ELEVEN | FADED

Kathrena was breathless when I reached my truck, as though she’d only arrived moments before I had. She smoothed down her sleek black bob, her dark eyes glittering even in the dim light. The rain clouds were thick and oppressive; they clustered, dark grey and bloated, at the top of the sky, dribbling down onto colourless stretch below. The trees, bright oranges and bottle greens, looked stark against the pale grey backdrop of the sky.

“Hey,” she said softly, as I slammed the truck door. I dumped my bag onto her lap, and she frowned at me. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I spat, throwing the gear stick into reverse. 

She stilled, and then, with a sigh, turned to face the blur of trees speeding past the window. She brushed her bob across the brown patch of her exposed skin, hiding her face from view. 

I could feel phantom tears burning in my eyes, my throat too full, bobbing desperately, as I drove. I was angry at myself, even more so than I was with Skye. I didn’t understand my feelings, and now I didn’t want to. For once, I was glad that I couldn’t cry. I didn’t want Kathrena to see my weakness; weakness over a wolf boy, no less.

We skidded across the gravel, my truck thundering to a stop when we returned to the house. Kathrena inhaled a small, shaking breath, and then looked at me with something akin to guilt in her eyes.

“I hope you’re okay, El,” she whispered. She passed me my bag, and then slipped out into the rain.

“Thanks,” I muttered, watching her retreating figure disappear into the house. I leant over to her seat, dropping my backpack into the space that Kathrena had just vacated. I didn’t want to be around people, but the thought of being alone made fear grip my heart like black ice. 

I could no longer feel the cold, but as I stared out into the rain, the remembered feel of the drizzle made me shiver. I tugged my sleeves down over my hands, and hopped out of the truck.

I knew just where to go. I could feel the urge to feed biting at my canines, and I was sure that was the cause of my short temper, too. I didn’t want to hover on the other potential reasons, so I focused on the pleasure-pain, the satisfying burn in my mouth and throat. It replaced the burn of my unshed tears, and I felt a grim sort of acceptance as my hunger took precedence over my feelings. I was a monster, after all. 

My canines distended as I marched through the forest, picking out a path between the bracken and wildflowers as I walked. The damp foliage brushed against the thighs of my jeans, darkening the fabric as the moisture soaked in.

My parents were buried far from here, left behind in Hollowbridge, the town I’d grown up in. I’d needed a place to visit them, something akin to a grave, so I’d made my own space, situated far from the Clan house. It was private, a secret that only I was privy to.

My parents weren’t the only ones I’d left in Hollowbridge. But I couldn’t think of her; it hurt too much. No – I couldn’t let myself think of her dimples, the one in her chin and the one on her right cheek, the one that popped into her smooth, brown skin when she smiled. 

I couldn’t think of the feel of her dark hair, such a dark shade of brown that it was almost black, with its light toned ombre blurring the ends of her hair into a wispy blonde. Sometimes she’d dye it other colours, too, bold red or pastel pink or sea blue, like a mermaid. It curled between my fingers, brushing across my palms and tickling my wrists.

The hunger began to wane, and the burn behind my eyes and nose returned. I willed the tears to come, and the old memories, forced into the dustiest corner of my mind, flooded forth in their place. 

She was Filipino-American, and she’d loved my parents, just as they had loved her. We used to cook dinner together, at least once a week, and we’d share recipes, chopping vegetables on the island in my parents’ kitchen, squinting through the steam rising from the hob. Then there was the laughter: raucous, breathless, and beautiful. Her laughter, rising above my own and mingling with the steam, making it glisten with golden droplets beneath the low-hanging lamps. 

Her favourite was a rice broth, I remembered, shoving wet leaves out of my way. The sour taste of tamarind bit at my tongue, and then the occasional sweetness of a tomato; unusual flavours, passed down to her in a small, worn notebook, filled with recipes written by her grandmother. 

Her eyes, bright, brown eyes, clear like running water, met my mind’s eye. I cast my imagined gaze down, grazing over her smooth skin and her dimples. I watched her leaf through the notebook with delicate, reverent fingers, embellishing the recipes with stories of her grandparents. Then the memory faded, and I raised my eyes – my real eyes – to my surroundings.

The forest was growing dark, and I felt strangely unsettled. Perhaps it was the abrupt awakening to reality, but the familiar, creeping tingle was back, as though I was being followed, watched. I quickened my stride, wanting to reach my parents.

I needed the comfort only they could give me. Aradia and Ezrand tried, and they were wonderful, but there was no replacing my family. 

The trees began to thin, but rather than feeling safer, I felt exposed. A phantom shiver ran down my back, and I hugged my arms around myself, sleeves pulled down over my fingers, as I hurried towards the slope. It was a human habit, and it felt unnatural in my inhuman body. Yet still it brought me comfort, so I held myself a little tighter as I crested the peak before the drop.

I scrambled down the track, worn into the grass throughout the summer. The trees here were warmer, their leaves burnished gold and orange flame, burning bright against the white-grey of the sky, against the green brush of the pine needles behind them. The clearing was small, with a large stone in its centre.

