My battle to preserve .
The older you become, the incrementally earlier you rise. Purple and golden dusk filled the vaults of heaven, a physical weight as I lay on my belly, flung across something soft and smelling of dry oily fur and musk. There was weight curled around me, heavy and warm. As if Amelie had crept into my bedroom again, but it could not be her. It was too big. Zhen, perhaps? But he was past the time of needing reassurance. Virginia? No, she prized her solitude. It had to be Peter. If he had finished a miniature, or broken something, he would want comfort.
I rolled, slowly, sliding my arm free. My fingers rasped against fur—no, hair. Shaggy hair, not Peter’s sleek silken curls.
The lykanthe lay half across me. His face was buried in my tangled hair. His throat was open, chin relaxed and tipped up. He was much heavier and bulkier than he looked, or he’d had a chance to eat. How long had the humans had him, torturing him in that dank hole?
The throat was inviting. And blood from another denizen of the twilight would strengthen me immeasurably.
His eyes opened, and he tensed. But he did not drop his chin. Finally, he spoke. It was the same halting slur as before. And he used only one word.
“Fr … Fr-friend. Friend .”
I swallowed. My throat was dry. It was not the Thirst. His kind was an enemy. A pack of lykanthe could destroy many of the Kin during a daylight hunt.
And yet, he had pulled the stake from my chest. What had it been? I had to know.
“The stake?” I whispered.
He thought this over. Finally, a light rose behind his silver-coin eyes. His pupils were still flaring and settling. How much damage had they caused him?
“Gun,” he finally said, and flowed away from me. The bed creaked. I blinked. My hair was wild, a mass of dark smoke-tarnished curls. I had cut my braid, it was buried in Amelie’s … grave, behind the charred hulk of my house.
My house no longer.
I pushed myself up on my elbows. The windows were dark, blankets taped over them.
It was a small efficiency apartment. There was a large white fridge. The lykanthe opened it and stuck his head in. He made a snuffling sound of delight. I sat up and looked at my hands.
I would need to hunt. Then I would track them.
“What is your name?” I did not know why I asked. A lykanthe’s name would mean less than nothing to me.
And yet.
He stiffened. “Don’t. Know.”
“You need more food. And rest. I must hunt.”
He slammed the fridge door. A ripple ran through him. “Hunt. Good.”
I muttered a word that had been ancient—and obscene—when Augustus was but a child. “No. Not you. You eat human food.”
His chest swelled. He’d found a pair of jeans somewhere, thank the gods, but the fabric strained as he bulked, the change running through him like liquid.
“No,” I said, sharply, just the tone I would take with a new, inexperienced fledgling.
The growl halted. He dropped his shoulders, expressing submission with a single graceful movement.
What was I to do now? We studied each other, lykanthe and Preserver, and I felt the weight of responsibility settle on me. And the hateful machine inside my head decided he could be useful.
“You can track.” I slid my legs off the bed. The boots were sorely the worse for wear, and my dress was merely rags. “You can track them .”
He nodded. His pupils settled, cat-slit now. Which was a very good sign. Lykanthe are pack animals, and they need to know their place in the hierarchy.
What would happen when he remembered what he was?
I decided I would answer that question when it arose. For now, he was watching me carefully. And I might well need his help, since they had some infernal invention that could hurl a stake through my chest. I was grateful it had not been hawthorn: the allergic reaction might well have sent me to join my charges before vengeance was complete.