Jaylin couldn’t take in the beauty of the Sigvard manor. Not tonight.
Sadie was asleep on the couch beside him, had been for some time now. Jaylin assumed that the fright had simply knocked the energy right out of her. He himself was still alive with jitters, his fingers tapping against the porcelain glass of his mug, tips touching the heat just long enough to feel the burn. To remind himself that this wasn’t a dream.
Quentin stood in the kitchen, rolling dough and boiling a pot of something that smelled sticky and sweet, like roasted marshmallows. Alex was at the sink beside him, washing the blood he’d gotten on his arms when he carried the injured white wolf out of the trunk of Quentin’s luxury car. He’d taken it somewhere. Jaylin didn’t know where. At the moment, he didn’t care to find out. Somewhere was fine with him.
“Quentin,” he heard Alex whisper. Jaylin only caught a glimpse of him through the kitchen window—the only direct passage from the den to the kitchen, without having to trek through the Sigvard’s outrageously over-decorated dining room. “Muffins aren’t going to make him feel any better and you’re making too many.”
“They’re not for him.” Quentin shook the flour from his hands. “They’re for me.”
“I get you’re nervous, but try a fucking Xanax. You can’t just bake this problem away.”
“Alex.”
“Sorry, alright? You’re not the only one who’s freaked out. What do you plan to do with her? How the hell are you going to keep her down there?”
“Just until cleanup comes for her. I had no option, Alex. There’s more of them, there has to be. We’re running out of time.”
“I know that.” Alexander’s voice deepened. “I know that. I know. We’re in over our heads. Anna—”
“She would have wanted this,” Quentin said.
Alex was taking off his shirt now, a smear of blood on the chest of it. He tossed it into the sink beside Quentin, who grimaced at the back-splash.
“Does this look like a laundromat, Alex?”
“Oh, just bake your cupcakes, Martha Stewart.”
Jaylin’s eyes snagged on the scar that rode down Alexander’s bare chest. Not precisely carved with a medical scalpel, but deep and diagonal and rough around the edges like he’d been slashed with something serrated. He yanked a fresh shirt down over it and Jaylin dragged his gaze back to the cup of tea in his lap. He tried, but it was impossible not to eavesdrop.
“Go say something.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Anything,” Alex groaned. “Show him the book.”
“I’m not showing him the book.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to give him nightmares, Alex.”
“But he needs to know. He needs to, Quentin. Right now.”
“So what? I just introduce myself? Conveniently leave out the part about Felix? How about the part where we drugged his friend?“
Jaylin froze. He looked over to Sadie who had curled up at the edge of the couch, head rested on the arm, entirely comatose.
There was a shatter as his mug hit the ground and Jaylin made for the door, sneakers scuffing against waxed floor. Drugs. They’d drugged Sadie. But how could he get her out of this place? He’d run out into the woods or flag down a passing car once he hit the main roads. Maybe he’d just scream for help and pray someone came to his aid. What was he thinking bringing her here?
“Goddamnit, Quentin!” shouted Alex.
A blunder of pans resounded from the kitchen, both Alex and Quentin bounding over furniture, knocking over decor, tripping over themselves and one another to get to the door before Jaylin.
He had his palm on the handle, yanking the heavy wood open, ready to slip out to safety where he could call the police before anything might happen to Sadie.
Then the door slammed shut again.
Quentin had his palm pressed to the wood, a rag still hanging from his shoulders. He was close, so close Jaylin could feel his breath on the naked nape of his neck. “It’s not what you think.”
It chilled him and Jaylin turned around in his small entrapment just to escape that wicked breeze. But it was almost worse this way, Quentin’s brown eyes digging into him. So deep, he could feel them puncture his veins.
“We’re not going to hurt anyone. Trust me. Please.”
Jaylin shook his head, because for that brief moment, he didn’t know what to else to do. He’d never seen Quentin so close before. He’d heard his voice, but never felt it on his skin.
Quentin didn’t look dangerous. He looked desperate, and for some reason, Jaylin wasn’t afraid. Even stranger yet was that he wanted to. He wanted to trust Quentin Bronx.
–
Ten more minutes had passed and Quentin had returned to the kitchen. Alex had brought a blanket for Sadie and Jaylin had gone back to sitting in silence with a cup of tea in his hands, the bitter drink gone shallow from his nervous sipping.
“It’s an herbal recipe,” Alex explained. “I use it to sleep when I’ve got a cold. It’s not actual drugs.”
“So she’ll be okay?”
