The Forsaken Wolfless Luna

Evelyn Pov The Cold sweat clung to my skin, My fingers jerking against the sheets, my knuckles white, and my chest heaved as the echo of the nightmare still clawed at my mind. . And not that fluttering that is gone the minute you know that you are safe, but the unseemly kind,--the kind that seems to be vibrating somewhere inside you, deeper than muscle or bone. As my blood itself recalls me, and not my mind. My chest burns. My throat is tight and I am not sure of my location at the moment. The roof over my head is low, and shattered, smokes old and there is a blacker stuff I should not know what. It is pierced through by a single beam, which was divided in the middle as though it had been hit once and never recovered. The air is damp and ironic. No silk. No candles. No flowers. Not my wedding chamber. The memory hits anyway. The face of Tristan lifts behind my eyes, red and hard, as though he is standing at the foot of this wretched bed. Tristan Vale—my best friend one time, and my mate another time, my mate and my hangman. The boy who always sat beside me in the training yard and stole my bread because he said it tasted good. The man to whom I had mentioned in a confidential aside which was intended to reach no one, that the Moon Goddess never erred. You are special, Elena, he would say, smiling as though the world had already decided on me. I believed him. I wrap my fingers in the thin blanket I am lying on. It smells like old fur and ash. I smack my knuckles together into my mouth to hold the sound back, but I still stutter. The altar. I regard it once more,--white marble in the moonlight, rubbed till it shone. The whole pack was assembled, high and proud, and it stood waiting to see the future Luna assume her position. My place. I recall that the ceremonial dress was heavier than my shoulders, and my heart could not slow down despite me telling it to do so several times. I was happy. Stupidly, painfully happy. Strong and familiar Tristan stood opposite me, his eyes black with what I believed was feeling. I thought it was love. I was smiling already when the Elder asked him to confirm the bond. Then he stepped back. But a step— seemed as though the ground dropped out from under me. “Wolfless.” The term broke at the clearing like a whip. The pack throbbed with gasps. My recollection is that I initially turned to my parents to get him straight, and I was in a state of confusion and wanted him to laugh and then tell me that I was joking. My mother chose not to look at me while my father clenched his jaw so tightly that I was convinced that his teeth were going to break. Nothing, Tristan, she is nothing, nothing He said, cold, hard and mechanical. “No wolf. No strength. No future. I won’t bind myself to a burden.” A burden. The mate bond broke as a thread that was called too tight. It was a sharp, blind pain that cut through my breast, and I was unable to breathe. I recall that I fell down hard against a rock—and that no one made a step to save me. Not even them. You have taken her in to pity, somebody shouted. An orphan acting like one, another voice said. “Wolfless filth.” My parents stood there. Silent. Still. As if I were already gone. They threw me out before the moon had made its ascension. Now my breath is too quick, shallow, and sharp. I bolted into an upright position and ached along my backbone, the thin mattress squeaking under me. My heart is beating so fiercely as loud as to disturb the whole den. “I’m here,” I whisper to no one. “I’m still here.” The words don’t feel true. The room in which I happen to be is very small, the walls of it very close, and there is but one small opening in it, near the top, through which a ray of gray light comes in. No door handle on the inside. Of course not. There is a metal bowl close to the wall half-filled with water that tastes like rust. Still white, still stained, my dress of that night—that night—is folded up in the corner. I put my legs over the rim of the bed and I can feel the cold stone. The cold creeps around my body and brings me to earth against my will. This is real. This is now. I survived the exile. Barely. Three nights later the rogues discovered me, half-witting and with my feet bleeding, rather a mass of dirt than a man. They didn’t ask my name. They didn’t care about my past. I was a body to them which could be employed, another mouth that could be nourished. At least they did not fake that they loved me. I run a hand through my hair, and I want to cry as my fingers get stuck in a knot. Something is not right with my whole body, it is too full, too empty. No wolf rustling in my flesh. Where it should be, there is just silence. Then— Bang. The music is clattering against the door, metal rattling in the frame. I shudder to the point of scratching the chair. A snarling voice on the other side Up. Rough, Female, Familiar in the worst way. “You’re not dead, are you?” I swallow, my throat dry. The renegade boss does not knock twice. And there is another bang, more force, dust beating down through the ceiling. “Move, wolfless.” It says things cut sharply and painfully. I make myself stand, legs unsteady and fastened under me. My heart is also racing, yet I get my shoulders straight. Fear doesn’t buy mercy here. Weakness is a strong suit, of which Tristan fled the instant he left. Coming, coming, I say, and my voice is more solid than I am. There is a pause of half a breath. Then the latch scrapes. And whatever little illusion of security I had succeeded in building is ruined as the door starts to open.