Chapter 6

 

Randall

 

LONG BEFORE birdsong crept through the morning, long before the mist was scorched away by the rising sun, Randall was out of bed, standing at the window and watching the camp beyond. Some wolves were early risers, creeping out on two legs or four to greet the barely-there morning.

Randall’s nose twitched as the faint scents of bacon and coffee drifted from the communal kitchens. He should get some, for Anthony. The morning cold lately seemed to make Anthony stiffer, make walking just a little bit harder. Randall tried to think ahead most days, to simply provide alternatives to the actions that caused Anthony the most issues. So he should go and get breakfast now, before Anthony was awake, or else he’d be pretending everything was fine, that everything was normal, and shuffling a painful path across the camp to get it himself.

Sighing softly, shoving his hair out of his face, Randall glanced down at his watch. Given how deeply Anthony was sleeping and how long the past few days had been, he probably had another two hours before his brother would wake up. Enough time, maybe, to do what he needed to. And then he would bring breakfast.

Edwin was passed out in one of the beds, limbs sprawled everywhere, blankets tangled by his feet. Randall paused to cover him, to smooth the blankets around Edwin and gently rub his hand through the messy waterfall of blond hair. Edwin snorted in his sleep, rolling over, ever the exhausted pup, even now. Randall turned to Anthony, who slept in wolf form. Always protecting them, Anthony, always doing what was necessary to keep them safe. So he slept that way to have every advantage possible, should the worst happen. The chill in the air would make it even more difficult for this form to get out of bed. Brow creased in concern, Randall gathered the blankets from his own abandoned mattress and tucked them around Anthony, careful not to wake him as he fussed over the covers.

He grabbed a sweater and slipped into his shoes, then silently crept from the cabin. He left footprints in the mist-dampened grass, a ghost trail over bent green, making his way toward the Gray Lady’s home. Two wolves were standing at attention outside her door, but they did no more than flick an ear toward him as Randall passed. The door seemed larger today, more imposing without his brothers at his side, without Anthony to lead them.

But that was why he was here. So, after a moment, Randall straightened his tie, smoothed a hand down his worn gray sweater, and lightly knocked on her door.

There was no answer for a long while. Randall shifted his feet, awkward and cold, but he didn’t leave. Both of the guardian wolves ignored him. The faint sounds and scents of the camp seemed far behind him. It was just him, alone on a porch, waiting. Finally, there was the soft noise of movement from within, and the door released, swinging open slowly to admit him.

Randall hesitated. He wanted to move swiftly, with purpose. The way Anthony would. He wanted to march in and demand respect, to earn their way into the pack. But he hesitated. Hand on the doorway, he paused, listening to the measured footsteps from within, the hiss of boiling water, the clink of a spoon on china. And he nearly left. Because who was he to approach the oldest of them all? He was books and research, he was knowledge of things long past. There was no power in him.

Not like Anthony.

Not like her.

But his brother was sick. Anthony was dying, was fading, bit by bit. So Randall screwed up his courage and stepped inside.

The Gray Lady was seated, pouring a cup of tea, seemingly unconcerned with him. Randall politely stood by the doorway, closing it behind him to keep the damp morning air from her warm cabin. Long seconds turned to minutes, ticking away, but Randall was silent. The Gray Lady seemed to demand that kind of patience.

A low table filled one half of the room, but Randall didn’t dare sit. The Gray Lady was at the head, holding court with ghosts, the gentle morning breeze curling around the bright fabrics that covered the windows. Last night the room had seemed so much more welcoming. Then again, last night Randall had his family by his side. Now it was only him.

Finally, she spoke. “You have sought me out, little one.” There was a laugh in her voice. Her eyes sought his over the rim of her mug. “I did not realize we had an appointment.”

“You said you needed time to think.” Randall took a step forward, hands spread in supplication. “I realize that it’s only been a day—”

“Less than that.” The Lady set her cup down, legs crossed and arms resting loosely on her knees as she leaned forward to study him with that intent, piercing gaze. “Barely a full night passed before you were back at my door.”

“I know,” Randall admitted, having the grace, at least, to sound sheepish. “I apologize. But the matter at hand is not one that allows for procrastination.”

“You think I am dawdling?” Her voice trilled upward, not entirely in amusement, a warning entering her words.

“I think that if you are who I believe you to be, you hardly needed time to think. You knew what you wanted to do the moment we arrived.” There was a faint accusation there, Randall raising his jaw slightly. “My brother is a wolf, my lady. He is one of yours. Whatever our parents’ sins in your eyes, I do not believe you intend to deny him.”

“Oh, really? And tell me, little wolf, how do you know my mind?”

“You are Liadan. The mother of us all. I’ve read about you all my life. My father kept books, and I read them all. You wouldn’t turn away a wolf in need.” Randall took another step closer, daring in his desperation. “My brother is ill, my lady. Tell me what you need me to do, what I should say, what the magic words are. Tell me anything and I’ll do it. Just tell me you’ll help him.”

Another silence descended on them, this one unbearable. Randall wanted to scream at her, to rip the silence apart, to force her to speak. But he made himself stand still as she stared at him, eyes calm. She stood, every movement liquid, turning her back to him while she prepared more tea, as if there was nothing else to do that day besides make tea. At the fireplace in the corner, she made busy work with the kettle and water, pouring in careful, measured moments. In that moment, Randall hated her. She held Anthony’s life in her hands, and she refused to speak.

“He is a leader, your brother,” the Gray Lady mused as she added sugar to the cup. “We have need of those. You and your brother are strong, healthy, so he must be fit to lead.”

“He’s taken care of us our whole lives,” Randall said, voice tight, studying the line of her back, the set of her shoulders, trying to read anything at all from her. “He’s never gotten to be anything but our brother. Even when he was a kid, all he did was protect us. He’s the best man in the world.”

The clink of her spoon against the china was like nails grating against his back. He wanted an answer. He’d done the research, he’d read the books, and he knew what it should be. But she was refusing to give him the satisfaction of it, the peace of knowing that he’d done what he was supposed to. When she at last returned to her seat, Randall’s hands were all but shaking, his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to remain silent, waiting for her.

“You are very impertinent, speaking to me as you do. You are not your pack’s leader.”

She didn’t sound angry, but Randall instinctively took a step back, his shoulders losing some of their defiant slant. “I know,” he agreed quietly. “But—”

“But it’s for your brother,” she finished, and Randall nodded. The spoon was moved slowly in her tea, silver dragging through tan. She seemed entranced by it, letting the quiet fall once more. Her next words held an edge of warning. “The pack is kept safe only by its cohesion. I will not tolerate any lone wolves. Those who leave will be cutting themselves off from my protection.”

Randall nodded. Whatever the price, it would be worth it, if it got Anthony the help he needed. “We are not our parents,” he reminded her.

“No,” the Gray Lady agreed. “You are not.” That seemed to decide her. She put the tea aside, standing and holding out her hand. “You and your brothers may stay. We will give you whatever assistance we have.”

It was like a dark, tangled ball of sour fear was suddenly pulled from his throat. Randall took her hand, bowing his head to kiss her knuckles, gratitude babbling out of him, the words all slurred together and meaningless. She smiled at him, and with a graceful gesture she led him to the door. “Geoffry”—she gestured to one of the wolves—“let the healers know that Anthony Lewis is to be put in their care. Give him whatever help he requires.”

Randall turned to thank her again, only to find her shaking her head. “I do not know if there is anything we can do,” she warned quietly. “His sickness may be beyond the scope of our healers. But if your brother is to die, at least he will do so with his own kind.”

And then she was gone. Geoffry had taken off, leaving the remaining guardian to watch Randall climb down the stairs, walk across the grass, in a daze. It felt like he’d been in the Gray Lady’s presence for hours, and yet the sun was barely peeking above the horizon. Nothing at all had changed.

He wanted to feel relief. Instead, that knot of fear simply settled back in, clutching at him. They were there. They were accepted.

But it might not make any difference at all.

His feet led him. Randall barely paid attention to where he was walking, his shoes damp in the grass, faint shivers sliding down his arms. Randall wasn’t one for wolfish running, for letting go of everything but instincts. At the moment, though, he felt the need to be wolfish. He didn’t shift, but he wandered around the outside of the camp, near the trees, lost in his own head, in a thousand thoughts and none at all. The wild woods called to him, and he let himself be drawn in, barely aware when he walked past the van that had brought them there, now parked by the path that had led them to the clearing.

“Randall!” Victor’s voice sounded decidedly croakier than usual. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

At the sound of his name, Randall jumped, startled, turning toward Victor and showing his teeth. His eyes blazed yellow, a growl rumbling out before his thoughts managed to catch up to what was happening. Randall choked back the rest of the warning sound, fumbling his glasses off to clean them on the edge of his sweater, trying to look like he hadn’t just acted like an idiot puppy during a thunderstorm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, shoving his glasses back on his nose and giving Victor an embarrassed look. “I was a bit distracted.”

“Oh. Er, that’s quite all right,” Victor said haltingly, peering at him. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of the van with the door open, a takeaway cup of what smelled like tea sitting in a drink holder. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, my fault.” Randall hesitantly took a step forward. Victor looked incredible first thing in the morning. Then again, Randall was hard pressed to think of a moment when Victor wouldn’t look incredible. The problem was, Victor had no interest at all in Randall, he was sure, other than as some amusing idiot who sometimes stumbled into his path. And the worst part of it all was that Victor had seen inside Randall’s head. All those stupid thoughts Randall pretended weren’t there had gotten trotted out and shown off. Really, if the option existed to just hide under a rock for the rest of his life, Randall would have taken it.

