CHAPTER 12: AFTERSHOCKS

Leaving the cave proves more difficult than expected. Maddox is injured worse than he lets on, and I'm unsteady on my feet—my body feeling simultaneously foreign and exhausted, as though I've run a marathon in someone else's skin. Which, in a way, I have.

His long coat covers me to mid-thigh, but I'm acutely aware of my nakedness beneath it, of the vulnerability of my situation. The coat itself is oddly comforting though—heavy and warm, with pockets containing strange objects I don't examine too closely.

We travel through the night, keeping to shadows and avoiding roads. Maddox seems to navigate by some internal compass, leading us through forested areas and dry creek beds. Neither of us speaks much. He's conserving energy, and I'm lost in my own thoughts, trying to process everything that's happened.

I follow him for what seems like hours, my bare feet growing increasingly sore despite my apparent supernatural heritage. Eventually, I notice hints of civilization—distant lights, the occasional sound of a vehicle on a far-off highway.

"Where are we going?" I finally ask as we pause at the edge of a treeline.

"Somewhere you can rest," he replies, scanning the horizon. "Somewhere with walls and a door that locks."

A glance at the night sky shows the moon has traveled a significant arc since I awoke in the cave. I suddenly realize it's well into the early morning hours—probably around 3 AM, well past midnight. The meeting with Winters at the foundry was never going to happen. I suppose that choice was made loud and clear when I transformed into some kind of lunar-dragon-wolf thing and fled the city.

We finally reach a small town—the kind with one main street, a gas station, and not much else. On its outskirts sits a motel that's seen better days, its neon sign flickering with several letters burnt out.

"Wait here," Maddox says, gesturing to a cluster of vending machines near the office. "And try to look less like you're wearing nothing but a coat."

I huddle in the shadows while he approaches the motel office. Through the window, I can see him speaking with a half-asleep clerk, producing cash from somewhere and deliberately keeping the transaction brief. A few minutes later, he returns with a key—an actual metal key, not a key card.

"Room 14," he says, guiding me quickly along the walkway to a door at the far end of the building.

Once inside, he checks the locks twice, then draws the curtains fully closed before flipping on a light. The room is basic but clean enough—two queen beds with faded floral comforters, a small table with two chairs, and a bathroom visible through an open door.

"Stay put," he tells me. "I need to get supplies, and we need to assume someone's tracking us."

"I have no intention of leaving right now," I assure him, sinking onto the edge of one bed. "Not exactly dressed for a midnight stroll."

For a moment, his usual smirk returns. "I'll find you clothes. And food. Just... don't open the door for anyone but me."

After he leaves, I sit in the silent room, suddenly overwhelmed by everything. My body aches in strange ways. My mind keeps replaying fragmented memories—the roar, the fire in my veins, flashes of running through darkness.

But underneath it all is a bone-deep chill that no amount of sitting still seems to address. After a few minutes of shivering, I decide a hot shower might help.

The bathroom is tiny but functional. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror as I hang Maddox's coat on the hook behind the door. The water takes forever to heat up, but when it finally does, I step under the spray with a sigh of relief.

I let the hot water beat off my back as I sit on the floor of the tub, knees drawn up to my chest. My mind keeps circling back through everything—the journal, Winters, Maddox, the Refuge, my grandfather, the transformation. It's too much to process, too much to believe.

As the steam rises around me, flashes of memory become more vivid. Not just sensations now, but images—people scattering as I charged through the Refuge. The tactical team backing away, weapons raised. Sera's flames creating a barrier. Nadia's storm-grey aura expanding protectively.

And blood. I remember blood.

I think I hurt people when I shifted. I can feel it in my bones.

I focus more and more, trying to see the faces of those I might have injured, those who might have been caught in my rampage. The images come faster, more clearly—tactical team members thrown aside like dolls, Refuge inhabitants fleeing in terror.

And then I see him... Voren. My grandfather. Not afraid like the others, but advancing toward me, speaking words I couldn't understand, his hands raised in gestures that seemed to pull at something inside me.

I'm so lost in the memory that I don't hear the bathroom door open. When fingers touch my shoulder, survival instinct takes over. I snap back to the present, grabbing the hand and twisting sharply as I launch myself upward. In one fluid motion, I tackle the intruder to the tile floor, pinning them beneath me.

Only to find it's Maddox, his eyes wide with surprise. And my very naked, very wet body is pressed against his.

It takes a moment for my brain to process what's happening, but in that moment, I see something in his eyes close to lust. Not predatory, exactly, but definitely interested.

He chuckles, his voice rougher than usual. "Well, short stuff, I might have to change my reasons for staying to be because I find you seem to be lacking in clothing at increasing frequencies."

Mortification floods through me. I scramble backward, grabbing for a towel and nearly slipping on the wet floor in my haste.

"You could have knocked!" I manage, wrapping the towel around myself with as much dignity as I can salvage.

"I did," he says, rising to his feet with that effortless grace he always seems to possess, even injured. "Three times. You were... somewhere else."

He's right, I was lost in memories. But his casual manner only fuels my embarrassment.

