C. INDURATIZE

 

Induratize: verb. To harden the heart.

 

“You get why I can never leave here, right?” Josh asked.

Of course I knew the answer, but I shook my head and stood there like an idiot. It was December and we were in the courtyard of Quedlinburg Abbey. Boguet had just made his big escape from the Hounds and I still wasn’t over the fact that Josh had tried to stick a needle in me, even if he was trying to undo everything he had done to me — cursing me to life as the bitten. I was about to leave with Connor and the born werewolves forever. He leaned down for a kiss, I put a palm up to stop him. But he did it all the same. He kissed me — my fingertips anyway, the barrier between our lips. For a second I even shut my eyes.

And here I am again. I wake in the place that I hate. The smell of bleach and itch of wool is enough to make me scream, but I don’t.

I don’t want to see the color of his eyes.

I don’t want to talk to him.

Don’t want to be here.

Don’t want to register his presence as anything other than unwanted.

Now I feel his hand wrapped around mine, his thumb gently rubbing against my skin. Instead I shift. The skin on my hand turns to fur and my fingernails turn to claws. I slip out of his grip. He forced me to break a promise by bringing me back here. I swore to myself I’d never see this place again. Not for me, but for him.

I just want Josh to be over me. To be free of whatever is holding him to me. My being here won’t do that for him. So I let out a low growl, a warning that I’m not messing around. He just sits at the edge of the bed, waiting for me to dish it out. There isn’t even a hint of fear in his body language.

Physically speaking, I could kill him. It would be easy. Not so easy, psychologically, though. First boyfriends are tied up in so many other firsts. And maybe I’ve been kidding myself into thinking I could just walk away so easily.

I slink into the corner. My eyes are heavy from the drugs that flow through my veins. Slumping against the cold stone wall, I lick at the wound on my right arm, already healing since I rolled off the motorcycle.

Even in this form I remember the salty scent of tears. It brings up a vague human emotion related to them. I thank the fur of the skin that I’m in for protecting me from them. From mine. From his.