Then again, if he did, he’d never get to see Victor first thing in the morning, with his hair just a bit out of place and a little hoarseness to his voice. So maybe rock dwelling wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“They let you back in,” he observed, almost immediately internally kicking himself. Of course they had, otherwise Victor wouldn’t be there. Next Randall would be pointing out that the grass was very green that morning and that sometimes people inhaled oxygen.

“Surprisingly, yes.” Victor laid the book he was reading down on his lap. “Mallory was at the gate when I arrived. He mentioned the Gray Lady wanted to speak to all of us later, so I have something of a day pass.” A small smirk curled the edge of his lips. “I nearly ran over Jed and Redford. Did you see them?”

“No.” Randall took another cautious step forward. Victor smelled like tea and shaving cream and a tang of oranges, but Randall wasn’t sure if under that there was acceptance for his presence or not. Reading nonwolves was hard sometimes. “Where was Redford? His cabin was next door to ours, but I was busy convincing Edwin not to go for a midnight run with strangers. I didn’t see him after he went to bed.”

“Oh, he was out at the gate with Jed.” Victor waved a hand in the direction of said gate. “Lying on the ground with a sleeping bag underneath the gate. I’d almost call it cute, if it wasn’t so amusingly melodramatic.”

Randall wrapped his arms around himself, warding off the morning chill. “They acted like it was forever. I don’t understand. It was only one night. You would have thought one of them was shipping off to war.”

“The perils of being in love.” Victor looked torn between being amused and exasperated. He gave Randall a look he couldn’t quite identify, something deeper than the idle smirk Victor was still wearing. “I suppose one only understands when one has felt that way about another person.”

“Haven’t you?” The question was out before he could stop himself. Randall wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer or not. Dropping his eyes, he shrugged, striving for a casual tone. “I mean, I would have assumed someone like you would have.”

The way Victor absently rubbed his fingers over the two scars on his neck made Randall’s hackles rise. “I thought so,” Victor said contemplatively. “It was love, in a way, and very much not love in others. But it was acknowledged—” He paused and gave Randall a rueful smile. “Well, it’s probably not something you want to hear me prattle on about. I do apologize.” He abruptly changed the topic. “Have you had breakfast yet?”

Actually, Randall did want to hear. He wanted to know what made Victor have that expression, who gave him those scars that sent tight, sickening waves of jealousy through Randall every time he saw them. He wanted to know, but at the same time, the mere topic had him wishing he could run away. Not that it mattered. Victor had the person whom he’d loved, he had whoever else he was with, and none of it was any concern of Randall’s.

He shuffled a few steps away, forcing a smile. “No, I haven’t. I, uh, I had some things to do this morning, I haven’t had a chance. I was going to go get some to take to Anthony and Edwin. They’re of the ‘hearty breakfast’ school. If they don’t eat first thing, they complain for the rest of the day about starving to death.”

“Excellent.” Victor sounded revitalized by the prospect of food. He hopped out of the van, tea in one hand, book tucked under the other arm. “I wonder if the pack will have anything other than meat? Not that a bit of ham or sausage isn’t excellent at breakfast, but one does wish for variety.”

“I certainly hope so,” Randall said, falling into step beside Victor, careful not to walk too close. He wanted to. He wanted to get close enough to bury his nose in under Victor’s ear, to wrap himself up in the scent and warmth of him, and then to go chasing after him to find breakfast. Because he was, at heart, an idiot. Being around this many wolves was apparently making him more and more like Edwin every day. Since when did he like cuddles? This was most disturbing. “I prefer a bit of fruit and tea to massive quantities of meat products. We can hope for the best, I suppose.”

Victor gave a hum of agreement as he sipped his tea. He glanced at the sky, his eyes narrowing at the brighter light that was starting to spread over the tops of the trees. “If I may ask, what were you doing up so early?” He sounded like he could scarcely imagine that anybody woke up before nine in the morning. “I’m only awake because I barely slept.”

Randall hesitated. “I had to get up before Anthony,” he admitted. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have let me go see her.”

He didn’t need to explain further—Victor obviously understood what he meant. “And how did that conversation go?”

Randall puffed out a silent sigh, watching as his breath left a faint curl in the air. It would be blazing hot later, once the sun came up fully. One of the things he loved about early autumn, it was like two seasons at once. Then again, he usually enjoyed the cold while curled up in bed. This wasn’t so bad, though. “Frustrating. I begged.” He glanced over at Victor, looking embarrassed and defiant all at once. “I’d do it again. But in the end, she agreed to let us stay. Not that she knows if it’ll make a difference, but it’s a step, I suppose.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Victor, though his tone was a little distant, did genuinely sound glad. “I doubt I could be of assistance in any way, but if I ever may be helpful, I’d be more than happy to offer.”

Just that little tendril of kindness felt like far too much. It felt like Randall had been fighting and pushing, making lists and doing research and creating plans he couldn’t ever talk to his brothers about, since the day he’d found out Anthony’s diagnosis. And to hear the offer of help, even if Victor probably didn’t mean it, was enough to make Randall’s eyes burn, all the exhaustion and fear catching up with him at once. Like that polite offer, which meant nearly nothing at all to Victor, made it so Randall could feel all the weight he was carrying.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, taking off his glasses to scrub his hand across his face. “Thank you, I mean. That’s, uh, that’s extremely kind of you. I know you have better things to do than watch out for a bunch of silly wolves. You’ve already done too much.”

Victor stopped walking to turn to face Randall, lightly putting a hand on his arm to halt him. Where anybody else would be meeting Randall’s eyes, Victor’s gaze was focused somewhere around Randall’s left temple. “Randall,” he said firmly. “I came on this trip, didn’t I? Believe me when I tell you this is the best, the most worthy thing I could be doing right now. I want to help in any way I can.”

Randall took a deep breath to get himself back together. It was embarrassing, the positions Victor had seen him in, the number of times Victor had witnessed him at anything but his best. Randall had his own set of scars, though he hardly touched his with anything resembling fondness, and it had been Victor who had pulled him out of that hell. And now it was Victor again, assisting him out of another one of his nightmares come to life. “Anthony appreciates it,” he told Victor, a very faint smile touching his lips. “As do I. You are a good man, Victor.”

“Far from it.” Victor looked bemused at the compliment. “But I do mean it. You don’t have to shoulder this burden alone.”

With a perfunctory smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, Randall turned and began walking again toward the kitchen. “Yes. I do.”

Victor caught up with him with a few short strides. “Randall, you have Jed helping you, and Jed doesn’t normally help people like this. You have Redford and I, and Edwin, and now the Gray Lady. You—”

“You don’t understand.” Randall cut him off, lips tight. “This is our pack. Anthony has been our leader, has taken care of us, since we were kids. All of us were children, Victor, and Anthony was figuring out how to feed us and find shelter and…. This is our pack. Only Anthony is sick. He’s sick and he’s not getting better. So I have to do this, I have to be him now. But I don’t want to.”

God, he’d never said that out loud.

“I don’t want to be him,” he repeated in a miserable whisper. “I don’t want to be in charge or have to be responsible for them. Because I’m a terrible, selfish person.”

“Randall, you just disrupted your entire life to find a cure for your brother,” Victor said gently. “Are those really the actions of a selfish man? You brought your family here; you got the mother of all wolves to agree to help him. Does that sound like the actions of a man that cannot be a leader?”

“I dropped out of school.” Randall sounded horrified. He was horrified by it. It still hurt to think about. All that work, all the sacrifice, and he’d never even gotten to step on campus. “I was supposed to go next month. I’d transferred from our community campus to a university I’ve wanted to go to since I was eleven. But I dropped out. And I’m mad that I had to. I’m mad at Anthony, at this stupid disease. I did all this because I need him, Victor. I need him to be better. I need him to be who he is again so that I can be who I am. I need my brother. I would move heaven and earth if I had to, to get him well again. Because I love him, yes, but also because I’m terrified of being without him.”

Of all the reactions he would have expected from Victor, a quiet little laugh was not one of them. Randall immediately withdrew, expression shuttering away, shoulders tense. “You hold yourself to incredibly high standards, it seems. It’s quite all right that you’re not some flawless protagonist in a fiction, Randall.”

“You’ve clearly never met my brother,” Randall offered after a moment, hesitant, still not sure if Victor’s laugh was something he shouldn’t shy away from. “Because he’s kind of horribly perfect.”

Victor took a breath as if to say something, but he paused. His expression looked distant, like he was thinking of something so clearly that he didn’t have time to notice the real world at that moment. Randall wondered, with a sudden horrifying realization, if Victor was mentally replaying what he’d seen of Randall’s memories.

“You’re a better man than you give yourself credit for,” Victor finally said. “I hope, one day, you’ll see that.”

The instinct, of course, was to brush that off. Compliments were never easy to take, much less from someone who gave Randall as many confusing emotions as Victor. But Victor wasn’t saying something nice just because; he wasn’t offering empty flattery. He’d seen Randall, all of him, just as clearly as Randall knew himself. His memories were Victor’s now. And that was a huge, scary, horrifying idea, yes, but it also meant that he couldn’t exactly blow Victor off. When Victor said that, it was with the full weight of knowledge.

