Prologue

To be honest, I don’t know where this story truly begins, or why I’m the one that was chosen to begin it. Lochian says it’s obvious why, but I’m not so sure. Sure, I’m a writer, but that doesn’t automatically make me an expert on our experiences. The letters help, I suppose.

You see, we’ve been writing to you. Wow, it’s been … years, now. Anyways, the letters became a collection of stories. Chronicles of our time spent waiting for you.

It’s easier to absorb everything that way, I think.

So here it is. The story of us, ready for your perusal. It’s all true, and perhaps more detailed than need be, but every bit is important. And our story is first, apparently. Which brings me back to my original point.

Where do you begin?

How do you skim through the memories of your life and say, ‘Yes, here it is, the moment when my life truly began.’

Ah, well.

In my case, you have to understand something about me.

For most of my life, I ached for a friend. A genuine, true friend. I begged for one. Allowed myself to be treated terribly in exchange for false words. Beautiful lies sung by a person who said I was everything, but they treated me like I was nothing. There’s a difference between words and actions, and it’s been said actions speak loudest, but oh how I scavenged for those words.

I doted. I praised. I covered up the damage. I worshiped.

All for someone who never cared for me. Not really.

And the thing is, now that I have people who do truly love me, because I have found not one friend, but many, I’ve never been more terrified in my life. Life is a fragile thing, easily uprooted. You never know just how far one’s roots go, and what—or who—else they may be entangled with until they’re torn from the ground and exposed for all the world to see.

What would I do to keep that from happening?

What are the limits to love?

Because if I endured all of that pain and humiliation for the benefit of someone who treated me so poorly, it’s not hard to imagine what I would do for someone who actually deserved it.

With this in mind, I think I know where to start, now.

In the dead of winter on a Tuesday night, an old classmate of mine holds a bag of frozen peas to my cheek. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other in years, and we aren’t even close. Not really. We went to the same university and maybe ate lunch together a few times, but that’s it. We ran in different circles. I graduated ahead of her, and everyone else. Again.

But that didn’t stop her from choke slamming my boyfriend against the floor on a snowy, technicolor night.

River pulled me into a putrid alcove near the bathrooms, the floor slick with vomit from the last person who took shelter there. There was a little stone ledge in there, dusted with the ashes of who knows what. Given the neon yellow particulate that accompanied the soot, I had a pretty good idea.

River trapped my hands on the ledge with his own, thrust against my back despite my protests. There were people lined up in the hallway to the bathrooms, right outside the alcove. We were separate from the bottom feeders of Levena, but no less private. I should

I broke free from his grip and told him no, not here. That I wanted to go home. He backhanded me, rings shredding my eye and cheek. No one else cared, they never did. The place was a run down bar in the northeastern part of Levena that I hated, but River loved it because he could be himself there. I’m sure you can already infer that he’s the type of man that always gets what he wants. And there, he wasn’t an uncommon type of folk.

But not that night. That night an elf and a qieren were on a mission, searching for a regular in the bar for reasons I didn’t come to learn until later. The couple were walking past the alcove when River struck me. The qieren, purple skinned with fearsome horns, tore through the line to the bathroom. She cleared the way for her elven companion who snatched River by the back of his neck. I was terrified for the seemingly delicate blonde, but she dragged him out into the hallway just fine.

And to my complete shock, the elf lifted him up like it was childsplay. River fiercely clawed at her arm, and she slammed him down into the old planking which shattered upon impact. After knocking him out cold, the elf wiped her hands off on a gorgeous sheer black dress, then offered it to me. It was then I recognized her.

“Lindsey?” I asked, voice trembling. I was so cold, and covered in so much filth I didn’t dare soil her. All I wanted was to go home, but I didn’t know where that was anymore.

“Yeah, kid. Come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

The qieren stood protectively in front of us, arms crossed and tail snapping dangerously at those passing by. She was dressed just as beautifully, both of them wore short dresses and tall heels, their lethal beauty able to wound even the strongest of hearts.

And something in me said, ‘enough.’

It said, ‘take the goddamn help.’

It said, ‘run.’

And I did.

They brought me back to the place that had been my house for the past eight months. It was a home to me, once. As I rescued my backpack from the closet and efficiently packed it, running through a plan I’d crafted again and again during the precious hours of night, the fact that this place was more prison than home became more clear than ever. Lindsey insisted on bringing only what I needed or was sentimental, anything else can be replaced.

Wordlessly, I did as she said in fear of telling her never mind. That I don’t need help.

But I didn’t.

It took me less than four minutes to fill the backpack. A few changes of clothes, my notebooks once buried under the bed, and the contents of a shoebox once hidden behind a paint can in the little cupboard under the stairs, is all I brought with me. Lindsey brought me back to her place, which brings us to now.

Peas on the face.

