Page 3 of Fat Enemy Mate

"For trying to make me feel better about the weird bowl." I laugh humourlessly

Connor doesn’t laugh, but he does nod and lets me go.

I turn and walk back out the way I came in, past the chairs, the bunting, and the fire pits. The band strikes up behind me, and I hear the cheers of the crowd. I reach my truck and sit in the cab for a moment with my hands on the wheel, letting the engine warm up.

The flare of the flame keeps replaying in my head, the way it shot up and the way the woman’s hands made no difference, even though it was clearly saying I should have a mate. Isn’t that what the flare means? That’s how it’s worked for everyone else.

Trust me to be the odd one out.

I've always known where I stand in the pack. It's not something I've ever had to wonder about. I'm the kid whose father was a criminal and ran off owing money to half the pack. He left me at seventeen years old in a cabin with a busted stove, a stack of unpaid bills, and a name that everyone in town already knew for the wrong reasons. My mother died when I was young, and sometimes I’m grateful she didn’t have to live through all that. The pack did right by me; they always do. They didn’t hold me to my father’s debts, and they’d drive out with random supplies now, and then, I even had offers of places to stay in town. Nick’s father was alpha then, and he got me into the recruits, gave me focus, and told me I could ask for help. I never did, though. I figured out the busted stove, got a job on the side in forestry, and paid my own bills. I passed the recruits stage, and by the time Cheslem attacked, I was trained to fight with the best. I’ve defended this pack with everything I’ve got, and I’m proud to head up the ridge patrols, but I’m not stupid.

The lottery magic just told the whole town what I've always known. The lottery's been a feature in a pack for as long as anyone can remember, and as far as I'm aware, nothing like that has ever happened. People will say it glitched, as Nick said. People will be kind. And then they'll forget, because the pack always moves on eventually, and I’ll go back to living on the ridge, running the ridge patrol, alone. The lottery knows you can be part of a pack but not worthy of being at its center.

That's fine. I tell myself it's fine.

The truck has warmed up, so I put it in gear and head out on the mountain road.

The cabin is in darkness when I pull up. I don’t bother with the porch light, just head straight in and let the sensor lights guide the way. I stand there for a moment with my hand on the latch before kicking off my shoes. The stove hasn’t been lit since this morning, and the air is cold enough now that I can see my breath in the air, reminding me of the way the smoke curled when the flame extinguished itself.

I light it and make some tea, because I don't want to go down the route of having a beer. Sitting at the kitchen table with the cup in both hands, I stare at the flame on the stove until my eyes finally adjust and the room stops feeling like an icebox.

The tight feeling in my chest is still there. It’s fainter now, but it’s still there. Not faint really, sharper than it was on the stage, if I'm being honest with myself. I think I’ve just gotten used to it now, and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s ever going to stop. The magic flared, and something cracked open inside me, but there's no one on the other end of it, and that's not a thing the lottery does. The lottery isn’t supposed to half-open a door to nowhere.

I drink the tea. I tell myself it'll fade because it has to.

Getting up, I rinse the cup, and I think about what Connor said.Don't disappear.Connor's not wrong about most things. But he's wrong about this; I wasn’t running away or disappearing. I was never really there.

Outside, the wind is picking up, and somewhere on the ridge, animals are out hunting. I can hear their calls. I turn the stove down, wash my face, and go to bed in the same room I've slept in all my life.

The tight feeling is still there when I close my eyes; it’s not fading.

Chapter 2 - Lara

The bark is rough enough that I can feel every ridge pressing into my back through my coat, and that’s how I know I haven’t moved in a really long time. My right leg is tucked under me and has gone numb; my left leg is still stretched out in front of me, and I can see my twisted ankle has turned a deep purple. Every time I try to shift my weight, the sharp pain reminds me that I’m running out of time.

I know I need to move, so I count to a hundred before peering around the massive trunk.

The forest feels wrong, far too quiet and still. It’s not the normal early morning calm where the smallest things aren’t awake yet, and the big things are still too sleepy to hunt. This feels like the kind of quiet that only happens when something truly dangerous is out there and the rest of the forest is too scared to make a noise. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here, but it must be two or three hours, and whatever is big and bad enough to scare a whole forest into submission must still be close.

I close my eyes and listen.

All I hear is the wind and the silence. No breaking twigs, or movement from further up the slope, no one approaching from the stream below.

The smart thing would be to rest my ankle longer and make sure it’s strong enough, but the truth is, I can’t. I’m out of time. My water bottle has been empty since last night, and I haven’t eaten in nearly two days. I hoped for some rain last night to refill it, but no such luck. The cold has worked its way into my bones, and with no fuel to fight it, I know it’s starting to affect my coordination. That’s probably why I fell and twisted my damnankle. If I stay here much longer, I know I won’t be able to get back up at all.

I tighten the laces on my boot and grimace as I push up onto my good leg first. It’s not graceful, but it holds. A wave of dizziness hits me as I put my bad leg down, and I grip the trunk and hold until it passes. The ankle isn’t broken. I’ve run that theory several times, and I’m convinced it’s just a sprain. A bad sprain, but it should hold.

I start moving, gingerly at first, but I know I’ll have to push on faster than this.

You don’t move normally when you’re being followed. My father taught me that from a young age. He explained how dangerous the forest could be long before I really understood that we lived so close to the monsters. He explained that you shouldn’t move in a straight line, avoid walking on dry ground, and not leave footprints in the wet soil. You have to mix up your pace because predators learn rhythms—especially shifters. As humans, we don’t have their strength, so we have to outsmart them; give them nothing to lock onto. Zigzag the terrain, change direction often, walk on the gravel if passing the stream; cold water can kill your scent briefly, and the stones won’t leave a print.

I haven’t dared go near the stream yet because that’s where I saw them yesterday; they’re following it, and they know I’ll need water eventually.

I’ve been sticking to the higher ground and masking my footsteps in the deep needles under the pines. I also made a mash of wild garlic and mud that I’ve coated my boots with because my dad taught me when I was young—it doesn’t completely kill my scent, but it masks it just enough. And I’ll take just enough today.

I pause, leaning against the cool moss covering a fallen tree, and flex my painful ankle. I think about the city, wishing I were back there, which feels ridiculous because I’ve always disliked visiting. But being in the city and loading up on supplies three weeks ago was the last time my life felt normal. That trip to the city is what got me into this mess. I was totally out of supplies and couldn’t put it off any longer. I’ve done that drive a hundred times in my dad’s old truck growing up; usually sat in the passenger seat while he counted the gas money out loud and complained about the price of everything we bought.

This time, I was halfway home. Alone now. I was on the long, quiet stretch where the road climbs higher into the hills when something burst out of the trees and hit the front of the truck so hard that the airbag I doubted even still worked hit me square in the face. I don’t remember what happened next; I just remember waking up on the dirt floor.