“Well,” Randall said after a moment, taking a step closer, studying Victor’s face, “who am I to argue with my Beatrice?”

There was a moment, he thought. Maybe just in his head, but it felt like a moment. Like heat racing through him, like shivery fire. And there were things he could do in that moment—he could be brave, he could sprout wings, he could dare a thousand things that seemed impossible any other time.

“Randy!”

Of course, he could only do those things in the moments where his younger brother was not tackling him.

Edwin shoved himself into an overenthusiastic hug with Randall, grinning at them both. “Hi, Victor! You got back in, awesome. I was hoping you would. Hey, Randall, let’s get Ant breakfast, okay? Man, do I smell bacon? I love bacon!” And then Edwin was gone again, charging up the stairs to the kitchen, beaming a smile at everyone he met. He was a force of nature, Edwin. And he’d completely ruined the moment.

Then again, maybe that was for the best.

Anthony followed him at a much slower pace, giving them a greeting and a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement before he labored his way up the stairs. Clearly Randall had been right. The cold early morning air had not done his joints any favors. Randall bit back the urge to help him. Edwin was right there, circling around to casually loop an arm with Anthony’s, talking about all the meat he could smell and pretending, of course, that nothing at all was wrong.

With a slight smile and a sigh, Randall gestured toward the building. “Shall we?”

Victor was blinking, startled in the wake of Hurricane Edwin. He shook his head, collecting himself. “Yes, let’s. I only pray we’ll find some toast.”

The hall was half filled with families and groups sitting at long tables. There was a counter at one end with an open kitchen, food in trays for people to take. There was a rather alarming amount of meat, both cooked and raw, but to his relief Randall spotted fruit and toast and a large pan of scrambled eggs. Every wolf was different—Edwin, for one, was happy enough with several raw, bloody steaks piled on his tray and a rather large glass of milk—and it was nice to see the pack wasn’t trying to force a specific eating choice. He had been hoping to get breakfast for Anthony before the stubborn wolf had made his painful way across the camp, but clearly he’d dawdled for too long. Randall kept shooting concerned glances at Anthony as they waited in line, silently standing just close enough that he could ease a shoulder in under Anthony’s arm, to be his support, while pretending he was doing nothing of the kind.

Between the two of them, he and Edwin got Anthony’s tray handled, despite Anthony’s insistence that he could do it himself. Randall got him a slice of toast and some fruit with a pointed look—some went on Edwin’s tray as well in an attempt to get him to eat more than the meat—and Edwin piled on sausages and chicken legs.

Randall’s own plate held a modest sausage alongside toast and eggs. The fruit was a welcome addition. He did enjoy something refreshing first thing in the morning. He and Edwin juggled the trays toward the tables, Anthony between them, searching for a place to sit.

“Hey! Furbutts! Over here.” Jed’s strident tone called them over, and they made their way to one of the tables in the middle of the room. Jed was sitting with Redford on his lap, the two of them reading the paper over their coffee and breakfast. Jed’s chin was resting on Redford’s shoulder, and they didn’t seem to care at all that they were an interspecies couple in the middle of a very tight wolf pack. Then again, none of the wolves around them seemed bothered either. The few who had chosen to sit by them were obviously of the open-minded sort. Knievel was sitting on the table next to them, her own tray in front of her with some bits of chicken and a small pile of raw meat and what looked like a bit of squash that she was happily gnawing on.

“Morning,” Edwin greeted with a huge smile, setting down his tray next to them and slinging himself into the seat to immediately start on his food. To Randall’s exasperation, he didn’t use utensils, instead picking up the slab of meat with his hands and chomping a rather large bite. “They have venison,” Edwin told Redford enthusiastically. “Fresh too. It’s really good, did you have some?”

“I don’t know if I like venison,” Redford said contemplatively, glancing back toward the food.

“You had the liver, remember?” Edwin grinned at him, bloody and unrestrained, like some mix between a cherub and a horror film. His brother, the next Miss Manners, everyone. “It was good, right?”

“Yes,” Redford acknowledged, sounding reluctant. “But I’m not, you know.” He hesitated before leaning in, and for a horrible moment Randall was quite sure Redford was going to share the location of a particularly disgusting mole or some such, from the way his eyes were darting around. “A wolf right now.”

Anthony, Randall, and Edwin all exchanged looks. Randall found it very hard to not laugh, which was dreadful, he knew, but still. That would be adorable if it wasn’t so very sad. “You are a wolf,” Randall pointed out, attempting to be delicate. “Your form is simply not at the moment.”

Blinking owlishly a few times, his gaze inevitably going back to Jed, Redford responded only, “Oh.”

“And that means it tastes good now too.” Edwin was surprisingly polite about it. “Seriously, you’ll love it.”

Victor was staring at Edwin. “Aren’t you going to get E. coli or some other dreadful disease, eating that raw?”

Edwin stared down at his plate, nose wrinkling. “Cooked meat is gross. I mean, I’ll eat it if I have to, but it tastes all bland when it’s not raw.” Chewing as he considered the matter, Edwin amended, “Ant’s stew is good, though, and he makes these dumpling things with chicken I like.”

Randall sighed as he prepared Anthony’s coffee. “I’m sorry.” He would apologize, because God knew Edwin never would think to. “I know it’s a little… off putting, for people to watch him eat. Wolves are all different in what we like, but Edwin’s always preferred his food to be as fresh as possible. He was an impossible child.” But his tone turned fond at that, and Edwin shared a grin with him, sticking out his tongue.

“You love me,” Edwin said, cutting off a piece of the meat and sliding it onto Redford’s plate for him to try.

“Yes, well, you are very demanding,” Randall replied blandly, squeezing Edwin’s shoulder as he finally sat. He’d found some tea, and he took an experimental sip. Not fantastic, but at least it was drinkable.

Anthony slowly tipped over to lean slightly against Randall’s shoulder. He never did that; he never let himself appear weak. Randall knew all of them were keeping it together by pretending the worst wasn’t actually happening. That if they simply didn’t talk about the nightmare, that meant it wasn’t occurring. But Anthony looked tired, his fingers shaking as he tried to cut his meat. He wasn’t even jumping into the conversation to tease Edwin about his eating habits. Without a word, Randall pulled Anthony’s plate over in front of himself and sliced the sausage into bite-size pieces, then pulled the chicken off the bone.

With a thick lump in his throat, he slid the plate back into place like nothing had happened. Turning, he pressed his lips to the top of his brother’s head, taking a slow, shaky breath. It was going to be okay. Everything was going to be fine now. The Gray Lady had decided to let them stay. Randall had done everything his research told him to do, so it had to be fine now.

“Thanks,” Anthony muttered lowly. He sounded frustrated—not at Randall’s help, but the fact that he needed it. “You weren’t in the cabin when I woke up. Where’d you go?”

Randall looked over at Victor, a quick glance, before going back to his breakfast. Edwin was pretending he wasn’t listening, but he’d moved his chair close enough to bump knees with Anthony, cutting little looks over at the two of them in between bites. Even Redford and Jed were watching Randall over the top of their newspaper. Randall shrugged off his sweater and wrapped it around Anthony’s shoulders. “It’s cold,” was all he said.

“You two fucking?” Jed asked casually, waving his fork between Victor and Randall.

“What?” Randall spluttered, color hitting his cheeks. “No! Why on earth—”

“You just looked hella guilty.” Jed shrugged, returning to his eggs. “Figured it was that or you did something your big brother wouldn’t approve of. Wash lights with darks or something.”

“Your mind goes straight for the gutter,” Victor said blandly. “Not every situation involves someone’s genitals. Really, Journey, keep your nose out.”

“Don’t call me Journey.” The protest seemed so automatic that Jed wasn’t even paying attention when he shot it back at Victor.

Redford was tentatively trying the raw venison, clearly intrigued by his own taste for it. Randall would admit that fresh meat had a vastly superior flavor. He just wasn’t comfortable eating it in mixed company. It seemed rude to be bloody around those who might not find such a look appetizing. Knievel seemed just as content with the uncooked food, however, purring loudly as she attacked her own serving.

Jed poked his fork at the raw meat on Redford’s plate, glancing up at him. Then Jed cut himself a bite and shoveled it in. Edwin chuffed out a laugh at Victor’s horrified expression. Jed, though, calmly chewed and swallowed, shrugging. “Not bad. Had worse.”

“I dread to think what you mean by that,” Victor sighed. He reached over the table to snatch the newspaper away from Jed. “Now let Randall tell everyone what the Gray Lady said.”

“Wait.” Edwin stopped trying to get Redford to eat more of the venison. “You went to see her?”

Randall shifted in his seat, looking over at Anthony. “Um. Yes. I did.”

“What did she say?” Anthony sounded cautiously hopeful. “Has she made her decision yet?”

Taking a slow breath, Randall gave his brothers a small smile. He reached out to squeeze Anthony’s hand. “She said we could stay. She’s going to have her healers take a look at you, Ant, see what they think.” He wasn’t going to tell them about the Gray Lady’s cautionary words. There wasn’t a point. Anthony needed hope right then; he needed to believe this would work. So did Edwin. So Randall would keep all that fear and worry to himself. It wouldn’t do anyone else any good. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I take it that means the cure isn’t a certain thing.” There was a look in Anthony’s eyes that Randall couldn’t bear, a fraction of lost hope that Anthony quickly covered. He drew himself up and straightened his shoulders, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Did she say when I’m to report to the healers?”