The qieren, Kitt, paces the den as she talks on the phone. She’s dressed in jeans and a sweater now, as is Lindsey. When Kitt mentions a healer, I shake my head. An action I immediately regret. After holding back a groan, I say, “I don’t need a doctor. It’s just—”

Lindsey rolls her eyes, readjusting the frozen peas. “Your face is split open, sweet cheeks. Do you feel like explaining that, the other cuts from those damned rings, and the bruise covering half your face? Besides, I said healer, not doctor. Don’t worry, it’s all under the radar.”

I swallow. “Do you—do you know a witch?”

Lindsey gives me a flat look. “Several. Is that a problem?”

“No, I just … I haven’t met a witch before.” I admit.

“Oh, well—”

A knock rattles the front door three times in quick succession. Everyone in the room freezes, but my heart doesn’t get the memo. It drowns out all noise, throbbing in my ears. It screams, ‘run run run,’ but I can’t move. I watch Kitt pocket her phone and move towards the door.

Lindsey sets the peas on the cushion between us and stands up, fists clenching at her sides. Kitt reaches behind a towering plant in a vase beside the door frame, then pulls out a baseball bat inscribed with runes and embedded with massive spikes.

“What the fuck …” I whisper, not meaning to have said it all.

“Go in the bedroom,” Lindsey says, but I can’t move.

Kitt looks through the peep-hole, then back at us with confusion pinching her features. “Either of you know a wolf behema?”

I shake my head, and Lindsey does too.

Then the qieren grins, accepting the challenge of unannounced strangers like a long lost chest of precious treasure. She opens the door, twirling the bat around like a baton. Kitt cheerily says, “Evening. Anything I can help you with?”

From my vantage point on the couch, all I can see is a lumbering figure on the other side of the threshold, partially hidden by the qieren. After a tense moment the person asks, “Are you Kitt Meissa?”

Lindsey gives me one last look, then leaves me to join Kitt’s side. Kitt tilts her head. “Who’s asking?”

“I am Dr. Atthias, and I work at Heartstone Medical, in the psychiatry unit. I was under the impression that you are Arlo Rook’s power of attorney?”

The silence is so damn thick that I could choke on it. Lindsey gently takes the bat from Kitt, startling her. Kitt glances between Lindsey and the behema a few times, then asks, “Do you have some kind of identification?” A moment passes, then she adds, “Alright, come in. Where is Dr. Kensworth?”

Half-shifted, the behema gives me a cursory glance upon entering, then shifts their attention to Kitt. They say, “I apologize for intruding upon you so late, but this matter is urgent and I felt it should be discussed in person, without Dr. Kensworth. I will be blunt with you, Ms. Meissa, you have been lied to. Mr. Rook is not refusing your visits, he’s been in solitary confinement for over thirty days now. Through my colleague’s findings and my own, we have found that not only is Dr. Kenswoth discriminating against Mr. Rook for his being a witch, but others in the unit as well.

“His ‘treatments’ are torture at best, and I’m afraid he’s being allowed to do so, the corruption goes all the way to the top. We have been working to help him and the others trapped there, but we’ve met a wall, one that is about to have me fired. So, I come directly to you in fear of this all being buried further, or worse, the witches themselves. You must withdraw him from the program immediately, before it’s too late. Here, I have a copy of Mr. Rook’s records that’s available to the rest of us, and Dr. Kensworth’s copy which is … much more extensive, and graphic. There are photos—”

“I’ve heard enough. Bring me to him. Now,” Kitt says, and the atmosphere quakes beneath her demand. I’ve no idea who they’re talking about, but it’s clear he’s important to her. My broken heart aches with festering jealousy. To have someone care about me that much. Then again, I did, and I just ran away from him.

River loves me. I know this. But he’s like a child who loves so hard that he breaks the bones of all his favorite pets.

Lindsey’s already started to gather up their boots and bags, and the bat. After a minute she ties her hair back, coming over to me while Kitt and the doctor talk. She kneels beside my place on the couch. “We’ll be back. The spare bedroom is there, and it has its own bathroom. You live here now. Eat, sleep, shower. Do whatever you like. I’ll lock the door behind us. There’s wards, too. No one will be able to get in. You are safe here, okay? Don’t be stupid and leave.”

A small laugh tumbles out of me, unbidden. I look away, wiping at my eyes. “Okay.” I nod, then look back at her. “Okay. Thank you, Lindsey. I’ll make it up to you. I can pay you, I—”

“Don’t worry about that right now.” Lindsey shakes her head, then stands and gently ruffles my hair. “Try to get some sleep.”

I quickly look over at Kitt, but she’s rifling through the folder. The behema stands beside her, hands behind their back and ears flat against their head. I shift my attention back to Lindsey. “Good luck. I hope your friend’s okay.”

Lindsey winks. “He will be. Those bastards that were supposed to be taking care of him? They’re done. We protect our own around here, Quentin.”

I smile and nod, then watch her go.

They all leave, and when the door shuts, it clicks four times despite the fact there’s only two locks, one deadbolt and one in the handle itself.

I sit there for a long time, wondering how I got here, and if I’m truly going to stay.

If such a thing as true friends is possible.

I think we both know how that turned out.