take shelter in you, and your craving for that same human flesh will be more than you can bear. Those who survive your bite will carry the same curse. You do not cheat my master and go unrepaid. Farewell!”
And with that, the stranger walked away and was swallowed by the darkness.
So it was that the races of wolves and men were mixed. In the years that followed many tried to free themselves from the Curse, but it was not until people returned to the banks of Iteru that
I stopped reading. I didn’t have a choice. The remainder of the page had been torn away, along with all the other remaining pages.
… but it was not until people returned to the banks of Iteru that
The implication—Olek’s editorial implication—was clear: someone, eventually, had found a cure.
16
W ALKER FINISHED READING and laid the book down on the nightstand. We were in the bedroom. Bed unmade (
love
unmade, my nasty inner voice said), each of the two big windows full of afternoon sunlight. Across the hall, the twins were trying to wake Cloquet up. Cloquet wasn’t enjoying the experience.
“So?” I said.
I was sitting on the floor by the open door across from him, smoking a Camel filter. Last night’s hangover had talked itself into wanting another drink. My copy of Byron’s
Don Juan
was open face down on the floor by Walker’s foot. I remembered exactly where I’d stopped reading last night. Before we’d had the sex that had felt like an argument:
There’s doubtless something in domestic doings,/Which forms, in fact, true love’s antithesis.
He shook his head. “What do you want me to say?”
Wait. Count to five. Don’t snap at him.
“Well, do you think it’s genuine, for starters?” I said.
“Do you mean do I think this is really Quinn’s journal, or do I think this story has any basis in fact?”
Count to five again. Pointless, since my irritation contained was just as visible as it would have been let out.
“Okay,” he said, exhaling, seeing it. “I think there’s every chance the journal’s the real deal. As for the story …” he laughed. Shook his head again. No.
“Just like that,” I said. “Amazing.”
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Lu, are you serious?
Gods of the Lower Realm
? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m aware of what it sounds like.”
“Apparently not, if you’re taking it seriously. Who knew demons could suck some poor bastard’s soul out of his ass!”
My face was hot. Because of course he was right. Of course. Of
course.
“Please,” he said. “
Please
tell me you’re not …” He couldn’t finish. Incredulity was getting the better of him.
“Doesn’t something resonate?” I asked. “I mean not the details, necessarily. I mean the … I don’t know.”
Across the hall, Cloquet said: “Zoë,
mon ange
, that is really annoying. I am not well.”
Delighted giggles from the twins. Zoë had a funny little old lady laugh.
“No,” Walker said, with his own forced calm. “Nothing resonates. It’s a
fairy
story, for Christ’s sake.”
“What are we, then?” I asked him. “
We’re
a fucking fairy story.”
Awkward silence. For the two readings of that sentence. I’d meant we, werewolves, are a fairy story. But the opportunist subconscious never sleeps. He’d heard we as in me and him,
we
were a fairy story. A relationship not to be believed in.
“
Mes enfants,
” Cloquet groaned. “There is going to be violence here if you keep doing that.”
More fiendish cackling from the twins. I wondered how long we’d have before Lorcan’s next rage, or nightmare, or worrying trick of picking an adult and staring expressionlessly at them until they got mad.
“You know what you’re pissed about?” Walker said. “You’re pissed because it
doesn’t
resonate. You were expecting some big revelation. Instead you get this horseshit. It’s just another story. I mean why stop here? If a story’s all we need let’s have the little baby Jesus and the Tooth
And with that, the stranger walked away and was swallowed by the darkness.
So it was that the races of wolves and men were mixed. In the years that followed many tried to free themselves from the Curse, but it was not until people returned to the banks of Iteru that
I stopped reading. I didn’t have a choice. The remainder of the page had been torn away, along with all the other remaining pages.
… but it was not until people returned to the banks of Iteru that
The implication—Olek’s editorial implication—was clear: someone, eventually, had found a cure.
16
W ALKER FINISHED READING and laid the book down on the nightstand. We were in the bedroom. Bed unmade (
love
unmade, my nasty inner voice said), each of the two big windows full of afternoon sunlight. Across the hall, the twins were trying to wake Cloquet up. Cloquet wasn’t enjoying the experience.
“So?” I said.
I was sitting on the floor by the open door across from him, smoking a Camel filter. Last night’s hangover had talked itself into wanting another drink. My copy of Byron’s
Don Juan
was open face down on the floor by Walker’s foot. I remembered exactly where I’d stopped reading last night. Before we’d had the sex that had felt like an argument:
There’s doubtless something in domestic doings,/Which forms, in fact, true love’s antithesis.
He shook his head. “What do you want me to say?”
Wait. Count to five. Don’t snap at him.
“Well, do you think it’s genuine, for starters?” I said.
“Do you mean do I think this is really Quinn’s journal, or do I think this story has any basis in fact?”
Count to five again. Pointless, since my irritation contained was just as visible as it would have been let out.
“Okay,” he said, exhaling, seeing it. “I think there’s every chance the journal’s the real deal. As for the story …” he laughed. Shook his head again. No.
“Just like that,” I said. “Amazing.”
“Jesus Christ,” he said. “Lu, are you serious?
Gods of the Lower Realm
? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I’m aware of what it sounds like.”
“Apparently not, if you’re taking it seriously. Who knew demons could suck some poor bastard’s soul out of his ass!”
My face was hot. Because of course he was right. Of course. Of
course.
“Please,” he said. “
Please
tell me you’re not …” He couldn’t finish. Incredulity was getting the better of him.
“Doesn’t something resonate?” I asked. “I mean not the details, necessarily. I mean the … I don’t know.”
Across the hall, Cloquet said: “Zoë,
mon ange
, that is really annoying. I am not well.”
Delighted giggles from the twins. Zoë had a funny little old lady laugh.
“No,” Walker said, with his own forced calm. “Nothing resonates. It’s a
fairy
story, for Christ’s sake.”
“What are we, then?” I asked him. “
We’re
a fucking fairy story.”
Awkward silence. For the two readings of that sentence. I’d meant we, werewolves, are a fairy story. But the opportunist subconscious never sleeps. He’d heard we as in me and him,
we
were a fairy story. A relationship not to be believed in.
“
Mes enfants,
” Cloquet groaned. “There is going to be violence here if you keep doing that.”
More fiendish cackling from the twins. I wondered how long we’d have before Lorcan’s next rage, or nightmare, or worrying trick of picking an adult and staring expressionlessly at them until they got mad.
“You know what you’re pissed about?” Walker said. “You’re pissed because it
doesn’t
resonate. You were expecting some big revelation. Instead you get this horseshit. It’s just another story. I mean why stop here? If a story’s all we need let’s have the little baby Jesus and the Tooth
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