"Turn around," I demand, clutching the towel tighter.

He obliges, facing the bathroom door. "I brought clothes. And food. Wasn't sure when you last ate actual sustenance and not, you know, raw terror."

"I didn't eat anyone," I snap, though a flicker of doubt crosses my mind. Did I? The memories are still so fragmented.

"Figure of speech," he says, though something in his tone makes me wonder. "Get dressed. We need to talk."

He steps out, closing the door behind him, and I lean against the counter, suddenly exhausted all over again. The adrenaline from tackling Maddox drains away, leaving me shaky.

On the counter is a plastic shopping bag containing underwear, a t-shirt, sweatpants, and socks—all generic, all approximately my size. I dry off and dress quickly, grateful for the simple dignity of clothing.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Maddox is sitting at the small table, several fast-food bags spread before him. The smell makes my stomach growl audibly—a reminder that whatever else I am, part of me is still very human.

"Eat," he says, pushing a burger toward me. "Then we talk."

I don't need to be told twice. I devour the burger, then start on the fries, barely tasting anything but aware of a hunger so profound it feels like I haven't eaten in days.

"When did I last eat?" I ask between bites.

"Real time? Probably yesterday morning. Body time? Considering the energy you expended during that transformation? It's like you haven't eaten for a week." He watches me with clinical interest. "Shifters usually prepare for the caloric demands of transformation. They eat beforehand, rest afterward."

"Not much choice in my case," I mutter, reaching for a second burger.

"No," he agrees. "It was purely instinctive. Fight or flight taken to its most extreme conclusion."

I pause, the second burger halfway to my mouth. "Did I... hurt anyone? Besides you, I mean?"

Maddox hesitates, which is answer enough.

"How bad?" I ask quietly.

"You were defending yourself," he says, which isn't really an answer. "The tactical team engaged first. And you were... not exactly discriminating in your response."

"Were they killed?" My voice sounds small even to my own ears.

"Three of them, yes." His eyes meet mine, unflinching. "But Lena, they weren't innocent bystanders. They came armed, prepared to take you by force. What happened was self-defense, if excessive."

"And the people at the Refuge? Sera? Marcus? Nadia?"

"Minor injuries only, as far as I could tell. You seemed to recognize them as non-threats, or at least, less immediate threats than the tactical team or your grandfather."

I set down the burger, my appetite suddenly diminished. "I killed three people."

"No," Maddox corrects sharply. "The creature you transformed into killed three armed combatants who were attempting to capture or kill it. There's a difference."

"Is there?" I look at my hands, trying to reconcile them with the claws I vaguely remember having. "It was still me."

"It was a part of you," he allows. "A part you don't yet understand or control. Which is why we need to get you somewhere safe, somewhere you can learn to integrate these aspects of yourself before something like this happens again."

"You mean Kieran's place?"

He nods. "It's our best option. No one knows about it except Kieran and me, and even I don't know exactly where it is—just how to contact the guide who can take us there."

"And when do we do that?"

"Tomorrow," he says, glancing at the bedside clock that now reads 3:47 AM. "We both need rest. You especially, after what your body just went through."

I look at the two beds, suddenly awkward again as I remember our encounter in the bathroom. "I'll take that one," I say, pointing to the one farthest from the door.

Maddox nods, seemingly untroubled by the situation. "I'll keep watch for the first few hours, then wake you. We both need sleep, but we can't both be unconscious at the same time. Not yet."

I climb into the bed fully clothed, not bothering to pull back the covers. Despite my exhaustion, sleep seems impossible with everything swirling in my mind.

"Maddox," I say after a moment of silence. "The prophecy everyone keeps talking about. What exactly does it say? What am I supposed to do?"

He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Finally, he says, "Different factions interpret it differently. The essence is that a child born of moon and wild—your mother's lunar bloodline and your father's shifter heritage—would unite the supernatural factions and end the war with humans."

"How?" I press. "By fighting? By diplomacy? By... what?"

"That's the part everyone disagrees on," he says. "Some think you're meant to lead supernatural forces to victory over humans. Others believe you'll convince humans to accept our existence peacefully. Still others think you'll fundamentally change what it means to be human or supernatural, blurring the lines between them."

"And what do you think?"

His shadow-wrapped form shifts in the dim light. "I think prophecies are dangerous things. They create expectations, and expectations create pressure, and pressure creates cracks. I've seen too many 'chosen ones' break under the weight of destiny."

It's not a comforting thought. I pull the thin motel blanket around me, suddenly cold again despite the warm clothes.

"Get some sleep," Maddox says, his voice gentler than I've heard it before. "Whatever you're meant to be, whatever you're meant to do—it can wait until tomorrow."

As I drift toward unconsciousness, one last disturbing thought surfaces: not everyone from the Refuge escaped. What happened to those who were caught? Are they now prisoners of my grandfather, or worse?

And what about Winters? Was he there during the attack? Whose side was he really on?

Questions without answers follow me into uneasy dreams filled with running, roaring, and the sensation of wind rushing through a body that isn't quite human anymore.