City of Wolves: Alphas on Motorcycles

5 | Secrets

Celeste

We manage to amble our way home, reeking of smoke and burying our faces in the collars of our jackets to try and muffle some of the racket from our coughing. We risk taking the elevator, luckily encountering no one, and slip back into our apartment in secret. It is possible that no one has noticed our absence and, selfishly, I hope that is the case. Even the clicking of the lock makes me anxious—someone with heightened hearing, hearing better than mine, could certainly identify the location of the click if they were awake to hear it. Taking off my jacket, I chew my lip so hard that I can taste blood.

"You were brave, Celeste. Real brave," Matthew takes me in his arms in the foyer, hugging me tight, telling me how proud of me he is. I should accept the compliments but it's as if he is talking to a child. His tone is unintentionally condescending. Still, I am unable to speak. My shock is presenting itself in the oddest, most inhibiting way. "You should hop in the shower. Purge the smell of smoke from you."

I nod numbly, still somewhat entranced, and make my way into the bedroom as Matthew returns to his perch on the balcony—I am reminded of historical images of Lycans looking over their elaborate ivory balconies, from their elaborate ivory towers, at the meaningless buzz of life that existed below them. The staunch difference between the ultra wealthy few and the struggling masses is apparent to both sides, but only one side seems to be bothered. How intriguing it is to watch Matthew, a member of the struggling masses alongside me, looking down at them and feeling something for them. Sympathy. Kinship. Fervor.

I grab a change of pajamas and sneak into the bathroom across the hall. There is ash in my hair and soot on my face. I feel like I am in a fever dream—hovering somewhere between my inward subconscious and outside reality. My scalp tingles as I brush through the knots while waiting for the water to heat up. When I lay back down in bed, will tonight have still actually happened? What will the morning bring?

When I'm done showering, whatever spell had been cast on me wears off. I brush my hair with a mind swarming with all sorts of confusing thoughts, a body that is vibrating with chills and not numbness, and a strange flare of distrust towards Matthew. When I put down the brush, water from the ends of my hair dripping onto the counter, I am hit with the sudden, unavoidable feeling of anger. I take deep breaths to calm myself. I must be there for a while, lost in the task of trying to gain control over my emotions, because Matthew knocks on the door at some point to ask me if I'm okay.

Taking a final deep breath, endeavoring to handle this maturely and coolly, I open the door. When Matthew meets my stare he immediately knows that something is wrong. I am glad it's obvious. I don't know why exactly I am feeling all of these competing, conflicting feeling towards him, but I am, and I know my intuition is trying to tell me something. There has been some sort of breach.

"What's wrong?" he asks, the question trembling from poorly hidden nerves.

"You're hiding something from me," I say simply, gathering my spent clothes, shouldering past Matthew to deposit them into the hamper in our closet. I sit on the edge of the bed. He keeps his distance, leaning against the doorframe as he appraises the situation confronting him now. "You're hiding something big from me."

"I hide a lot of things from you to keep you safe. That's a sacrifice I choose to make because I love you. You know that I keep secrets from you to protect you, and that's part of our agreement, so I don't understand why you are getting upset now," he licks his lips. "Help me understand this."

"This secret is different," my brain is firing a million different diatribes at me. "This secret is something you shouldn't be keeping from me. This is something you should have disclosed to me a long time ago, and now you won't because you feel it's too late. I know I'm not wrong about this. You are a fundamentally good person, but you have done a bad thing. This is what I know."

"How do you know that?"

"How did you manage to convince that Lycan to gather his posse and leave the group of protestors? I have never witnessed a Lycan taking instruction from a full-blooded human in my life. How did you do it? How did we manage to evade that situation unscathed? Don't feed me some dishonest line, either. I'll be able to tell."

