and a cold smile touched her lips.
“Old Wolf,” she said.
CHAPTER 12
I once asked my grandfather why those who knew him—knew him, really, for what he was—called him Old Wolf . He was, after all, immortal. And it seemed to me that when you lived as long as he had, the names that stuck probably had more than passing significance.
“There are many different kinds of wolves,” he told me, sipping tea and nudging my foot with his. “On every world, in every variation. It has nothing to do with the actual creature, my dear. More like, the spirit of the thing. Its heart .”
I leaned against all his books and crates, careful not to tip over the rare porcelain statues, and rocks, and some odd little bird bones gathered in a silver nest. “And what is the heart of the universal wolf?”
My grandfather gave me a mysterious smile.
“Look into your own heart for that answer,” he said, bending forward to pour more tea into my cup. “For we are a family of wolves.”
APPARENTLY, walls really could talk, because five minutes later the phone started ringing. It was one of the women who ran the shelter, who’d heard that Grant was back and needed to see him regarding a month’s worth of urgent matters that she’d put aside just for his inevitable return.
“They’re going to freak out when you announce you’re married,” I said. “When you tell them you’re married to the ‘violent tattooed woman,’ I think kittens may actually drop.”
“That’s an evil smile you’ve got on your face,” Grant replied, “and we could use some cats.”
I said I needed rest. He gave me a warning look, knowing perfectly well that I was lying—and then took Mary with him. She’d been out in the living room, fingering her belt and staring at the skull like she was thinking of getting naked again.
I placed the skull on top of the grand piano and made it face the wall, so that I didn’t have to see its eyes.
“Jack,” I muttered, thinking about my grandfather. “You got some explaining to do.”
I wondered if he had felt the prison break. If so, then what about the other Aetar, far away from this world? They could feel when one of their own died. What about a spell—a work of reality-twisting—gone broken?
Too many problems. Focus on one at a time.
Like, why? Why this? Why break the bond between the boys and me?
I went to my mother’s chest, tucked in the corner beside Grant’s worktable. I cracked the lock and began burrowing through everything that had been important to her—and me. Photos, papers, dolls. I didn’t touch her guns. I refused to use any weapon that required a bullet. Seeing my mother shot to death had pretty much ruined me on guns.
I pulled out her journals and set them aside. Almost every woman in my bloodline kept some kind of diary—a lesson book to pass down to daughters, a way to keep hearts alive. My mother had written a lot. My grandmother, only one slim volume. I was probably going to be like her. I hadn’t written anything yet. Not enough to matter, anyway.
I’d read my mother’s diaries backward and forward over the years, and never found one hint of anything regarding my father—or Labyrinths, wars, Aetar—everything I now knew she’d been perfectly aware existed. For some reason, she had deliberately left those parts out.
There were, however, several pages that had been torn away. I’d always been curious as to why—but now I was burning up, wondering if my mother had written something she was afraid for me to see.
I set aside the journals and pulled one more object from the trunk. A round stone disc, wrapped in purple silk. I hesitated before picking it up—and then, only handled it with my left hand, after putting on a pair of leather gloves. I always wore gloves during the day, in public, to hide my tattoos. That wasn’t a problem now.
“Damn it,” I muttered, for no good reason other than I still hurt on the inside, and the boys weren’t here.
Not here.
“Old Wolf,” she said.
CHAPTER 12
I once asked my grandfather why those who knew him—knew him, really, for what he was—called him Old Wolf . He was, after all, immortal. And it seemed to me that when you lived as long as he had, the names that stuck probably had more than passing significance.
“There are many different kinds of wolves,” he told me, sipping tea and nudging my foot with his. “On every world, in every variation. It has nothing to do with the actual creature, my dear. More like, the spirit of the thing. Its heart .”
I leaned against all his books and crates, careful not to tip over the rare porcelain statues, and rocks, and some odd little bird bones gathered in a silver nest. “And what is the heart of the universal wolf?”
My grandfather gave me a mysterious smile.
“Look into your own heart for that answer,” he said, bending forward to pour more tea into my cup. “For we are a family of wolves.”
APPARENTLY, walls really could talk, because five minutes later the phone started ringing. It was one of the women who ran the shelter, who’d heard that Grant was back and needed to see him regarding a month’s worth of urgent matters that she’d put aside just for his inevitable return.
“They’re going to freak out when you announce you’re married,” I said. “When you tell them you’re married to the ‘violent tattooed woman,’ I think kittens may actually drop.”
“That’s an evil smile you’ve got on your face,” Grant replied, “and we could use some cats.”
I said I needed rest. He gave me a warning look, knowing perfectly well that I was lying—and then took Mary with him. She’d been out in the living room, fingering her belt and staring at the skull like she was thinking of getting naked again.
I placed the skull on top of the grand piano and made it face the wall, so that I didn’t have to see its eyes.
“Jack,” I muttered, thinking about my grandfather. “You got some explaining to do.”
I wondered if he had felt the prison break. If so, then what about the other Aetar, far away from this world? They could feel when one of their own died. What about a spell—a work of reality-twisting—gone broken?
Too many problems. Focus on one at a time.
Like, why? Why this? Why break the bond between the boys and me?
I went to my mother’s chest, tucked in the corner beside Grant’s worktable. I cracked the lock and began burrowing through everything that had been important to her—and me. Photos, papers, dolls. I didn’t touch her guns. I refused to use any weapon that required a bullet. Seeing my mother shot to death had pretty much ruined me on guns.
I pulled out her journals and set them aside. Almost every woman in my bloodline kept some kind of diary—a lesson book to pass down to daughters, a way to keep hearts alive. My mother had written a lot. My grandmother, only one slim volume. I was probably going to be like her. I hadn’t written anything yet. Not enough to matter, anyway.
I’d read my mother’s diaries backward and forward over the years, and never found one hint of anything regarding my father—or Labyrinths, wars, Aetar—everything I now knew she’d been perfectly aware existed. For some reason, she had deliberately left those parts out.
There were, however, several pages that had been torn away. I’d always been curious as to why—but now I was burning up, wondering if my mother had written something she was afraid for me to see.
I set aside the journals and pulled one more object from the trunk. A round stone disc, wrapped in purple silk. I hesitated before picking it up—and then, only handled it with my left hand, after putting on a pair of leather gloves. I always wore gloves during the day, in public, to hide my tattoos. That wasn’t a problem now.
“Damn it,” I muttered, for no good reason other than I still hurt on the inside, and the boys weren’t here.
Not here.
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