Randall wanted to insist, to promise, that it would be fine. That a cure was just that easy, that everything was going to go back to the way it had been. Edwin was staring at him, waiting for just that. For his brainy older brother to recite some factoid that meant Anthony was going to walk away from this perfectly healthy.

He couldn’t do it. All that was left was to squeeze Anthony’s hand tighter, to force a smile. To promise himself that, no matter what the cost, he’d find a way. “We can take you in today. I wanted you to get some food in your system first, but we’ll go after breakfast if you want.”

“Yeah, I should get started as quickly as possible,” Anthony agreed. “You guys don’t have to sit around to watch, though. It’ll probably be boring.” He gave them a smile. “Why don’t you wander around the camp some, talk to the wolves here?”

“You’re an idiot,” Edwin told him. “We’re coming with you.” He turned to the rest of the group. “You guys can come too, if you want.” Like it was a pool party. Randall honestly didn’t understand his brother sometimes.

Jed had been watching them all silently, eyes darting between them, some look on his face halfway between total fear and longing. Mostly the fear. The tightness in his shoulders made it readily apparent he would love to be running in the opposite direction. “Thanks for the offer, Lassie, but I think I’m going to go do something productive.”

“Oh? Like what?” Victor asked. “Helping Knievel sharpen her claws so she can chase more wolves?”

Jed grinned. “That’s my girl,” he cooed at the cat, who was very happily cleaning off Redford’s plate, purring rustily. Redford, for his part, was staring despondently at his now empty plate. Then, to Victor, Jed said, “Nah. Everyone keeps talking about these hunters. It’s got me all curious. Figure I might poke my head in where it doesn’t belong, see if I can drum up anything interesting.”

“Do you believe they’re human?” Randall asked him, interested.

“Sweetheart, that’s kind of my default setting,” Jed responded. “I know you guys are all freak flags flying, but in my experience, most things are definitely human.” He shrugged. “Besides, I was talking to some people this morning, and they’re pretty sure, whoever they are, they’re using guns. How many creepy crawlies you know use assault rifles?”

“They may not be human,” Victor said mildly. “Even minority ‘creepy crawly’ groups can be racist against one another, Jed. And I think you’d be surprised at the number of them that do use guns.” He glanced over at the wolves. “Not all of us have built-in weapons.”

Absorbing this, Jed leaned back, fingers drumming absently against Redford’s side. “They got two more taken a few days ago,” he mused. “Younger wolves, apparently, who went for a run and didn’t come back. Everyone’s saying they haven’t really hit the pack yet. Just picking around the edges. Lone wolves or small groups that hang around the fringe, but nothing in this area. Everything’s about fifty miles northeast, best I can gather. Gotta get my maps from the van to see what’s up there.”

“Taken?” Anthony looked unhappy. “Or were they killed?”

“No bodies.” Jed frowned, rubbing his chin absently. The man clearly hadn’t shaved. He had stubble and was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the day before. Randall wondered why he was doing this. Maybe the answer lay in how his arm was looped around Redford’s waist, possessive and protective all at once. “This is all second and third hand, though. Stragglers from hit camps that come in, looking for help, saying that there was gunfire and blood and they ran. Could be kidnappings. Could be something’s eating them. Shit, I don’t know. That’s why I want to go take a look.”

Anthony made a growling sound under his breath as he sipped at his coffee. “I want to help,” he said decisively. “If there’s anything I can do, just say the word. Are you going to look for information today?”

Jed snorted. “Yeah, hotstuff, you and me’ll talk about it when you don’t need cardigan over there to cut up your food.”

“I’m not an invalid,” Anthony said. He was obviously struggling to keep calm, a snarl under his words.

“Maybe.” Jed leaned forward, holding Anthony’s eyes. “But you’re weak. Right now, you’re weak. Maybe you’ll get better. I don’t know. But if you go running around after these guys and they find you, we’ll just have one more missing wolf to talk about over breakfast. And you know it.”

If Jed was going to say anything further, he didn’t get a chance. Anthony’s eyes were yellow in his anger, his teeth bared—but instead of jumping over the table like Randall half feared he might, Anthony instead stood and walked away, every line of his body tense.

Randall turned to Jed, to give him a piece of his mind, to bite his stupid throat out, to do something. But far from gloating or being a snide asshole, Jed looked quietly regretful. “Your brother’s a hell of a guy,” he said quietly. “But he’d get himself killed. And I’m not having his blood on my hands just to spare his feelings.”

Silently, Randall jerked the chair back, rising. Edwin’s teeth were bared, and he was growling at Jed, angry and tense. “You’re a fucktard,” Edwin proclaimed. Randall didn’t much feel like correcting his profanity. Edwin stalked away after Anthony, and Randall sighed, resting a hand on the back of the chair.

“He’s not weak,” he told Jed lowly. But then, even quieter, “Please, don’t ever let him follow you.” Because Jed was right. It killed Randall to admit, but he was right—if Anthony went out now, like he was, he’d die. And that was simply not something Randall could accept.

He left then, not looking back at the three of them sitting there. At the odd little group they made, the almost wolf, the half blood, and the human. He followed his nose to find his brothers, Edwin sitting next to Anthony on one of the low benches surrounding the dormant bonfire in the center of the camp. Edwin’s shoulder was pressed against Anthony’s and he was talking, so quietly Randall couldn’t make out the words until he got closer.

“And then we’ll go running, Ant. As fast and as far as we can. You can smell the woods, can’t you? I bet there’s lots of squirrels and rabbits to chase. You and me, we’ll chase them together, just like back home. And swimming too, in the stream, just like you like. Where the water’s so cold it makes you sneeze and we get all muddy and Randall makes that cross face at us.”

Edwin was telling Anthony a story. The story of a healthy brother, of woods with no hunters, of the life they’d had up until a few months ago. Silently, Randall sat down on the other side of Anthony, listening as well.

“When the moon’s all big and the stars look like ripe berries, we’ll go howling. It’s your favorite, I know. We’ll all howl at the moon just like Dad used to do. You told me about it, remember, Ant?”

Anthony laughed lowly, bumping his shoulder against Edwin’s. “If you howl at the moon and listen very closely,” he teased, reciting the story one more time. And Randall, if he half closed his eyes, could almost hear their father’s voice in the lilt of Anthony’s. “Sometimes the man in the moon will howl back.”

“But it’s not true.” Edwin had always said the same thing at the same part. It was almost a ritual now. A way Anthony had kept their parents alive for them, the bits and pieces they could hold on to.

“Maybe not,” Randall said, very quietly. “But I howl at it sometimes. Just for him.”

“Me too.” Anthony’s smile was sad. “He’d probably be proud. Or laughing his ass off, either one.”

“You’re going to get better.” Edwin searched Anthony’s face. “Right? That’s why we’re here. That’s why we joined this pack. So you can get better.”

“That’s right.” Randall made his voice firm, in control. Like the know-it-all brother they both teased him about being. “No time at all and we’ll forget this even happened. Like a bad dream.”

“In the meantime,” Anthony said, hesitating slightly. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, sighing. “Jed’s right, for now. Have you seen how he holds himself? He’s military. He knows what he’s talking about. So I’m going to try and concentrate on helping the healers.”

“He slept outside on the ground last night for no damn reason,” Randall grumbled. “He’s not a sage or anything.” He nudged his shoulder against Anthony’s, letting out a slow breath. “But I think that’s a good plan.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a human. They do weird things.” Anthony laughed. “Although he gets points for trying the raw venison.”

“If you told him that Redford needed to paint himself pink and dance naked under the moon, I think he’d join in and add a feathered headdress.” Randall smirked. “He’s kind of stupid. But sure. Points for effort.”

Edwin was leaning against Anthony, head resting on his shoulder. “Let’s go find these healers,” he sighed. “Might as well get it over with.”

They made their way to the other side of the camp, all three of them huddled together as they walked, as if they couldn’t stand the idea of being separate. The rumble of an engine drew Randall’s attention. Across the way he could see the van leaving, Redford and Jed off to go hunting. Maybe they’d even find something. Randall hoped it was humans. Some easy problem with a simple solution. It’d be nice if at least one thing was.

The healer who greeted them was an older wolf, her hair done in a long silver braid that hung down to the middle of her back. She greeted Anthony with a hug, informed them that the Gray Lady had already let them know they were coming, and hustled Anthony into the long cabin that served as the medical facilities. That left Randall and Edwin alone outside, sitting on the steps of the porch, waiting.

Edwin lasted all of ten minutes before declaring himself so bored he was going to die, shifting into wolf form, and curling up to go back to sleep, leaving Randall with a lap full of his clothes. Randall sat in silence, wishing only that he’d brought one of his books with him. It would help the time pass a little less painfully.

At least Edwin’s side made for a semidecent pillow. Randall lay back on the wooden step, head resting against Edwin’s haunch, staring up at the sky. The morning sunlight had dimmed. Instead of warming the earth from the earlier chill, it seemed to be retreating. A line of dark clouds was pressing in against the horizon. Lifting his nose, Randall took a deep breath. Rain was coming.

