The Thing About Weres

Trowbridge to you?”

That I couldn’t—wouldn’t—even try to answer. When I made a tsk of irritation, he slanted me a familiar big-brother smile. “How are the hands?”

I flexed my fingers. “Much better.”

He nodded in satisfaction as a long sweep of hair fell in a slow, golden glittering sweep. Like wheat in the field, I thought, watching him slide it back behind his ear—ah, for crap’s sake, his jeweled ear. “You’ve gotten awfully girly,” I said glumly.

A snort of laughter. “I went native,” he said. “Count yourself lucky, you should see what some of the women of the Court wear.”

I have. Mad-one’s gown is blue and jeweled.

“I need to empty my backpack,” he said. “Shall we go home?”

Trowbridge had asked me to wait in his house—now I gave that request the nanosecond of reflection it deserved before I lifted my chin and pointed to the silver bug on the opposite ridge. “The house burned to the ground. That’s home now.”

He scowled. “That’s the best they could come up with?”

“I don’t need much.” Where did you live? In a castle?

“Through the cemetery?”

I stood. “It’s the fastest way.”

A wry smile. “And expedience is always preferred.”

I smiled with relief. There it was. An echo of the old impatient Lexi, always appreciative of the fastest way to get the job done.

“You do this part,” he used to say.

“Why?”

“Because it’s faster that way, dummy.”

Then Lexi said, his tone somewhat goading, “Wolves, feel free to follow us.”

Biggs’s wolf rose to its feet, his head whipping back between the she-bitch and Harry. Some communication passed between the three of them. Harry stayed, while Biggs and the bitch took a position on either flank.

“Sorry,” I mouthed to my friends. Harry uttered a huff then lowered his head once more to the turf.

“Home,” Lexi repeated. Then—because he was at least a decade and ten minutes older—he strode away.

And me? I did what I’d always done.

I hurried to catch up.

Some things remained the same. Lexi led the way, and when faced with the fork in the path, he unhesitatingly turned left. And yet? Time waits for no man—no woman, either. I’d learned to keep my gaze fixed on the homely shape of the trailer as I passed the ruins of our old house, but my brother stopped short.

“I’ll give you some time,” I said, knowing he needed to grieve in privacy. “You’ll find me in the trailer. You hungry?”

No reply.

I turned on the lights in the sitting room and left the door open, hoping he’d follow when he was ready. Then I had a three-minute shower. The clothing that was mine I bundled into a wad and shoved into the garbage. My brother’s purloined shirt got a soak in the bathroom sink. Hurriedly, I threw on some clean clothes. Then, six swipes of the comb through my hair, and a little daub of Cordelia’s face cream, and I was ready as I’d ever be.

What to feed the prodigal son? I wondered, staring at the contents of the fridge. The Fae had hummingbird’s tastes. Maple syrup and honey. Everything—except themselves—sugared and sweet. I brought out the syrup and then, in afterthought, the last of my Tim Horton Timbits.

I’ve got a thousand questions.

But here’s the thing. If the boy existed inside the man, then I knew from experience that it was a waste of time peppering him with questions. He’d shut down. And it would be a slow, spiraling route toward the answers.

I’m tired. And so is he. We have time.

Smiling, I set the doughnut holes on the dinette table, along with the tin of syrup, bowls and spoons, then worried over my choice. When we were growing up, my twin had been the one to make a fist pump at the sight of a thick wedge of steak. Maybe meat would be better? I rubbed the peak of my ear, trying to decide and leaned to look through the window.

My brother stood with his back to me, his arms limp.

Come on, Lexi. Move away from it. You won’t find any answers in the rubble of our old life.

He’d need comfort, once he was ready.

I should cheer him up with a thought picture.

It’s the way my twin and I had talked when we didn’t want other ears to listen in. It had been how we’d comforted and amused each other. It was the one time that I could count on Lexi not to tease me, because to a Fae, a thought picture is a sacred thing, used with love.

I hadn’t received one like that since the spring of seventh grade.

I sank down onto the seat, remembering.

Ms. James was an odd duck, even for an unmarried Were-bitch, as witnessed by the fact she seated everyone in the class alphabetically. Didn’t matter if you were myopic or short. It wasn’t terrible; I could have made my peace with trying to see the board past Terry Stewart’s high ponytail, because the next person on the list was my brother, John Alexander Stronghold. He sat right behind me and it wasn’t a stretch to say he had my back. But two weeks later, Ms. James proved herself a Fae-hating witch by yanking me out of the S’s and shoving me into the G–J row. According to her, I kept looking out of the window, and that was a problem.

My new seat sucked.

I had a jock in front of me, and a jerk behind me, and true to form, J&J spent the next eight and a half months making me miserable. One afternoon in late May, when the classroom stank to high heaven of wet sneakers and sweaty Weres, Jock said something Were-witty about my lineage to the Jerk.

What had they said?

I lined up the spoons, trying to remember what exact bon mot had sent me over the edge. Something, something, what? Deep in thought, I folded two napkins, just the way Cordelia liked them, and tucked them under the bowls.

A low growl from outside yanked me back to the present.

Lexi was on the move. He slipped off his leather bag and glanced up at the sky, then walked over to where Mum’s garden used to be. Anu, the wonder-bitch, issued another warning rumble, which he totally ignored. But then again, Lexi never did pay much attention to what others thought—at least not visibly.

It must be wonderful to be like that.

Biggs’s wolf turned his shaggy head toward my window.

“It’s okay,” I mouthed. Trowbridge wouldn’t have left that bag on him if he had anything of worth in it. I don’t know how I knew that, but I did.

Back in Ms. James’s class I would have given anything to be as opinion resistant as my brother. The day of the Big Insult, I’d sat there—telling myself to hold on, don’t give them the satisfaction—all the while knowing I was teetering on the brink of a rage.

And then Lexi sent me a mental nudge.

How to describe it? You know when you’ve forgotten something but you don’t know what it is? You’re heading toward the car, keys in your hand, and suddenly a thought comes to your mind directly from your unconscious—out of the blue, completely unbidden. You’re missing something. You know that feeling? That’s like a nudge. Except, for Fae, that tentative tap comes from someone else’s mind, not their own. And you feel it, physically, like the touch of someone’s shoulder giving yours an affectionate bump.

Soft, tentative. A light lean versus a heavy push.