolina asks.
It changes nothing.
Present day
IN THE AFTERNOON, I HOBBLE DOWNSTAIRS WEARING A THICK sweater and rolled- up sweats that belong to someone much more vertically gifted than me. My headache pounds through the roof of my mouth. I feel thoroughly banged up. Whether it’s from playing hide-and-seek with Bob the Vamp, from sleeping in a bed of ceramic, or from the simple curse of living in my unpredictable sack of meat, I have no clue.
Look at me. Spoiled for choice.
“What is your preferred morning upper?” Amanda asks with a wide smile when I find the kitchen after some wandering. “Coffee? Tea? Methamphetamine?”
I lift my eyebrows. “Is that a common breakfast option in Were B and Bs?”
“I could synthesize some real quick.”
She’s joking, I think. Not sure. Faced with proof of the existence of stuff like biologically mandated mates, and hybrids, and the legality of child beauty pageants, it’s hard to discount . . . anything. I’m a single internet rabbit hole away from becoming a Hollow Earther. “I’m good, thanks. Trying to avoid stimulants.
Where did Koen go?” I woke up deeply aware that he wasn’t around- not in the house, not roaming the woods outside, not anywhere nearby. I’d say GPS tracking is a Were superpower, but mine doesn’t extend to anyone but him.
“Off having a chat with a few of the huddle leaders.”
“Aren’t you a huddle leader?”
“Me? Oh, because I’m a second? Nope. But that’s how it works in Lowe’s pack, right?”
“I think so, yeah.” I take a seat and hug my legs to my chest. The temperature is chilly, though one wouldn’t be able to guess from Amanda’s shorts and tank top. Clearly one of us is a real Were. World’s easiest find the intruder. “How do you guys do things?” I ask, then rush to add, “If you’re allowed to tell me.”
“Of course I am. You’re one of us.” She reaches across the table, briefly covering my hand with hers. Her flesh against mine feels so intensely wrong, it’s all I can do not to free myself in repulsion- a totally appropriate reaction to a kind gesture. I’ve never been particularly physical, but this hormonal stuff is making me as avoidant as Misery. “Our pack is divided into geography-based huddles, just like the Southwest. But being a huddle leader doesn’t translate to becoming one of Koen’s seconds.”
“Then, are the seconds elected separately?”
“Elected. Ha.” She slaps the table. “We’re seconds because Koen wants us to be, period. We do things a bit differently here. Less democracy, and more . . . despotism?” Her grin is unapologetic. “The Northwest is made up of five peripheral huddles and a core. The five huddle leaders make up the Assembly, which is a council of sorts. They bring their territories’ needs to the Alpha, advise him. Keep him in check. That kind of stuff.”
“If you have the assembly, why do you still put up with an Alpha?”
She chuckles. “We’re not Human, Serena. We are biologically hardwired to coalesce around a worthy figure.” She tilts her head at me. “You’re a Were. Not a full one, maybe, but you feel it, too, don’t you? The importance Koen has as a symbol. Unity. Strength. Safety. I guess it’s like faith, in a way, but also not at all, and . . .” She lets out a small laugh. “I don’t know how to explain it, but you understand, right?” I don’t know if I do. Not the way she’d like me to, at least. I nod anyway, and she seems pleased. “Koen will be back soon. He just needed to discuss a . . . situation.”
I bury my hands inside my sleeves. “Am
I the situation?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” Heat creeps up my cheeks. “I promise I don’t go about my life believing that I’m the center of the universe.”
“You kinda are, at the moment. Honestly, if I were kidnapped and man-hunted at the rate you are, I’d assume, too. But this is something else- hopefully nothing to worry about.”
Like the vast majority of Humans, I grew up suspecting that if I ever met a Were, I’d be skewered into a kebab before I could politely inquire about their customs and traditions. Most information publicly available on them was speculation, often contradictory, always incomplete. I get it, Weres not wanting other species to know their business- sworn enemies and all that. Still, it was very inconvenient for me. When I realized that I was one of them, their secrecy made it impossible to predict what their reaction to a hybrid would be, and that’s what prevented me from reaching out and asking for help. But even in my hardest days, when my body clawed at me with needs that I couldn’t decipher and I contemplated walking into a pack’s territory, waving a white flag, and letting the chips fall where they may, I never, not once, considered approaching the Northwest.
Out of all the packs on the North American continent, they are the least conflict prone, mostly because their territory doesn’t abut the Vampyres’. They are, however, surrounded by various Human settlements, and while they don’t exactly cohost monthly block parties, I could find no indication that their borders have historically been as contentious as the ones between the Southwest and the Humans. The Northwest pack has perfected the art of, as Koen would put it, minding their goddamn business.
And yet any mention of them induces brick-shitting. In Humans, and in their own kind.
It’s the zero strike policy, Alex told me while I was staying at Misery’s. She and Lowe would frequently disappear to do newlywed things that, in my humble experience, should have taken no longer than fifteen minutes. Alex noticed me listlessly wandering around the garden and graciously took me under his wing for a couple of remedial history lessons.
They don’t tolerate any invasion.
Isn’t that true of every pack?
Most packs will kill the intruders and call it a day. They won’t line their perimeters with vertically impaled corpses.
A long pause.
Impaled on . . . ?
Oh, you know. Just your regular, um, stakes?
Why would they do that?
To remind their neighbors of the exact location of their borders. He looked as nauseous as I felt.
You have to admit, Koen’s logic is solid.
I don’t think I have to, actually.
Anyway, they’re equal opportunity haters. They’ve done this with Humans, but also with the Canada and Midwest packs. So no one messes with them anymore.
So nice, to discover that the dude who’d told me I was his mate was impalement happy.
Koen and Lowe are allies, though, I said. To soothe myself.
Yup. The North- and Southwest were never enemies, but they became close allies because Koen’s aunt was the mate of Roscoe, our former Alpha. When Lowe turned twelve and started feeling a bit too Alpha for Roscoe, Roscoe sent him to the Northwest. An exile- in- everything-but-name type of deal.
And Koen took him in?
Yeah. Basically raised him. Rumor has it that Koen didn’t want to play nanny, but it was obvious that Lowe would one day be Alpha, and he couldn’t let him become too fucked up. Alex laughed, but I wasn’t so certain that Koen had been joking.
They’re different, though, I mused.
Lowe is much more about diplomacy, and less about . . . impalement.
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