Despite the rain, and the mud, I sat cross-legged in front of the stone. I didn’t know what type of rock it was; it was big, and a little chalky, and a washed-out grey in colour. All I did know was that I had just about been able to carve into it, scratching words with the dark green pocketknife my parents had given me for my fourteenth birthday.

I’d dragged it into this clearing, damp and dark, filled with moss-glazed rocks and arching mother trees, and it had become a makeshift graveyard for me to visit. I’d scraped leaves and vines in trailing patterns around the words I’d carved into its centre, across the flattest, smoothest part of the rock. It read:

Mum and Dad,

I miss you.

Young and wise, could sing all the songs of love

Ever written. Pluck from the thorn the blackberries to bake into pies

And do, pointing with eager fingertips into the bushel.

Take one another, and I, in your arms beneath the cloak of night

Sleepy-eyed, heavy-lidded, whispered words of light.

It had been difficult to carve, and I’d sliced through the skin of my fingers as I’d dug my small knife into the stone. But I’d wanted to do it, and I’d felt closer to them as I’d worked the words of my poem into the face of the rock. 

I’d written it myself, not long after they’d passed. Aradia had encouraged me to work through my feelings, so I’d tried to put down my favourite memories in a form I could honour them with. I’d imagined reading it at their funeral; which was my funeral too, in the literal sense.

Listening to people speak about your death was strange. Hearing them cry over it was stranger.

The burn was back, and I stroked my damp fingers across the stone. I left a streak of water and dirt across the words, imagining that I was smearing my own tears down my cold cheeks. I missed the heat of a blush, the sting of tears.

Then I could see him, in my mind’s eye, his golden eyes watching me. I span around, the unsettling feeling that I was being watched tingling at the back of my neck again. But I was alone, and I let my thoughts overwhelm me. It was his fault, I was sure, that my memories of her had flooded through me, a tidal wave that I'd been holding back since my death. He'd made me feel something I'd not felt, not once, in the last four years.

I meandered back to the Clan house in a daze, letting my hands brush through the bracken. The trees afforded me some protection from the rain, and though I could not feel its chill, each sharp needle that tumbled between the leaves above struck like a dart against my sodden clothes.

I began to slow my steps as I neared the house. I knew, without a doubt, that Aradia, if not Ezrand as well, would be sat downstairs. Perhaps Falmer, too; the way his dark eyes had been following me lately suggested something new was present, something more than his normal, peering curiosity. 

With my heart in my throat, I crept around to the back of the house. If I jumped, I might be able to clamber on top of the library, and claw my way up to my room via my balcony. I left my backpack in my truck, and snuck around the house, close to the brickwork so that anyone looking out of the window would hopefully miss me.

I dug my fingers and the toes of my shoes into the gaps between the stones, and surprised myself by how nimbly I managed to climb up into my room. I slipped in, unnoticed, and stripped off my wet clothes.

The evening passed numbly, slowly. I tried to clatter around occasionally, not wanting anyone to come looking for me. The sky darkened outside, the white-grey fading, paling like the sepia of an aged photograph. Then the navy began to blur through the clouds, the black ink dripping from the top and seeping downwards.

I lay in my bed, wearing a large t-shirt of my dad’s that I’d taken from our house. It had smelt like him, before, but after four years of wearing and washing it had imbued it with my scent instead. It was frayed, with holes splitting the back, but it reminded me of him, and my mother, and I curled up in it on top of my duvet, watching the sky blacken sluggishly.

I needed to feed, but I didn't have the energy to drag myself up. Maybe I'd miss school tomorrow, and go hunting in the woods instead. I should have today, I knew, but my mind was too full to be practical. 

Then there was a tap on my window. I wrenched myself upright, and shrugged off the t-shirt in favour of a dress I’d left discarded on the floor, embarrassed that somebody might find me wearing it. I wrapped the dress around me in its place, its pale khaki green lengths shining almost white in the darkness. I crept towards the window, and then another tap came. 

The tapping was wavering, but insistent. I imagined myself silhouetted against the stark outlines of my room, the green-white dress flowing across my pale skin. I yanked the window open, and stuck my head out, scanning through the undergrowth for movement. 

My hunter’s eyes caught sight of him quickly. I frowned, feeling the skin compress between my eyebrows. My lips drew downwards, and then he waved, his own mouth pulling up into a skewed, uncomfortable smile.

“Hey,” Skye called, waving. His hand froze in the air as his gaze met mine, those beautiful golden eyes burning, backlit with an emotion that I couldn’t quite read.

“Shush,” I hissed, rushing out onto the balcony. The fabric of my dress billowed out behind me. I glared at him, yanking one leg over the edge of the balcony, and then the other. Then I jumped down, stalking towards him.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” he whispered, swallowing heavily as I neared him. My feet were bare, and for a moment I wanted to laugh; I must look terrifying, a predator, a creature of the night. My spark of humour died when I realised how apt that was.

“What do you want?” I snarled, my temper raging as it had earlier. I could feel my canines distending, my pale brown eyes sparking with anger. I should have cared about the consequences; I should have worried about revealing my true nature. But I couldn’t see past the haze of red obscuring my vision.

“We – we need to talk,” Skye murmured, his golden eyes wide. His lips barely moved as his spoke. “I think you might be my mate.”