The Littlest Light

#Chapter9-03

#Chapter9-03

Jonathan was the only exception, and it was why his number was one of the few that had gained the privilege of being saved by name. I hit it. It dialled. Rung twice, then —

"Sterling? Everything good?"

"I need you to do something for me," I told him, dismissing his question and side-stepping all pleasantries.

Pause. Chuckle, and then, "You know, for a second there, I actually got worried you'd phoned to check that I'd made it home safely. Was about to send the healer around to check on you."

"I'm going to need some things." Wasting no time on his wisecrack, the plight of my call was thrown into effect. "I expect them here by morning."

"If I tell you no, am I fired?" he joked.

"Yes," I deadpanned. He couldn't be fired, per-say, but he could certainly have his ass demoted.

Another chuckle filled the line. Jonathan held little fear of being replaced. He knew his position was secure. Surrounded by cowards, my Beta was the only one that dared to defy me, to question me, or to disagree with my logic if he were to find fault in it. With anybody else, to oppose me would have been punishable by banishment or death. I wasn't running a f*****g democracy.

With Jonathan, it was different. Our pasts ran deeper than our packs becoming one the same, and the pledge of his loyalty was the only one I didn't question. I'd been eighteen when we first met, and he'd been twenty. Living a life as a rogue, he should have killed me on sight. Reported me and had me hunted, at very least. He hadn't. He'd shown compassion, and an unlikely relationship had formed. It wasn't friendship. I wasn't sure what it was, but when the moon rose to its fullest, he had snuck away from his pack's land, joining the no-man's trail that I ran, and together, we would often find ourselves hunting the moonlit night away.

"Well, in that case," he said. "Tell me what you need."

For him to truly understand, I was forced to relay the Wise One's claims to him. Of the boy and his backwards little mind. He listened without interruption. For as impossible as the situation sounded, he didn't inject his doubt. He had seen what I had, and after witnessing such a sight, it left little room for denial or disbelief.

My list was short, brief and straight to the point. Jonathan didn't question it. He reassured me that it would be here by morning. A fleeting reminder of why I depended on him: he was reliable.

Goodbyes were a waste of breath, and after checking he'd got everything, I cut him off. The silence that followed was nice. Then, on afterthought, I decided it was concerning. Stepping around the crimson droplets and the nails that had been shed, I made my way to the bathroom. The pain in my feet had vanished, but the soreness that settled in my hands, even after partially shifting, still remained.

Upon opening the door, two things became painstakingly obvious. Number one: The kid was clearly a few sandwiches shy of a picnic. Number two: he'd moved.

Sat in the middle of the tub, feet dangling over the edge as he cradled a bar of soap, I could only watch as the little moron brought the thing up to his mouth. Then, just to prove I wasn't being harsh and unfairly judging him, he did it again. His face would screw up in disgust, before he would spit and dribble down himself before going back for more.

"Are you actually that stupid?" I asked after watching him attempt to do it a fourth time. He froze, glancing up before dropping the bar of soap. He covered his eyes, as though if he couldn't see me, then I couldn't see him.

"Stand up," I instructed. It must have been a complicated command because he struggled with it, but eventually made it to his feet, using the sides of the bath for support. He hid the soap behind his back, as though trying to conceal his crime from view. Lifting him out with ease, I dumped him on his feet. "Take your shirt off."

I was tired of him already, I realized as I watched him try to adhere to my task. It cemented the suspicion that he completely and fully understood me. Had my eyes narrowing, deciding how much of this bullshit was part of his act.

He turned a puddle into an ocean trying to get the thing off, getting stuck in the process. His head had disappeared through the neck hole and he spun in little circles, trying to free himself. With a sharp exhale, I yanked the shirt free in one swift movement.

"Peek-a-boo," he said.

I snorted out a laugh. I couldn't help it. It was either that, or I would have slapped him, and I couldn't deal with any more crying. It seemed to encourage him, as a bright, breath-taking grin lit up his face.

"Peek-a-boo," he repeated, as though hoping to make me laugh again.

Filling up the sink with hot water, adding a dash of cold and pouring a capful of body soap to it, it was the most I felt prepared to do. I wasn't washing him. The tap ran to an encore of "bubbies!" and "Spash". He danced on the spot, knees bending and springing back up, and he clapped, hands missing the other more times than they connected.

"Wash all that pen off," I told him once the faucets had retired for the night. I'd squirted a dollop of liquid soap into his hands, and dumped a washcloth in the water.

"Wet."

"Yes." I nodded. "Water is wet."

He frowned, glancing down. "Wurta is wet," he echoed.

Following his gaze, I expected the fierce burn of anger to ignite, but the tank chuntered on empty and it didn't come. My eye twitched. My hands tightened into balls. A sharp pitcher of breath was exhaled. Make that two of them, but then I was forced to deal with what he'd done. The trickling that had sounded had nothing to do with the taps and everything to do with the yellow-tinted puddle that had formed at his feet. The joggers he wore had darkened around the crotch, streaming a trail down the leg, and he his head had tilted to the side, paired with an oblivious smile.

"Wurta is wet," he echoed, lifting his barefoot to stomp in his own puddle of nastiness.

"f**k me," I whispered in exasperation, squeezing my eyes shut once more. Unfortunately, when I reopened them, he was still standing there.

"Bad word."

"Just . . . just take those off." I sighed in defeat as I moved over to the tub. Flicking on the tap, the clear substance gushed out with a loud whine.

Bathing the kid had been the last thing I had wanted to do, but as he dropped down to the floor to further inspect his 'wurta', his hands playing patty-cake the yellow liquid, filling the tub up suddenly seemed like a great idea.