Alex smiled that small awkward smile and gave him a firm nod. “She’ll be fine. We just, um…needed to talk to you. Alone.”
Quentin emerged from the dining room, a sweet smell wafting behind him. He set a platter of muffins down on the glass coffee table and wiped his hands on his shouldered rag. “They’re caramelized apple and cinnamon.”
They looked like something from a magazine and smelled like a dream, but Jaylin’s could only stare.
“Not in your taste?” Quentin asked. “I’ll go make something else.” And he was marching off to the kitchen—until Alex caught him by the shoulders and directed Quentin right back to the coffee table.
“Be an adult,” he hissed softly to Quentin. Then he took Jaylin’s mug gently from his hands and said, “I’ll get you more tea.”
Once he was gone, Quentin took a seat on the edge of the coffee table, lacing his hands in the space between his knees.
It was difficult to keep his eyes to himself, but far too uncomfortable to share contact with Quentin’s. Jaylin found a comfortable middle ground, staring at a neutral area—the curve of his throat, where his collar bones hollowed into his neck and his Adam’s apple nodded as he spoke.
“I know this is a lot to take in, but we have good reason.”
Jaylin was watching his lips now, the way they smiled; cracking on the left just enough to flash a row of white teeth. The dark scruff on his face and the jaw that drank rosé. Then he noticed something beneath it. A small scar just beneath the corner of his mouth, ridged like Alexander’s but not nearly as noticeable.
“Jaylin, right?”
Jaylin snapped back up to meet Quentin’s eyes, whether he wanted to or not.
“You’re scared, I get it. But you can relax now, you’re safe here.” Nervously, Quentin batted the muffins closer. “Jesus Christ, please eat them.”
“Why am I here?” Jaylin asked. “Who are you, what the hell was that? Why am I here?”
“Calm down, calm down.” Quentin was chewing on his thumb, palming at his knee, looking like almost as much of a nervous wreck as Jaylin himself. “Okay, so,” Quentin started, just as Alex had made his way back from the kitchen. “How do you feel about, uh… werewolves?”
Alex slapped him hard on the back of the head. “Why are you the worst at explaining things?”
“How else should I do this, Alex?”
But Jaylin was already out of his seat.
“I don’t know if you think this is funny or if you’re mocking me for what I know happened in the cemetery that night, or if this is some elaborate scheme to make me feel like an asshole. Or, I don’t know, maybe you’re just fucking insane, but I’m done,” his voice rose to jitters. “I’m going home.”
Jaylin crossed his arms and made for the door. This time neither Alex nor Quentin tried to stop him. They stayed in their seats, quiet until Jaylin reached for the knob. Then, for some reason, Quentin’s voice bridled him in his tracks. “Wait.”
Jaylin paused but he didn’t look back. He could hear Quentin rise from the sofa. The soft shift of leather and then a metallic shuffle—like pocket change, or car keys, or the rustling of his belt. Maybe all three at once. “Let me drive you.”
“I can walk,” Jaylin barked back.
“What about her?”
Jaylin turned around to look at Quentin, who was gesturing to Sadie, still curled up on the couch.
Quentin read the look on Jaylin’s face and bubbled out a laugh. “You were going to leave your friend here with total strangers?”
Jaylin could feel himself go a bit red. “Shut up.” His initial concern was over her safety to begin with. Of course he couldn’t leave her here with them. He gave a hesitant breath through his nose and swung the door open so hard, it shivered the windows beside it. “Fine.”
The ride was uncomfortably silent, but he refused to say a word to Quentin. He leaned his elbow against the door, chin in his palm as he watched the night-swept city pass them by. The interior smelled of leather and potpourri, but there wasn’t an air freshener anywhere to be found. Instead, what hung from Quentin’s mirror was a small wreath of lavender flowers, tied at the stems like a floral crown. They were the only thing he cared to look at when he wasn’t gazing through the window.
They’d taken Sadie home already to the gated apartment complex where she worked.
She didn’t wake up, didn’t stir a bit when Quentin carried her on his back up two sets of stairs and laid her in her bed. But Jaylin was sure she was okay, because Sadie had a habit of talking in her sleep. Tonight it was little repetitive whimpers, and occasionally the phrase, “no more mandarin.” Jaylin wondered just what she was dreaming. Whether she was being tortured by tiny oranges, or the actual Chinese language.
Quentin had laughed when he heard it. Something about his smile made Jaylin want to smile, too. He had to remind himself that this was no time to weaken the tension he’d built. He had a million and one reasons to be rightfully pissed at Quentin Bronx and he wanted it to stay that way.
