EPILOGUE: THE END

 

There’s a place in the Jura Mountains on the border between France and Switzerland where the hunting is good, the water pure. Untouched. I used to go there in the summers between college semesters. In the years since graduating, though, my visits have become increasingly sporadic. Life just got busier. Entire summers here were shortened to months, then mere weeks. Now it’s just the holidays or special occasions. There’s one day in particular I never miss in early November. This year marks a milestone: fifteen years. The early morning drive into the mountains is so familiar that I could probably do it in my sleep. After parking my Bugatti outside the main gate, I take in the view of the glassy lake below and the snow-capped mountains looming above. The air is still but filled with familiar scents I never realize I miss until inhaling them again. I slip under the metal gate with its warnings about trespassing posted in multiple languages and follow my feet as they lead me into the woods, dress shoes crunching on fallen pine needles along the wide path. The early morning sun hits the forest floor in pale patches. Of all the lessons I learned from the American packs over the years, this is my favorite.

A rustle in the undergrowth means I’m being followed. As I delve deeper into this territory, I sense their numbers growing, keeping pace in my periphery but only from afar. They know I’ll run with them when I’m ready. First, I have another matter that I need to attend to. The forested path eventually opens up to a large clearing where a Swiss-style chalet is nestled. It has a gabled roof with wide eaves, decorative carving and moldings, large windows and balconies. Smoke rises from the stone chimney, filling the air with the scent of burning fir. I step inside without knocking, and I’m greeted by the warmth of the fire and the intoxicating smells of bacon and pancakes, my favorite breakfast foods. I close my eyes, tilt back my head and breathe deeply. Except for the furnishings taken from the flat in Paris, everything here is hand-made from wood. Overhead are exposed timber beams. I stalk into the kitchen where Amara bustles around as her children whisper conspiratorially over which piece of bacon they’re going to get. The triplets are five now, coming into their own personalities. Magda is almost a mirror of her mother’s image yet has her father’s fiery temperament. Ludo reminds me of myself as a kid, the quiet observer. Rollo, a diminutive form of Rodolfus, was born with the same gray eyes and calm temperament as his namesake. He’s the artist of the three. Time has soared by. Another ten years and the aging process will start to slow for them. As it has for their mother. Amara looks like the same twenty-something I met over fifteen years ago. She wears her hair at shoulder length now — too many grabby little hands for longer locks to contend with — but not much else has changed about her appearance.

“Uncle Connor!” Magda cries at the sight of me, running into my arms.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Amara smiles warmly before stepping from behind an island to bring me into an embrace.

“You are entirely too quiet,” she says. When she pulls away, she looks me up and down and tries to dust off the flour that’s transferred from her apron to my wool overcoat.

“It’s alright,” I say softly.

I brush my fingers against her cheek to wipe off white residue.

“The children wanted to serve him breakfast in bed,” she tells me.

“It’s Papa’s birthday,” Rollo explains. “He’s turning fifteen years old today.”

“That’s old,” Magda stage whispers.

Amara started the tradition of commemorating the day Arden was made human — a birthday of sorts. At first I thought it was cruel, but for her part she’s simply celebrating another year, another chunk of time she’s been blessed with, not knowing how many more there will be. Who am I to argue?

“I know,” I say. “I come bearing gifts.”

In my hand I hold out a box wrapped in silver paper. Expensive but not particularly meaningful, the box conceals a Breitling Emergency series watch for Arden, with a dual-frequency micro-transmitter for search-and-rescue teams. It’s a reminder that while I may have made him a promise years ago not to directly save his life, it doesn’t mean I can’t remind him to do so for himself, now that he has so much more to live for.

“There’s more for the kids in the car.”

As I remove my coat and hang it over the back of a kitchen chair, my eyes fall on the child-sized art easel where Rollo has painted a familiar image, a triangle on a square, representing home. A little hand tugs insistently at mine. When I turn my attention, I’m met by Magda’s impatient dark brown eyes.

“Come with us,” she commands in a hush. “But you have to be quiet. It’s a surprise.”

Trying to keep a serious expression, I nod and allow the children to lead me upstairs, where the ceiling follows the angles of the roof. The children’s shared bedroom is to the left of the wide hall. We tread quietly across the hardwood floor, stopping by the master bedroom across from theirs, the door slightly ajar. Arden is still in bed, his left arm covering his eyes from the early morning light. The old tattoo of the brown wolf beneath a tree is illuminated, although the colors are slightly faded now. Scar tissue cuts through where a bone once jutted from his flesh. The children tiptoe toward him, Magda and Rollo anyway. Ludo hangs back for a second, holding the tray and unsure of how to proceed. With a smile I gesture for him to join them as I take the tray from him. I glance down at the coffee in a French press, a small glass of orange juice and a stack of pancakes decorated with a bacon smile and berry eyes. It brings a smile to my own face thinking about how different his life is now.

“Happy birthday, Papa!” they exclaim together, but not in unison as Magda leaps on top of him.

“We brought you breakfast in bed!” she declares with pride.

Arden props himself on his elbows, squinting against the sunlight. He’s grown his hair longer and wears a closely trimmed beard that’s flecked with gray. There are worry lines starting to etch their way across his brow, but they’re offset by the laugh lines that crinkle around his eyes. Perplexed, Magda looks around for the tray of food and then squints accusingly at Ludo, who is perched at the foot of the bed empty-handed.

Before she has a meltdown, I say, “I’ve got it.”

At the same time Arden holds Magda above his head as a distraction. He smiles over at me as she explodes into laughter, wiggling to escape as the boys leap to her rescue. He turns his bare back to me in the chaos and showcases a new tattoo, at least new to my eyes. The tray almost slips entirely from my grip. I manage to keep a hold of it, not before rattling the cutlery and spilling some of the juice.

Arden’s amber eyes hold me in his gaze. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I shake it off and quip, “There’s no such thing.”

Magda screeches, “I told you so!”

Ludo smiles impishly — clearly the teller of stories — before he scampers off the bed, chased by his sister. They both shift into pups, and Rollo joins them. At some point they might be a danger to Arden. For now I shake my head and let out a grinning sigh. The others outside know enough to keep their distance as wolves to minimize risk. As the warden of the property, I’ve provided Arden with enough antivenin to save him or any unsuspecting trespasser, but accidents can still happen. Bounding from the bed, he chases his children across the floor, dressed only in flannel pajama bottoms. I take in the image on his back. The weight of the secret that I’ve been keeping from him all these years suddenly soars free like that bird overhead on the day that Roul died. Maybe I was a fool, as Arden used to like to call me, to try to hide it from him. In reality, all the clues were there for him to piece together. He bends to scoop up his children playfully by a large window, glancing over his shoulder to wink at me.

The image that spans his entire back is done in Amara’s signature woodblock style — no color, just black ink. It’s a majestic eagle with its wings spread. The symbol of Rodolfus de Aquila and those of his lineage. I smile broadly, knowing now that everything that Roul built will live on, not just in the work I continue to do at Fenrir Pharmaceuticals, but here too among his kin. Clutched within the mighty claws beneath the eagle is a banner that simply reads: “In Nomine Patris.” In the Name of the Father.