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It still leaves a twinge in my chest when I think of my mother—the only person who comes to mind is the mother I’ve known all my life. I’ve thought about it, going over countless memories in my head. Did she ever give me a clue? Some sign that I wasn’t hers? I can’t come up with anything, and I’m not sure why I’d want to. Why it matters so much. The fact is, finding out I didn’t come from her is one of the biggest surprises of all, and I’ve had a lot of surprises lately. If it wasn’t Dad telling me, I wouldn’t believe it, but then he would know. Nobody else would know better than him.
At the edge of the woods is a patch of wildflowers, with footprints all around them that tell me the healers come out here to gather flowers and herbs for their work. There are so many varieties I could spend the whole day out here identifying them. I continue on, not wanting to disturb anything, and once I clear the tree line, it’s suddenly much darker and cooler. The leaves grow so thick, the branches crisscrossing over my head and blocking out a lot of the sunlight. But I like it. It’s quiet, it’s calm—peaceful. After spending the whole day with loud voices in my ears, this is the respite I needed.
How to make Dad see I have everything I need here? I can’t shake my concern, no matter how I try to ignore it or brush it aside. I don’t want him to spend the rest of his days worrying about me, wishing I had never met Wilde. I don’t know if he’ll ever understand, but meeting Wilde might be the first good thing that’s happened to me. I’m sure now that it was his presence that brought my wolf forward. And no, I might not have come here in the conventional way, but looking back, it’s obvious that Wilde was only following his wolf’s orders. Even if he didn’t know it at the time, even if he thought he was making all of his own choices, we know better now.
I wish Dad could understand that. I don’t want him starting trouble, showing up at the drop of a hat, and checking on me all the time. I don’t think Connor would like it much, and I know Wilde wouldn’t. I want everybody to get along. Is that so much to ask?
I’ve always loved the smells in the woods, the freshness, the richness of the soil, and even the rotting of leaves and needles underfoot. It’s all part of the bigger picture. A pair of squirrels scamper around the base of a tree, and I stop to watch them, laughing at the way they chase each other. They run up and down the trunk, chattering away, and they don’t seem to care that I’m so close. I stay still, though, not wanting to disturb them.
It isn’t me that disturbs them. It’s the sound of singing.
They stop, both of them turning their heads in the direction the sound came from, before running off. But they don’t seem afraid, just startled, and maybe they found another tree they like better.
I stay where I am, also searching for the source of the sound. It’s beautiful—light, happy sounding. And it calls to me. It pulls me forward. I want to know who it’s coming from. What makes them so happy. Who taught it to them.
Don’t go. Stop. My wolf scratches at the inside of my chest like she wants to come out. Stop. No, she doesn’t say the exact words, but I feel them, anyway. There’s something wrong with this. Some reason I shouldn’t explore anymore. But what harm could it do? There’s no way anything bad could come from someone with such a beautiful voice.
I walk carefully, watching my step, always following the sound. It gets a little louder all the time, and the warning in my chest gets louder, too. Stronger. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up shifting here and now. I don’t know why that seems like a bad idea. It just does. I don’t want to. All I want is to learn that song. Something about it feels right to me. Like it’s a song I might know or should have learned. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Since when does anything about my life make sense?
By the time I see the cloaked figure bending over a fallen tree and scraping moss from the bark, there’s almost no light at all. I know before she ever lifts her head who I’m looking at and that I’ve made a mistake, that my wolf was right.
She’s a witch. She’s one of them, with those glowing eyes and that deathly skin.
It’s the sight of her and the memory of what happened when I was around others of her kind that shakes me out of the stupor I know she put me in. I growl and feel the wolf about to burst free; the energy surges through me, and I welcome it. I want it. Just like I want to tear her apart.
