The White Wolf's Vengeance

I parked by the fence of the disciplinary camp and turned off the engine. The gate sat on a track. A guard was in the booth with a radio. I had come to take my sister home. My name is Derrick Greenland. I am the Alpha's son. People call me the prince of the pack. None of that helps here. Here, I am only a man with a signature and a promise I made to my father. I stepped out and faced the gate. I told myself I would not think about the past. I failed. The past is always ready. Three years ago, our mother died. After a few months, Father married Amanda. He said the house needed a Luna and we needed help. Amanda had a daughter named Daisy. Daisy was younger than both me and my sister, Audrey. She was quiet in company and soft in voice. People often said she was gentle. People also said Audrey was wild. Those two ideas do not sit well in the same room. I tried to make them sit anyway. At first, I believed I was fair. When the girls argued, I listened to both of them. When they cried, I tried to calm both of them. But slowly I started to think Audrey had a temper and Daisy did not. It was easy to live with that story. It kept the house peaceful. Then came the day at the stairs. I heard a cry and ran. The cry was thin and high. I rounded the corner. Daisy lay at the bottom of the staircase. One arm was under her body. The other arm covered her head. Her face was white. Audrey stood at the top of the stairs with both hands on the rail. She was still and pale. “Audrey," I said. I did not know if it was a warning or a plea. Father came up behind me and filled the hall with his steps. Amanda came too. Daisy tried to move and winced. “Don't move," I said. I knelt and looked for blood or a wrong angle. I did not see either, but I am not a doctor. “Did she push you?" Father asked. His voice was hard. Daisy's lips shook. “I tripped," she whispered. “I'm sorry." Audrey took one careful step down. Her voice was steady. “She jumped." Father turned to Audrey. His hand rose and fell. The slap was fast. Audrey did not cry. She looked past him like she was finished speaking to us. Everything that came next felt simple at the time. We took Daisy to the hospital. The doctor said she had a non‑displaced fracture. A splint would hold. A cast would come next. Father said we should keep the house calm. He told me to make Audrey apologize. I agreed. I thought that was the way to stop the problem from growing. Audrey refused. She said she would not lie. She also said Daisy had fooled us for years. I did not want to hear that. I wanted the easy story to be true. When Audrey would not say the words Father asked for, we sent her to the disciplinary camp. I signed because I believed order would fix what I called her pride. I planned for three months away. It became three years. The guard at the gate looked up at my collar. “Release?" he asked. “Yes," I said. “Audrey Greenland." My voice sounded tired. He called someone and told me to wait. Time stretched. I stared at the seam where the two halves of the gate met. I tried not to picture the camp yard on the other side. I signed a clipboard and took a plastic bag with Audrey's things. A broken bracelet chain was inside. It had small blue and purple stones. It was our mother's. I had given it to Daisy once for a formal dinner so she would not feel out of place. Seeing the broken clasp now felt wrong. I closed my hand and waited for the gate to move. The gate opened a little, then more. A guard walked out with a folder. A girl walked behind him. She was thin. Her hair was hacked short. Her shirt was torn at the collar. Her jeans were ripped in a way that was not fashion. White lines crossed one forearm. She did not look left or right. She looked straight ahead. I had prepared for anger. I had prepared for tears. I had not prepared for this quiet. The guard handed me a pen. I signed the last line. He slid the bag across the counter. I took it and stepped forward. I tried to stand like Father stands when he wants a room to calm down. My shoulders did not feel like they fit that pose. “Audrey," I said. She stopped with the shadow of the gate across her boots. She looked at my face and then at the car. “We're going home," I said. She did not answer. I thought of the staircase again. I thought of the moment before the blame, when everything was still. Daisy on the floor. Audrey on the landing. My mind had sorted the scene into a simple shape. If I could pick up that moment and hold it now, I would look longer. I would ask more questions. I would not be so fast. The guard nodded at us as if ending a shift. I led the way to the car. Audrey followed. The wind at the fence was cold. The gravel was rough. Ordinary things felt large. At the car, I opened the back door. “Get in," I said. She looked at me. “Please," she said. The word caught me off guard. I am used to giving orders. I am not used to being asked to mind my tone with my sister. I tried again. “Please get in," I said. She stepped into the car and sat. She did not slam the door. She closed it with care. I stood for a second with my hand empty in the air, then I walked around and got in the driver's seat. We drove through the small town near the camp. I kept my eyes on the road. I wanted to fill the car with words. I wanted to explain why I had signed the papers. I wanted to say I had believed it would help her. I knew those words would sound weak now. “Audrey," I said at last. She looked out the window. “These three years," I said, “they should not have been so long. I thought three months would be enough. I thought rules would help. I was wrong." The last sentence tasted like metal. I had never said it to her before. She did not speak. “I am here to bring you home," I said. “I will speak to Father. We can make a plan so you can live in the house without trouble. We can make a fresh start." “Your plan," she said, still looking at the window, “depends on me saying things that make the house quiet." “It depends on all of us trying," I said. “No more scenes. No more fights. You and Daisy can leave the past alone." “She is younger," Audrey said. “You will say I should be the example." “Yes," I said without thinking. “You should." She turned her head then. Her eyes were clear. “You always say that." I did not answer. There was nothing good to add. I put on the turn signal and pulled onto the highway. We passed a sign for the river. We passed a gas station. I wanted to know what had happened to her in the camp, but I also feared the answer. She had new scars. Her voice had a new edge. She looked like someone who had learned to move without asking anyone for room. “The doctor that night said Daisy's leg would heal," I said, reaching back to a place I knew. “He said six weeks in a cast." “And you were relieved," Audrey said. “Yes," I said. “I was." “Because a plan was in place," she said. “Not because the plan was right." I gripped the wheel. “I can't change the past," I said. “I can only work on what happens now." She sat silent for a while. The tires hummed. The sky was pale. The world felt simple and not simple at the same time. At last she said, “I will go home. I will follow the house rules. I will not start fights." Relief rose in me. “Good," I said. “But I will not apologize for a lie," she added. The relief fell away. “Audrey—" “I said what I will do," she said. “I will not be pushed beyond that." We drove in silence until the next exit. I told myself not to argue. I told myself to be patient. If I could get her home, I could speak to Father in private and try to make a path through this. At a red light, I glanced at her. She had closed her eyes, but she was not asleep. Her hands were on her knees. The knuckles were scraped. The nails were short. She looked smaller than I remembered and somehow also stronger. When the light changed, we moved on. I thought again about the stairs. I thought about the way I had chosen the easy story. I had never asked Audrey what she saw in that moment. I had only asked her to say the words that would keep us from arguing in public. I had believed that was leadership. Now I was not so sure. I tried to speak and stopped. I tried again. “I should have listened better," I said. She did not open her eyes. “Yes," she said. That was all. It hurt more than a long speech would have. The camp fell behind us. The road opened. Home was an hour away. I kept both hands on the wheel and tried to imagine a different way of being a brother. I did not get far. But I kept trying. That was new. We did not talk again before we reached the city limits. We did not need to. The next part would be hard whether we spoke or not. Father would want apologies. Daisy would want a scene she could win. The pack would watch. I would be measured by what I did, not what I said. Audrey would be measured by everything. I parked in front of our house and shut off the engine. I did not move for a moment. Then I said the only thing that felt honest. “I will try to listen," I said. She looked at me. “Then say it plain," she said. “I was wrong," I said. “I should have listened to you on the day at the stairs." She opened the door and got out. She did not smile. She did not forgive me. She only waited for me to walk with her to the front steps. It was enough for now.