He marked the time by watching the approaching storm. It was still just a threat on the distant sky when Anthony finally emerged from the healer’s cabin, looking a bit worn out but not too much worse for the wear. Edwin shifted back with a happy yelp, and Randall was forced to chase after him, holding out his jeans and shirt.

“Edwin, come on. At least put your pants back on.” He dumped the clothes into Edwin’s arms and fixed him with a look until Edwin was dressed again.

“You’re such a prude sometimes, Rand.” Turning to Anthony, Edwin searched his face. “Well?”

“How did it go?” Randall asked, taking Anthony’s arm and leading him back to the bench. “How are you feeling?”

As Anthony sat, Randall saw he was holding a small pot of what looked like green paste. Anthony was staring at it in confusion. “I have to rub this on my hands every morning.”

Oh. Well. Perhaps it was some sort of magical wolf remedy? Randall took the pot and sniffed it, immediately wrinkling his nose. It smelled like death. “That’s great,” he tried to enthuse. “I mean, mornings are bad for you, right? So this must be to help that.”

Edwin poked his finger in the paste and promptly stuck it in his mouth. And then proceeded to gag. “Oh, man, do not eat that,” he managed around dry heaves.

Anthony took a dubious sniff of it. “It’s supposed to have stuff like flaxseed oil, nettles, apple….” Trailing off with a wince, he admitted, “All I can smell is the ginkgo oil. I’m sure they know what they’re talking about, though. They said it’ll relieve the symptoms.”

Gripping Anthony’s shoulder, Randall met his eyes. “Then it’ll work. These are wolves, Ant. They know how to handle things like this. Besides, I’ve read that flaxseed oil is used all the time for joint pain. Clearly, they know what they’re doing. Trust me.” They had to know what they were doing. There simply wasn’t another option.

“Well, I’ll give it a shot.” Anthony smiled at Randall and Edwin. He put a hand on the bench, pushing himself to stand. He hesitated as he looked at the pot. “Should I try it now? It’s not really morning anymore, and they specified morning.”

“Sure,” Randall said confidently, taking the pot. “It’s more of a once a day application, I bet. We’ll put some on now.”

Anthony gave a small sigh. “No wolf is going to come within fifty yards of me, with this on,” he muttered.

“Good thing fish have shit noses then, huh?” Edwin chuffed a laugh. Randall had Anthony’s hand between his own and was gently smearing the paste onto the joints. He didn’t pause in his work, but his eyes flicked up to Anthony’s as he felt his brother’s hand twitch in surprise.

They didn’t really talk about Vilhehn. Not directly.

Anthony just snorted faintly. “Good thing he’ll never be around to smell it in the first place,” he said lowly, taking over for Randall to smooth the paste onto his own joints. “Now, don’t we have better things to do than stand outside the healer’s cabin?”

At least Edwin had the good grace to look sheepish for bringing up topics they really didn’t want to dwell on. “I was going to go running,” he offered, giving Anthony an apologetic grin. As if either of them could stay mad at him. One big, sunny grin from Edwin and they’d find it impossible to deny him anything. “Feel up to it, old man?”

Edwin got a swift punch on the shoulder. “Old man?” Anthony said slowly, his eyebrows raised. “Old man? You still haven’t beaten my record running between our house and the lake. Don’t you talk to me about being old.”

“Fine,” Edwin laughed, ducking under Anthony’s arm and half tackling him in a hug. “You and me. We’ll find a new race. Bet there’s loads of things to smell here too.”

“It’s going to storm,” Randall pointed out practically.

“So put your clothes inside,” Edwin returned, sticking out his tongue. “Fur dries, Rand. Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Anthony had his hands halfway raised to his shirt, as if he’d been about to take it off. He paused, flexing his fingers in a way that looked stiff and painful. The excitement at the prospect of running faded from his face. “You go, Edwin,” he said gently. “How about we have a run later tonight?”

Something flickered across Edwin’s expression, behind the smile, the teasing. Something weary and worried and old. So strange to see on his brother’s face. Edwin was the heart of them, was their innocence. It hurt more than Randall would have expected to catch a glimpse of that fading. “Yeah.” Edwin nodded, hauling Anthony in for a rough hug. “I need to go check out the best places to run anyway. Haven’t even poked my nose around here yet. I’m slacking.”

With one last smile, just as bright, as if the cloud that had passed was already forgotten, Edwin kicked off his clothes and shifted. He barked cheerfully at them, nosing into their legs. Then, with a streak of blond fur, he was gone.

Anthony and Randall started walking back toward their cabin. Anthony never explicitly stated that he was going to take a nap, but Randall knew his plans nonetheless. Even the short medical consultation seemed to have worn Anthony out. For as long as Randall could really remember, it’d just been the three of them. And for several years, it really had only been Randall and Anthony taking care of things. Edwin had just been a toddler when their parents had been killed. Randall had spent nearly every day with Anthony, considered him to be something more than a brother, something deeper than a friend. He was half of everything Randall had in his life.

And, walking back to their cabin, for one of the first times in his life, Randall didn’t know what to say to him.

Anthony seemed to pick up on his awkwardness. “You should go join Edwin,” he encouraged as he palmed open the door to their cabin. “You know how he gets. He never likes to discover new things alone.”

Fussing with Anthony’s bed, smoothing out blankets, Randall shrugged. “I’m not good at the running around in the woods parts. You know that. Besides, it really is going to storm. Don’t worry. I saw a big group of wolves come out of the school and head the same direction as Edwin went before you came out of the healer’s place. I’m sure he’ll make new friends before we know it.”

That brought a faint smile to Anthony’s expression. It fell off in a second, though, as Anthony put a hand on Randall’s arm, stopping him from further fussing with the blanket. “I’m not an invalid,” Anthony reminded him softly. “I can adjust my own blankets.” However soft and friendly his voice was, there was a thread of frustration under his tone, an anger that was fighting to crack through the surface.

Randall’s hands stilled. “I know.” The words came quietly, Randall’s head down, staring at the faded comforter. “But you are sick.”

He honestly wasn’t sure if he’d ever just said that to Anthony. There’d been talking around it. There had been a lot of assurances of getting better, insistence that everything was fine. But Randall’s voice shook, just a little, as he forced the words out. “You’re sick, and you need to stop pushing yourself so hard.”

“I’m only pushing myself to be normal, Randall,” Anthony said.

“Being sick isn’t normal,” Randall snapped. “You are not normal right now, Ant. I am not normal, Edwin is not fucking normal.” Lips tight, he drew himself back. He choked down all the fear and anger and worry that was spilling out from the neatly packed little box he kept it in. Drawing in a shuddered breath, he shook his head, arms folded across his chest. “I’m sorry,” Randall murmured. “You’re fine. I’m just tired. I should let you sleep. Excuse me.”

“No. You’re right.” Anthony’s low words stopped him from leaving. “Nothing’s normal about this.” He rubbed a rough hand over his face, pushing his hair back, trying to get himself under control. He smiled then, a tiny curve at the corner of his mouth. “Compromise? I won’t push, and you won’t coddle?”

Despite himself, Randall felt the tense line of his shoulders ease. “You are not an egg,” he agreed. He’d told Anthony the same thing about Edwin many times when Edwin had first wanted to go running on his own.

He wasn’t an egg. He didn’t need to be coddled. He could take care of himself.

“I’m sorry,” Randall whispered, dropping his eyes, frowning down at his shoes. They had mud all over them. He really should see to that before they were ruined. “You’ve taken care of us our whole lives. I guess I just am feeling a little helpless. I don’t know how to take care of you, now.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Anthony said. “Because I’m going to be taking care of this family for as long as I’m alive.” He took on a casual sprawl against the bed, sitting back against the headboard. “So maybe you’ll let me talk to the Gray Lady in the future, huh?” There was a note of fond teasing in his voice, but steel too, concern for his brothers doing things that Anthony felt he should be doing himself.

Randall winced at the tone. Yes, he’d known this conversation would happen, should Anthony find out about his early morning trip. Just as the Gray Lady had said—it really was Anthony’s place to handle those types of things. “You’re my brother,” he replied quietly, raising his gaze to meet Anthony’s. The same reason he’d given her. “You shouldn’t ever have to beg.”

“Yes, I am your brother,” Anthony replied, amusement touching his expression. “Your older brother, so it is still my God-given right to boss you around.” He made a move, hooking an arm around Randall’s neck and hauling him in to pull Randall into a headlock.

Squirming in Anthony’s grip, yelping in a most undignified manner, Randall tried to wrestle his way out. Anthony’s hand grabbed Randall’s forearm, tightening to haul him back in. For a moment, all he could feel was shooting pain, the phantom memories of Cairo, of blood and fangs. Randall turned away from Anthony, putting up the playful struggle still, refusing to react. And then Anthony let go and they were rolling on the bed, and it was so easy to forget it. To shove it away like he always did. Randall did his best to squirm around and try to grasp at Anthony’s ticklish spots, hoping for an upper hand. He failed quite utterly, but he was laughing by the time Anthony took pity on him and released him to wobble his way into sitting on the bed, the shadow memories locked away and ignored. As they should be.