"The truth is," he begins, stepping toward me, kneeling in front of me. He wants to touch me, to connect with me, but he senses any advances will be unwelcome and so doesn't. "The truth is, Celeste, that by some miracle the Lycan who approached me is the same Lycan who often does inspections at the sites I work at. He recognized me, asked me why I was there, and I told him I was joining the effort to put out the fire but encountered a blockade that attracted my notice. I emphasized the fire was on trajectory to engulf entire blocks soon. Since I am an engineer, a skilled trade, he took what I said to heart, and figured joining the effort to prevent the entire city from being swallowed by flames superseded taking down the protestors who are going to be arrested anyway. You have to think—most of the protestors out there are career protestors. They are already flagged, and therefore won't be hard to find."

"Are you not a career protestor? You've been to plenty of protests. I don't see how that would help your credibility."

"I've been to plenty but nowhere near all. I'm good at not getting caught. You know this. Besides, most of my work is behind the scenes. You know this too. You know that I am good at behind-the-scenes work. Most of my protests do not take place when the masses are protesting. It takes place when they are asleep. I am strategic. I haven't been to enough protests to be flagged. I have a good rapport with my superiors because I have learned all the ways to deceive and manipulate them."

"I don't buy that," I shake my head, leaning away from him, pulling my legs onto the bed and crossing them. "I don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"I looked at you after the scene was cleared and I drew a blank. It's as if I was under a spell. At first I thought it was shock but after my shower I became convinced it was something else. That it had something to do with you. You ordered me around like a puppy and I just listened, unquestioning, running on nothing but autopilot. My mind was nothing but an object to be controlled—the feeling of being absent in my own body went away after my shower. It was so sudden, nothing gradual about it. I am suspicious of you."

"What do you think I'm lying about?"

"Are you gifted? Have you been gifted all along and I just haven't noticed? Are you lying to me about your status?"

Matthew says nothing but stands, slapping his hands against his thighs, and walks into the main space of the apartment. When he comes back he turns on the bedroom light. I suddenly feel like I am on the receiving end of the interrogation, the roles successfully reversed. He has his wallet in his hand and pulls out his ID card—doubling as his driver's license—holding it less than half a foot from my face.

"What does this tell you, Celeste?"

"Well, it tells me your ID number, the expiration date of your ID card, your address, your date of birth, your s*x, eye color, hair color, date of issue—"

"Alright," Matthew rolls his eyes, equal parts irritated and amused. "It tells you, right at the bottom of the card that you were so generously working your way towards, that I am a full-blooded human. It tells you that the government recognizes me as a human being. No special gifts, no canine ancestry, nothing. Just a plain-Jane human. Is this enough evidence for you?"

I go silent, pursing my mouth, and drop my scrutiny to my lap. Matthew throws his wallet onto the bed next to me. I am dissatisfied with our argument because, from Matthew's perspective, it must seem like I am attacking the thing in his life he is most passionate about because I was dragged into it: revolting against the Lycans and upper-echelon werewolves as a human being, the most marginalized of social classes. I don't fault him for that. I fault him in thinking it is effortless to deceive me.

"I have nothing more to say, but I still don't believe your weak excuse. I will drop it, however, because the truth will come out one day. I just hope I hear it from you," I stare up at him again, noticing the way his jaw is clenched. "I love you enough to let you keep your secret for now, but don't tell me when it's too late. Promise me that."

"I love you, but I cannot make a promise to you on pretenses that are nonexistent," he grabs a change of pajamas from the wardrobe. "I'm hopping in the shower. Can I trust that you will be here when I get out?"

I grab his wallet and walk onto the balcony, denying him a response, inspecting his ID as the shower starts running. The fire is still burning, still spreading, and firetrucks continue arriving in pairs. The protestors have been entirely scattered, arrested, and disposed of. Sirens and emergency lights illuminate what is not brightened by the fire. There are no more screams but their absence is foreboding. When I am done looking at Matthew's ID, I throw his wallet onto the couch which it blends in with perfectly. Brown leather.

I am worried for what morning will bring.