They were back on the road now, where not a word floated between them. Jaylin could feel Quentin’s eyes on him and he tried his best to look bored, cheek pressed against the chill of the window. He saw the wolf’s yellow eyes in every street lamp and headlight they passed by.
If this really was all a prank, it was a damn elaborate one. Those wolves were real. The danger Sadie was in was real. But werewolves—werewolves were the farthest thing from real.
His anger swelled, but not enough before the itch of a cough crept up and swept him away into a hacking fit. He’d always been susceptible to colds, but now there was a heavy weight that came with every illness he caught and this cold was beyond than anything he’d felt before. It left a tired feeling in his chest, a coppery taste in his mouth, but the coughing gripped him more than the fatigue or the slight fever he’d been feeling. He decided he’d lock himself away in his room—leave through the upstairs window. Whatever he had to do to keep his mother from catching whatever this was.
“You don’t sound so good,” Quentin said. Jaylin could feel his brief, worried glances each time the phlegm caught his wheezy breath.
Jaylin didn’t answer. Once they’d reached his block, he said, “Drop me off here.”
Quentin pulled onto the gravel at the side of the road and eased onto the brake. Jaylin reached for the door handle and every lock shot down in unison.
“If I said you were in danger, would you believe me?” Quentin asked.
Jaylin scoffed under his breath. But as much as he wanted to rationalize the thought, he’d nearly watched a wolf take Sadie’s head off tonight. But werewolves? Aliens, maybe. Ghosts, sure. But the last thing Jaylin could bring himself to believe in was werewolves.
Almost like he’d read his mind, Quentin said, “Sometimes things aren’t as ridiculous as they sound.”
Jaylin looked to the profile of him—sharp and dark in the pale light of the street-lamps. He narrowed his eyes and asked, “Who the hell are you?”
Quentin’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel. His thumbs tapped at the leather. “I guess I’m not as popular as I thought.”
Jaylin let a puff of air his nose and reached for the handle, but an arm barred him back. Quentin looked to him now—the deep brown of his eyes nearly black as night in the shadows. “I don’t need you to believe me—not yet,” he said. “But be cautious of the people you meet, Jaylin. The friendliest of them could be false prophets.”
“Why are you telling me this? I don’t even know you,” Jaylin said.
“Yeah, you keep saying that. It’s a blow to my ego, really.” Quentin lowered his arm, but the gaze he held was somehow still so pressing, Jaylin could only feel blindly for the handle. “Take care of yourself, Jaylin.”
Then Quentin hit a button that unlocked every lock at once. Jaylin shoved his way out of the car, slamming the door behind him loud enough to send the neighborhood hounds into a frenzy. There was quiet whirring as the car bowled forward, and he watched it pass him by, slow at first, and then accelerating into the distance with a fierce roar. A few more dogs crooned out into the night, as well as a cranky June Abernathy, shouting blasphemy from her bedroom window two houses down.
He watched the headlights disappear behind the corner, then Jaylin grunted under his breath and continued on his way. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew wolves were a strange concept. What were the chances of seeing them in the city? Finding them in the library where he worked? But werewolves? God, werewolves?
For the rest of the walk, he gnawed on the word, feeling that ghostly pain in his ribs. Werewolves. They were not werewolves. They were someone’s pets. They’d escaped a sanctuary, broken out of the zoo—or maybe this really was all just an incredibly elaborate prank. But as Jaylin neared his home, he lifted his head, and perched beside the honeysuckle bushes was the elegant physique of a wolf. It was difficult to see but for his eyes, but Jaylin could recognize him by those eyes alone. They stared at him without malice, but curiosity. The wolf didn’t move, didn’t wag his tail or flick his ears.
He just stared into Jaylin the way Quentin had. Followed his every step with those bold yellow moons.
Jaylin acknowledged him, still fearful of the sight. But the black wolf showed no interest in him, no hostility, no hunger. He just blinked slowly, watched with some kind of expectancy.
So with hesitance in his step, Jaylin turned away and walked past his rusty old wire fence, up the cobblestone steps of his home. When he’d reached the front porch, he shuffled for his phone in his front pocket and spun to take a photo—proof that he wasn’t losing his mind. That there really were wolves in Washington. But when his camera came to focus on the spot by the honeysuckle bushes, the yellow eyes had gone. The wolf had disappeared and so had Jaylin’s chances to prove that something inexplicably strange was happening in this town. That he hadn’t imagined Bobby’s death or the incident in the library. That there were wolves, watching him at night.
And twice now, they’d saved his life.
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