“Yes, fine,” Randall sighed heavily, nudging his shoulder against Anthony’s. “You are still able to kick my butt if you so choose. Point taken.” He glanced over, smiling slightly at Anthony. “You know I’m just doing this because I love you, right?” And he was worried. God, he was just so worried, all the time. Telling Anthony something that obvious, though, would be like pointing out he had brown hair. “I’m going to do whatever I can to get you well again. It really is going to be okay.” Randall had to believe that. He just had to keep telling himself that, telling everyone that, and working as hard as he possibly could to make it true.

“I know. And thank you.” Anthony had a corner of the blanket between his hands, twisting it in his fingers, apparently unconcerned at getting the paste all over it. “For your help, I mean. I just don’t want you doing things for me because you think I can’t.” He smiled ruefully.

There were a lot of things Randall wanted to say to that. To point out the fact that Anthony shouldn’t have to do things that were painful, that were hard, just because he could. To beg his brother to slow down, to not push himself, and the disease, past this point. Because that was what was going to happen. If the treatment didn’t work, this day was going to be the best one he had left. And then the next day, he’d be a little worse, and that day would turn into the new best. And so on, further down, until the ability to walk, to run, to shift, were all forgotten. Until the new best, the new normal, was one of twisted, unmoving pain.

Until there were no more good days at all.

He just wanted Anthony to never see that day. To not have to feel pain that wasn’t necessary. But Randall looked over at Anthony’s face, the grim determination, the pride—God, so much pride, like Anthony was only asking to keep his identity, to keep the one thing that defined him. All Anthony had ever done, all he’d worked for, was to take care of him and Edwin. Randall couldn’t take that away, even a little. He couldn’t imply that there’d ever be a moment when Anthony couldn’t be the man he’d wanted to be, because that would break Anthony faster than the disease ever could.

“Okay, big brother,” Randall sighed, giving him a little smile. “No more mama wolf.”

“Good.” Anthony looked satisfied with the answer. He shuffled himself farther down on the bed, sighing as he got comfortable. “If I nap, you won’t get too bored, I hope?”

“Nah.” Randall had to resist the urge to smooth the blankets. “I think I’m going to go for a walk. See some of these woods Edwin is so enamored with.”

Anthony sounded halfway to sleep already when he answered. “Make sure he doesn’t start chomping on squirrels again. We all remember the time he couldn’t eat for three hours because he had a squirrel tail stuck in his throat.”

“He nearly starved,” Randall agreed somberly, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “I’ll warn the squirrels away. Sleep well, Ant.” He left, closing the door as silently as possible behind him.

The wind had picked up, rattling branches, rubbing leaves off into desperate whirls of scattered color. Randall started walking in his pressed sweater, in his tie, in his muddy shoes. He was neat, he was contained, glasses firmly on, every inch a man. Every inch civilized.

He didn’t want to be that. Right then, it felt as though if he stayed contained he would go mad. Without thinking, Randall kicked off his shoes. He shucked off the sweater and his perfectly creased slacks. He dropped them all into a pile, and he changed.

It was like the whole world came alive. He could smell leftovers from breakfast, the scent of the rain in the air, oranges and tea and parchment. There were wolves everywhere, and he smelled them too. He felt them like a hum in the back of his mind, an awareness of them that seemed so much more immediate now. Randall took off running, darting around trees, ears back, body sleek and low to the ground. He didn’t think, didn’t worry, didn’t feel. He just ran.

The first raindrop that hit him was ignored. Randall was pounding through the woods, breath a harsh pant, senses alight. Then there were two raindrops. Then a dozen. A mist turned into a downpour, and the world cut off into a curtain of gray rain as the skies opened.

Skidding to a halt, Randall gave a start, a jolt running through him, ears twitching. Slowly, he came out of the run-haze to realize he had absolutely no idea where he was. The late morning sun was long gone, hidden behind black clouds and a downpour. It was dark, the trees around him creaking, shaking, shadows darting around him. A crack of lightning made him jump, jerking backward, whining in fear.

Randall didn’t much like the dark these days.

He turned tail and started to run, desperately hoping he’d picked the right direction. The thunder chased him. Randall’s ears were flat against his head, his tail between his legs, as he raced back toward camp. Finally, he could smell it. He could pick out the twinkle of lights from cabins through the dark. Heart racing, he threw himself onto the porch of their cabin, shivering and soaked.

Anthony was still sleeping. Randall hesitated, paws on the windowsill, looking in. The last thing he wanted to do was wake his brother up from a rare decent sleep. Randall glanced around, eyes landing on the cabin next door. Redford’s cabin. Redford, who was out with Jed. That would do nicely.

Randall jumped off the porch and ran across the short distance to the other cabin, shifting back on the porch so he could work the latch. Shivering, soaked, and naked, he ducked inside.

Only to find Victor sitting on the bed, reading a book.

Ah.

For a few long moments, neither of them said anything. Victor just blinked at Randall, and Randall didn’t miss the way Victor’s gaze dipped decisively downward. If anyone else might have flushed or looked away or apologized for the blatant staring, Victor simply lifted his eyebrows in appreciation. Which was somehow so much worse. Flushing a deep red, Randall tried to not lunge for the nearest blanket, instead attempting a calm he certainly did not feel.

Gratefully wrapping the fabric around himself, he stammered an explanation. “I didn’t realize you’d be here. I’m so sorry. I was running, and it began to storm.” And he’d gotten scared like some stupid child, lost in the woods. “I’ll go,” he managed with the remaining tattered shreds of his dignity. “Again, I apologize.”

“You’re quite welcome to stay,” Victor offered. He took off his glasses, cleaning them on his sweater. “I was caught briefly in it too. It’s horrid out there. You’ll catch your death.” A brief tone of amusement touched Victor’s words. “I am only borrowing the cabin, myself. The, ah, watch cat was very gracious.” Randall caught sight of Knievel under the bed, curled up on what looked like a T-shirt, sleeping through the storm.

Ducking his head, Randall stared at his bare feet, at the little darkening spots from the water he was dripping. He felt so exposed, in a way he hadn’t during the full moon. But that was exactly the difference, wasn’t it? During the moons he was confident; he couldn’t help but be. Now it was just him, none of the adrenaline flush buoying him up.

And all at once, Randall realized that Victor was able to see his scars. The horrible knotted mess of them in the lower crook of his neck, the jagged white jumble of them in his elbows and up his arms, and the long, stretched ones on his ribs, where the vampires in Cairo had decided that knives were fun to play with. He’d hidden them away for so long, under long sleeves and collared shirts, that he almost didn’t know what to do with them so vividly on display. The full moon, once again, was not there to make him feel so wolfish that he forgot, to hide them in a softer light.

Jaw tight, Randall tied the blanket off around his waist, finding another on the bed to wrap tightly around his shoulders, until it was just his head poking out from a mound of fluffy pink covers. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, willing Victor to not say anything about what he might have noticed.

Apparently luck wasn’t on his side.

“Cairo?” Victor said softly, his tone neither disturbed nor overly curious, but sympathetic nonetheless. “I didn’t see those when I visited you in the hospital.”

“I had a lot of bandages,” Randall said flatly, not looking up. “And I was under the covers. It’s not a big deal.” A terrible parody of a smile touched his lips. “I’m one of the fortunate ones, after all, aren’t I?” Mimicking the words that had been said to him over and over, by his brothers, by the doctors. He was lucky. He wasn’t dead. He should focus on that. So he had. It was just so much easier when no one talked about it, when no one could see what had been left behind.

“In a manner of speaking.” Victor was absently rubbing his own scar, a lot neater than Randall’s, placed much higher up on his neck, though his attention was firmly on Randall. “Everybody seems to forget the lasting impact of those kinds of scars.”

“Ah.” Randall’s eyes followed Victor’s hand, again feeling that little drop of jealousy in his gut for the one who had put them there. For the man who made Victor’s voice go so sad and so fond whenever he spoke of him. “But were you a willing participant in yours?” One corner of Randall’s mouth edged upward in a vain attempt at a smile. “I imagine that would make quite a difference.”

“That is a good question, isn’t it?” Victor mirrored the same smile that Randall attempted. He didn’t get very far with the effort either. “But I speak of aftereffects. Do either of your brothers know how it feels when the scars are touched?”

Startled, Randall’s head jerked up, and he stared intently at Victor. He’d never told anyone. Not his brothers, not the doctors, not anyone. “How did you know about that?” he asked, voice hoarse. How could Victor possibly know? And then it hit him. Everything he knew, Victor would know. Every dark, secret part of his life had been gift-wrapped and handed to Victor, topped with a migraine bow. Of course Victor knew. Randall had no more secrets from him.

For a moment, Randall understood completely why the medusa had been run out of ancient towns as heretics and witches. How terrible, to be so utterly exposed.

After a beat, he slowly slid his arm out of the blanket cocoon he’d constructed. “It’s like they’re here,” he muttered, eyes searching Victor’s face. “Like it’s happening all over again, if I touch them. I thought….” Randall breathed out a helpless laugh. “Well, I thought I was crazy.”

Victor made a noise that Randall couldn’t quite identify, something between sympathy and agreement. He was sitting on one of the single beds, his back against the wall, and as Randall watched, Victor tipped his head back against the windowsill, eyes focused on the ceiling, deep in thought. “I don’t want to use the word imprinting, but it’s somewhat the case,” Victor said. “The science isn’t exact. If you’re bitten for pleasure, the pleasure remains. If you’re bitten for pain, well, the example follows as is logical.”

