Howling Bonds

11

The room got even quieter as I listened to the night rain running down the eaves against the windows. “Who is their leader? Who organized so many people from the fringes of society? It’s not the type of stuff a high school gang could do. It seems like a premeditated act.”

Nell took a sip of the tea and grimaced. From being steeped too long, the tea was now bitter. “No one has ever met their leader. The man is too mysterious. But I know a dangerous guy who is an important figure in the Fevre Claws. He was once in my pack, banished by me, and that was a tough fight.”

“You’re the leader and the guy was going after you?” Something about old gangster movies came to mind: stale film, foam and steam, silver bullets flying around, blood and booze flowing together. “You know, there is only one Tacoma. I hope you guys win in the end.”

“Of course, they do plan to fight for control of the Tacoma Werewolf World.” Nell’s face clouded over. “I won once, but I can’t say this time. It’s always hard for the new alpha to do that. Many packs go down the drain for it.”

“You need to get your people together,” I offered. “I’ve dealt with the project managers and know how annoying those elders can be. But you always have to get over that, you know, more people could be waiting for the new world.”

“I didn’t pass the soul ritual.” Nell’s expression looked complicated, his eyelashes casting a bird-winged shadow beneath his eyes. “That’s like a werewolf’s bar mitzvah, a ceremony to establish a soul connection with a destined mate. After that ceremony, both the alpha and mate become stronger, and it means that the clan recognizes the alpha wolf and he becomes the true leader. But the elders who held the ritual betrayed me.”

It made me think of my vision. I had told him in my dream that I had never believed in fate.

“Nell.” I felt as if something had grown cold. “I’m sorry.”

“I never meant to force you to join us. From the first moment I saw you in my dream, it was clear my destined mate had a unique way of acting.” Nell gave me a forgiving smile. “If I were you, I’d punch that werewolf in the face.”

“I wanted to.” Someone in the hallway seemed to drag a patient, and the floor made a roar like a moving truck was unloading a large load of garbage in the dead of night. “But I’ve changed my mind now. I will help you with these ritual things. No moral or ethical problems, right?”

After a quick deal, we settled the plan. I would return with him to the werewolf pack, as his destined mate, to perform some kind of soul connection ritual, to help him gag the elders and gain more power. And he would fight the rogue wolves of the Fevre Claw, stopping them from continuing to sabotage Tacoma’s next move, and rescue attacked people like Lydia from unconsciousness.

The soul connection might lead to some moments of psychic connection. But I found it easy. He had saved Lydia from the edge of death, and all I had to give was a little privacy and go on a summer trip.

After we talked, I collapsed on the bench next to Lydia’s bed for a few hours of intermittent sleep. It was a precious dreamless sleep, but the noisy chatter outside the door and the sound of wheelchairs often woke me up. I rose before dawn and noticed Nell had brewed an entire pot of coffee. The intense aroma lingered in the ward. He sat beside me, staring right into my eyes.

He seemed different to me now, and more attractive without all the unpleasant subjective assumptions. We studied each other and communicated things with our eyes. I wished he would look at me like that for eternity, and he appeared to understand my hope. At some point, I’ll have to go back to my life and rebuild from the rubble.

I finished my coffee, lifted the gray-green curtain, and left Lydia, who was unconscious, and got into Nell’s car to drive to the outskirts of Tacoma. The power was out in the suburbs, the windshield wipers didn’t work, the sky was light, and the rain was pouring. Trees, small white houses, a dark mass of gas stations, all gray, and drizzling.

I couldn’t help but stare at Nell in the humid fog, his hair clinging to his forehead, the pale knuckles holding the steering wheel, and a smile on his lips. The temperature rose in the car, and I wanted to smoke. The cigarette in my mouth reminded me of those nights in college. Strolling down the street with nowhere to go, broke, but always with a desire to laugh out loud.

My cigarette box was now empty and Nell stopped in front of the gas station.

Draped in a white poncho, the station owner waved his hands like a psychopath. “Power’s out. The store’s not open.” The road was empty, making you think the gods had abandoned this damn place. It seemed the rain was the flesh, blood, and brains of the survivors, the bodies strewn across the road.

I flicked my cigarette out, and it followed the rain in a brilliant arc, soaking my shirt. A Volvo squealed and slammed on its brakes and gave the middle finger to a passerby. Nell appeared more relaxed and turned on the music, one of my favorite songs from college.

Zoolatry, I thought while staring at his perfect side profile.

As the number of cars on the road decreased, he sped up with a loud roar of wheels. The morning breeze swept in the smell of fresh dirt and grass. It filled me with power and a wild urge. Ancient shamanic rituals and songs of the spirits occupied my mind, and I wanted to growl like a wolf. Desire. It was gasoline and blood melting in the burning wind, carrying us through the dark clouds, smashing the wall that separates the past from reality, pushing us to the inevitable rough fate.

The music flowed around like the beech trees on both sides of the road, fading into a lime green liquid. When the last lights of the white houses on both sides of the street came on, we escaped into the morning mist, like travelers through a time tunnel, falling into the old days.