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The limpetsalwaysappeared with the pendant. The pendant actually wasn’t a pendant at all. It was a vial, and was always shown containing a beautiful blue liquid surrounded by a halo, while resting in a cradle made from a skeletal paw.
The limpets and vial were usually displayed in the decorative borders or elements of the mating records. Not all matings had the limpets and vial, but the ones that did tended to have very detailed brideprice accountings. There was always a full or partial page illumination showing the couple holding hands. The couple always had a singular penetrating wound that dripped blood. Usually the wound was through the hand, but sometimes it was the foot, thigh, calf, upper arm, or even the collarbone area or meat of the flank. A table off to another side always displayed the vial in its skeletal paw holder. Most illuminations had a dead body positioned behind the couple, usually floating in a tub of water, but sometimes stretched out on the ground. Never any wounds, and the faces had been drawn but smudged with the swirl of a fingertip before the ink had dried. Usually a male body, sometimes two bodies, and occasionally, a female body.
The mating declarations always referenced that the couple hadbathed in tearsoreaten tears, regardless of if there was a dead body or not.
Odd. Very odd.
Right around the time of a war—one significant enough we’d all heard of it—all references to the limpets and vial stopped. I took notes while two Archivists carefully skimmed through the next Collection, and Searle looked at the Collection after that, skimming for similar illuminations. While the mentions and illuminations of limpets and the vial were gone, sporadic references tobathing in tearsoreating tears(or similar, depending on the language) continued. Each time we bumped into “tears,” I wrote down the date and names of the wolves involved. Some of the names I recognized as great leaders from our history, but many others were simply names.
Within a few hours, a pattern in the names started to appear.
There was alwaysonewolf—usually an Alpha, sometimes a Luna, butalwaysa pack leader—that had a connection to each “tear” record for a certain span of years. Every single pairing that involved tears hadsomekind of connection to that single wolf.
The tear pairings sometimes passed from Alpha to one of the pairs they’d been directly connected to, and then all subsequent tear pairings came fromthatwolf. Sometimes the pairings would separate completely into new clusters, or disappear for years, only to resurface again somewhere new, or somewhere old again.
But it was obvious that there was always a single powerful wolf that had their finger in all these pies. Then the power passed to another wolf, and another. But ofcoursethat’s probably how it worked, because it still (more or less) worked that way. There wasn’t a directory. You couldn’t hit the Werewolf White Pages to see your nearest local Chronicler.
We hadn’t changed in a thousand years.
Searle leaned over my back while I tried to make sense of the connections. “You’re exhausted.”
The instant he said it, it came true, and the only other time I could remember being so tired was when I’d been about to drop dead back in Clare. What time was it? What day was it? How long had we been down here? Half the Archivists had disappeared. Demetrius was still bent over the Collection preceding the limpet-era Collection. He was writing notes for whatever page he’d found.
“I’m fine.” I raked my palm over my face. My skin had that hot/tight feeling of sleep deprivation, and despite the chill of the Archives, I felt hot. And in need of a bath. But sleep. Dear Gaia. I neededsleep. Just scoop me into a bucket and carry me to the nearest corner.
Searle said, quietly, “You need to sleep.”
He pulled me off the chair with both hands around my waist. I resisted for exactly one second before realizing my ass had gone numb hours before and my legs were a bit uncoordinated and I wasso damn tiredmy head spun.
Searle pulled my arm over his shoulders and led me away. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other while he led me through some of the rooms and down a side passage lined with doors. It was a little apartment with bright wood panelling, a cozy white woven rug under a little table, and a few other trimmings that were lost on me because he poured me onto the bed.
It could have been a bed of burning glass and I’d still have wept with happiness to lie down.
Searle pulled the blankets over me. I squirmed one of them off. Too hot. The little room was plenty warm with his bulk in it.
“You’re going to freeze,” Searle advised.
“Mmph.”
He stubbornly pulled the blankets back over me, muttering about how he knew by now that I burrowed when I slept, and I was too exhausted to argue with him.
I woke up sweaty,hot, and still exhausted. Hot and sweaty enough I had to lie flat on the bed and stare at the ceiling for a few minutes to quell the nausea that came with getting that hot.
“Fuck,” I whispered to the ceiling. “I do not need to be pregnant.”
Abruptly, a shape in the corner shifted, moved, and Searle melted into human form, naked and casual on the floor.
“Ack.” I hadn’t realized he was there.
He rolled his head towards me. “You don’t need to be pregnant, but I wouldn’t be shocked if you were. Your scent’s off, and you just slept thirteen hours.”
“Well, I’m jet lagged to hell. And I’m not pregnant. My scent’s off because I’m dripping sweat.” I sat up, shoved off the remainder of the blankets, and pulled my soaking shirt away from my body. My hair was soaked at the roots too. I sniffed a pit. Surprisingly: not rank. Slightly gamey.
“Your scent has been off since we left, and it is gettingmoreoff. I know your scent. I’ve slept next to you for months. You arenota sound sleeper, and I’ve never known you to sleep more than eight hours at a time, or to be a hot sleeper. Usually, you are burrowed in your blankets.”
“There’s nothing to do about it right now. Except find a shower.”
“Demetrius just woke up. Your timing is fine.” He casually had one knee up, wrist on his knee, hair mused, expression and scent a feral, dry, butverygrim amusement that was almost like resignation but not quite.