He tipped his head back down to look at Randall. “It must feel like the knives all over again,” he continued in a murmur. “I almost want to congratulate you on your apparent extraordinary skills of concealment, if your brothers never noticed.”

“Their teeth,” Randall corrected softly. “It feels like they’re ripping me apart all over again, like they’re eating me. The ones on my sides don’t hurt. Just….” He gestured toward his neck, his elbows, shaking his head. “Of course they haven’t noticed. There’s no reason for them to notice. It’s just a bunch of scars, and there’s no need for anyone to know.”

“Randall.” Victor’s voice was a quiet protest. “There is every need for your brothers to know. The healing process is hardly one that can be done in isolation. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life studiously avoiding touch, do you?”

“It’s not a bad plan,” Randall shot back, feeling that damn heat hitting his cheeks again. “No one needs to touch them. I’ve become quite adept at avoiding it, and if my brothers do by accident, I can control my reactions.”

“It’s a terrible plan,” Victor corrected, “if you ever want to have a normal relationship. Don’t understate the effect of things like those scars. Before you know it, they could start poisoning more aspects of your life than you want them to.”

He was tracing his fingers over his own scars again. Instead of watching his fingers this time, though, Randall studied his face, his expression. He wondered if Victor was speaking every bit as much to his own scars as to Randall’s. They were two sides of the coin, perhaps. The different ways that vampires could leave their marks.

Or, from the way Victor’s long fingers were still lovingly outlining the neat, pale scars, maybe not.

“What relationships?” he snorted, trying to swerve away from the topic. “It’s fine, Victor. They are just scars. I don’t know what kind of poison you’re speaking of, but clearly you haven’t dealt with yours and you’re fine. I need to focus on Anthony right now, on taking care of Edwin. I don’t have time for silly nightmares about things that go bump in the night.”

“Then apparently my powers of deception are just as extraordinary as yours.” Victor gave an odd laugh, a near-silent huff of air. “A word of caution, Randall, nightmares only grow stronger as you ignore them.”

Randall curled his fingers into a fist to hide their shaking, his head bowed, hair uncharacteristically messy as it dried, falling in his face. His blankets had slipped as they spoke, his shoulders bare and his skin prickling with a chill left over from the rain. “I was weak in Cairo,” he finally said, so quietly he didn’t even know if Victor’s nonwolf ears could hear him over the sound of the rain pounding on the roof. “I’m a wolf. Vampires shouldn’t have been able to get a jump on me.” He snorted softly. “You can smell them from a block away. I was distracted and weak and they caught me. They tied me up. They called me good dog as they fed from me. I want to ignore them.” The snap of his voice cracked just as loudly as the thunder. There was rage under his calm expression. There was frustration and guilt hiding just beneath the tense line of his body. “I don’t want to be weak again. This is my fault, and I’ll handle it. Alone.”

Victor didn’t reply right away. A flash of lightning, followed by a crash of thunder, rattled the cabin. Then Victor was putting his book down and crossing the room to tentatively sit next to Randall. He smelled like rain, his hair still damp with it.

“That,” Victor said carefully, his voice more gentle and kind than Randall had ever heard it, “is nothing to be ashamed of. You were never trained to expect such things would happen to you.”

“Bad things happen.” Randall found himself staring at Victor’s hands, the slim strength of them, at the way the man held himself just a little bit apart from the world. Studying him, like if he looked deep enough he’d find the magic answer that would make Victor see him. “That is the one thing I have learned to expect. No matter what, bad things always happen.”

The thunder rumbled again, and Randall shivered. He drew his legs up to his chest, still wrapped in the blanket, resting his chin on his knees. Dropping his eyes away from Victor, he ignored the ache in his throat, the way he wanted nothing more than to lean closer to Victor. He knew Victor didn’t feel the same way he did, that his crush was one-sided. It was rude to want more. It was unfair to think that any of this was anything more than Victor being kind.

But then Victor, the man who consistently kept at least two feet of distance between himself and anybody else, reached out and touched Randall’s arm. His fingertips pressed lightly on the skin just below a ragged scar at the inside of Randall’s elbow.

“Bad things may always happen, but that does not mean you should simply roll over and never move past them,” Victor said.

Under Victor’s hand, Randall’s arm jumped, and he found he was shaking, tiny tremors working their way through him. His eyes were locked on Victor’s fingers, waiting for them to move. Waiting for the pain to start. “What are you doing?” Randall whispered, fear threading through his voice.

“I’m showing you that this could cripple you, Randall,” Victor said lowly. “I’m not even touching the scars, yet I’d hazard a guess that you can barely think right now.”

But in counterpoint to his words, Victor’s hand was far from a threatening presence. Instead, he seemed to be curiously shifting his fingertips in fractional movements, as if he were more interested in feeling Randall’s skin. Drawing in a shaky breath, Randall found that his muscles were tightening under the touch for a very different reason. Not in fear, but in anticipation.

“I can’t ever think when you’re around,” Randall admitted throatily. “That’s hardly a fair example.”

Victor hadn’t flushed when he’d seen Randall naked; he did color slightly then. “Well, I suppose my point just missed the mark,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound upset about it.

Randall hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Truly, Victor being this close, touching him, threw off his thinking into fanciful circles and a logic-barren flight. He never should have admitted such a thing to a man who had no interest, who had clearly and quite politely shown exactly that. But Victor didn’t move away, as Randall expected. His hand didn’t leave Randall’s arm. In fact, Victor’s thumb made a soft arc against his skin, sending a shiver down Randall’s spine.

“What would you do?” Randall asked, leaning closer until his breath stirred Victor’s hair, until he could feel the warmth of Victor’s arm pressed against his side. “If you were me?” Not just about the scars. Not just about the nightmares.

Victor looked startled at the question, his mouth opening and closing a few times as if he had no idea what to say. Not exactly typical for a man who, at the drop of a hat, gave lectures about the bi-gendered deities of the Norse pantheon. “I’m not sure I’m the person you should be asking for that sort of advice,” Victor admitted. “I don’t know.”

At that, Randall gave him a very soft smile. There was a warmth in his gaze as he studied Victor that he struggled so hard to hide most of the time. “Not words you or I are fond of,” he acknowledged. But it was fair. Perhaps no one could tell him how to proceed—after all, there was hardly a support group for vampire torture. “You don’t want to move on from yours. And I wish, sometimes, I could cut mine out of my skin. So we’re quite the pair.”

“That we are.” Victor sounded rueful. The normal indifferent mask he wore had softened slightly. “I doubt even my books would be particularly useful on a subject like this.”

That was who they were. They were men of research, of dusty tomes and stacks of notes, of the fervent belief that every answer was able to be found by the one who was willing to do the work to unearth it. Admitting that there was no book, no solution, that they were forging a path that was unknown, was something of a big deal. Randall should be more worried.

Instead, he was absorbed in the sensation of Victor’s fingers absently sliding along his forearm. Chalk it up to being young, but this once, Randall’s heart was shouting far louder than the logic of his head. Which was more than likely why he caught Victor’s hand, why he brought it up to press a kiss to Victor’s palm. “Then perhaps we’ll have to write our own.”

Victor stared at him like he’d never seen Randall before, like he was some new kind of fantastic creature that Victor had stumbled across a picture of once but was only just now seeing in the flesh. He looked like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing and hearing. “That is quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” Victor said slowly. Victor took Randall’s hand in a tighter grip.

There were moments. Randall knew that because he’d read the old stories, he’d grown up on fairy tales and history books. There were moments when a single action sent ripples out, cascading into a thousand more possibilities. There were moments.

And this was his.

He leaned in, heart crashing in waves, hand rising to cup Victor’s cheek. Before he could talk himself out of the action, before logic could supersede daring, Randall drew Victor in, their lips meeting in a soft exhale.

For a few seconds that felt like an eternity, Victor didn’t move, clearly too surprised to reciprocate. Victor’s response, when it came, was as tentative as the touches to Randall’s arm had been. There was no surge of passion, no swelling music or bells on any hills. It was a kiss, nice but perfunctory, as if they were passing acquaintances who happened to get their lips in the same general vicinity.

Pulling back, horrified and struggling not to show it, Randall managed, “I apologize.” Shame hit him, hard, and he began fighting with the blankets, trying to stand, to get away. “I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Listening to one’s heart had always been something his brothers excelled in, not himself. Randall should remember that his brain was the only organ which should be making decisions in the future. It would avoid all of this. Victor did not want him. That was a fact that had been made clear. Misreading some kind attention and soft touches was not going to change that.

“No, it’s….” Victor trailed off, touching his fingers to his lips.

Randall hardly had any sort of precedent for recognizing the look that came to Victor’s face, but right then, he could almost see the visions swimming in Victor’s mind, all the possibilities of the future that Victor had seen making his eyes look distant and his expression torn.

And then Randall realized what was going on. Why Victor had behaved so kindly and why the kiss had gone nowhere, they both had the same answer. Victor had seen inside his head. The memories, yes, but also the present, the possibilities of the future. He knew Randall had feelings for him. He knew what paths his future might take, in very specific detail. And he was picking and choosing from those paths for Randall.

Running hot and cold, yes, but the reason behind it was not as confusing as Randall had been assuming. “You’re orchestrating this. You’ve seen something in my head, and you’re trying to…. I don’t know, steer me away? Steer me toward?” Frowning, Randall stood, torn between anger and hurt. “Hard to tell when you’re the only one that knows the answers. One second you’re being so kind that it’s like you’re really seeing me, and the next it’s as if I don’t exist.”

“Randall—” Victor tried to protest, but Randall didn’t stop. He wasn’t going to be the polite little wolf, not now.

“If you actually felt that way, that would be one thing, but that’s not it, is it? You’re picking things from my brain and deciding which ones you want to become real.”

This time Victor waited a few seconds to make sure Randall had finished saying his piece. He drew in a deep breath and took off his glasses, fussing with them and cleaning them on his sweater. “It’s not just your future I saw,” he said, his voice tight. “The future of any one person is not an island. We affect so many other people’s lives with our decisions—”

“That’s bullshit,” Randall spat. “God, Victor…. If you’re not interested, that’s fine. I’m a grown man, not a kid with a crush. You can be honest. But every time I think we’re going somewhere, every time I think I see something in how you look at me, you put up a wall six miles high and I’m left feeling like a dumb pup. So at least give me the respect of reacting to me and not some possible maybe you found in my head—”

“I saw us getting married!” Victor blurted.

Oh.

Blinking, Randall let the words hang there for a long pause, filling the space between them. They just kept growing, those words, and Randall honestly wasn’t sure what to do with them. Married. They were going to get married? That was….

“With children,” Victor added. “Or… wolf cubs. Though I suppose it’s the same thing.”

“How would we get cubs?” Randall asked faintly, feeling as though he ought to sit down. He did so immediately, waving off the question just as fast. “Never mind. I… oh, dear.”

“Quite.” Victor’s voice was muted. He looked like he wanted to respond to the question Randall had asked, but he obviously held his tongue. “I never tell people this, Randall, but then again I have never seen myself in their futures. But yours….”

He shook his head, lifting himself off the bed to go stand at the window. The rain was finally starting to calm, and from the sound of the thunder, it was distant now, moving farther away. “About half of the possibilities had us getting married,” Victor continued. He sounded as distant as the thunder, clearly trying to remove himself from emotional attachment to what he’d seen. “And I never saw myself as the marrying type.” He laughed weakly, scrubbing his hands over his face. “But we were so happy.”

“You sound like you’re describing some horrible thing,” Randall said very softly. He studied his hands, laced together in his lap, holding on tightly, as if that simple act would keep him from melting into some puddle of useless emotion. “Like you saw a train wreck you’re desperately attempting to avoid.” Marriage, children, love—none of that sounded so terrible to him.

But perhaps that was the problem. Victor saw him, had seen him, and the mere idea that he might actually wind up with Victor was apparently very distressing. “It seems as though you’ve dodged a bullet,” Randall pointed out with a strangled little laugh. He rubbed his hands across his face, feeling a bit as if he was waking from a long dream. “By seeing the possible future, you’ve now the means to ensure you’re never trapped in something so horrific.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Victor said lowly. “Imagine you saw a future in which you never went to college. You wound up working a small office job where all you do is type budget reports every day. But you’re happy. You see yourself happy and content with every aspect of your life.” Victor looked back at Randall with a very small smile. “I imagine budget reports would be the last thing you want to do in your life.”

“Any time you want to stop comparing marrying me to an eternity stuck in a cubicle doing budget reports, that’d be great,” Randall said dryly, giving Victor a sideways glance.

“I’m getting to the point,” Victor said, scowling.

“I see. This is the scenic route. I apologize. I didn’t realize.” Despite himself, despite every other emotion pinging around in his head, Randall felt one corner of his mouth twitching up in a very faint smile. “Please, do go on. I’m very much looking forward to the moment when you use an endless trip to the dentist as an analogy for our possible sex life.”

“Oh no, I saw that as being very fulfilling,” Victor said. He then seemed to realize what he’d said and quickly looked out the window again.

Now Randall really was smiling. “That’s because you were with a wolf,” he intoned seriously. “But unless you’d rather switch to that topic completely, please continue.”

“Of course,” Victor said, his tone as dry as Randall’s. “As I was saying. You have seen a future which you at the present moment never wanted for yourself, but you see yourself being deliriously happy with that future. It has little to do with specifics or people—you did not want your life to be an office job.”

He finally slipped his glasses back on, turning to properly face Randall as he leaned against the window. Victor then seemed to think of better of it, frowning as he pulled away from his lean, smoothing down the wrinkles in his shirt. “But you have not seen why you are happy with it,” he continued. “You have absolutely no clue how you got to that point, and all you see is this thing, this life situation, that is the complete opposite of what you presently want. It’s… confusing, to say the least.”

Bowing his head, Randall let out a slow breath. Yes, he supposed it would be. None of that made Randall any more settled in the situation. Victor had jumped to the end in every possible way. Instead of getting to know each other, seeing if there was any chance of something more, Randall was left at the starting gate while Victor read ahead and already knew how it all ended. Whatever beginning Victor had seen them having, it was gone now. All that was left was this—and most of this, Victor decidedly didn’t want.

“So that’s it, then?” he asked, looking over at Victor. “I’m never going to know if you are attracted to me or if you hate me, because you looked in my head and saw one thing that might happen?” He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. He probably looked completely unpresentable, chest bare, hair standing out at all ends, damp and curling from the rain. “I get that it’s tough for you, Victor. I don’t want to diminish that. But you’ve changed it all now.” Randall’s lips edged upward in a grim smile. “Observation, by its very nature, changes the path of the observed object. That future was yours too, and by looking in on it, you’re already behaving differently toward me than you ever would have before. And I don’t know, maybe it still could come true. Maybe not. Maybe it never would have.” Philosophical theories of fate and destiny were always so much easier to debate in the abstract. The reality of it, something like this impacting his daily life, was not something Randall was equipped at the moment to deal with.

Maybe he should just be blunt. It had always worked for his brothers. “Look,” he started, leaning forward, arms on his knees, searching Victor’s face with an almost painful earnestness. “I’m just…. I’m just a guy who has a crush on an amazing, brilliant, handsome man. I’m not good at that anyway, Victor. I never would be smooth or polished or sure of myself. Add in the fact that I can’t tell if you want me around or you wish I’d disappear completely, and maybe it’s best if I just keep my distance. It certainly seems like it’d make you happier.”

“Of all the things I saw, of all the things I can’t picture myself being happy in, Randall, you were the one thing that actually made sense,” Victor said. He was looking at Randall with the softest expression Randall had ever seen on the man.

“So why can’t you just see what’s right in front of you?” Randall asked, very quietly. “I don’t want to get married right now either, Victor. And if you show up with a wolf cub, I’m going to check you for a brain injury. I just….”

There weren’t words for what he felt around Victor. It was like running in a full moon, it was like howling, lungs full, the sound echoing through the night air. It was deep in the bones of him, and he’d no more asked for it than he’d asked for his tail. It just was, and he didn’t know how to explain that to Victor. It was the most illogical he’d ever been, over a man who seemed to have no use for such emotions. “I don’t want your envisioned futures,” he wound up saying, voice hoarse and desperate for Victor to understand, “I just want you.”

The wolfish side of Randall, the side that longed for the woods around him, the ground under his paws, the sun on his back, it hated the words. They hung there in the air, and they didn’t encapsulate everything they should. And while Randall the wolf was a very quiet one, he was no less of a wolf for that reserve. In two steps he was across the room. In one more he was pressing Victor back, his fingers finding their way into that strawberry-blond hair that had taunted him since the first time he’d caught sight of Victor. Randall hauled him in, meeting him in a kiss that wasn’t soft or hesitant or unsure.

He kissed Victor fully, wolfishly, to try and show him what words didn’t seem to capture. And Victor responded. Still tentative, but there was palpable emotion underneath his movements, in the way he put his hands on Randall’s arms, in the way he tilted his head so they fit just right.

It wasn’t perfect. Randall didn’t believe in perfect kisses, in sweeping, grand, love at first sight romances. He believed in this, though. In good matches, in love that built, in the way Victor’s lips parted, in how their bodies pressed together. In how a shiver worked its way under his skin, heat flashing through him. Want and need and a sense of rightness he’d never experienced. When he pulled back, gently teasing a strand of Victor’s hair from his forehead, he was smiling. Victor looked dazed.

“Just because you can see the future, medusa, doesn’t mean you have to live there all alone,” Randall murmured.

The rain had turned to a soft whisper against the window. Randall saw the confusion still in Victor’s expression, the hesitance. But their lips met once more, so gently it ached through him, before Randall pulled away, wanting to cup his hands around that moment and keep it just so.

He let the blanket fall for the few moments it took him to shift back into his wolf form. As soon as Randall was on all four paws, Victor knelt down, one of his hands resting lightly on Randall’s back. “Thank you,” Victor said, so quietly even Randall barely heard it. “Just….” Victor shook his head. “Thank you.”

Nudging his head under Victor’s chin, Randall sat there for a few long seconds. They were warm, Victor smelled of tea and old books and, very faintly, like him. It was good.

But Anthony would be waking up soon, Edwin would be looking to warm up, and they both would be hungry. The real world was waiting outside. Randall had taken enough time away from it for now. So he nuzzled Victor’s chest, tail wagging faintly, before he left the man there in the cabin alone.

Perhaps he didn’t believe in perfect moments. That didn’t mean he couldn’t stumble across one now and again.