Page 53 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

ALANA

The memory of combined laughter echoes in the caverns of Alana’s mind as she stands on the curbside of Cyrus’ house. Only she isn’t on the curbside of Cyrus’ house.

She’s a kid again, watching as an old crush of hers lands flat on her face after a failed attempt at some kind of back-flip off the playground swings. Watching as the wood chips and dirt cake her bottom lip, where blood gathers from such a harsh landing. Alana had been so worried that she hadn’t even given it a second thought when she’d rushed to ask if she was okay. Doting on her in front of the other kids, worried and mildly panicked. She can’t say what kind of reaction she had been expecting, but it wasn’t the one she received.

“Oh my gods, you’re so annoying! I’m fine!” the girl had said. Yelled, actually. She pushed Alana away and stomped towards the other girls, whose comfort was clearly more palatable than hers. She was eight. And in twenty years, Alana had never felt so juvenile and inferior as she did then.

Until tonight.

It’s difficult to reconcile with the notion that she isn’t very

far removed from the insistent child she used to be. Somehow, she still doesn’t know how to read between the lines or understand when her efforts aren’t needed. She sniffles, teeth chattering as a gust of wind curls around her frame. She wraps her arms over herself.

This may take the cake for my most botched birthday.

Sighing, Alana shifts her phone out from her Pajama pocket and attempts to dial Citlalli. When she doesn’t answer, she moves on to Connor, Lilith, and her mother. Anyone who may be willing to save her from this humiliation. But each call fails, one after another, sending her to a dial tone. When she tries sending a few texts, they’re all met with a message of unsuccessful delivery. She eyes the nonexistent bars of service in the top corner of the screen, hand shaking, and just about chucks it into the stratosphere.

Whatever. It’s late. It’s late, and no one was coming for her. She’s run out of options.

Alana takes another deep, steady exhale as she stares down the road. Thankfully, streetlights were a thing in this area. Their stained yellow lampshades illuminate the pathway every couple of blocks, which means she shouldn’t have too hard a time finding her way back, even in the fog. Wiping the residual mess from her nose and eyes, she heads off. But then a loud crash, followed by a few distressed clucks and coos, jerks her attention back to the house. Alana peers around the side of the wood paneling, where she spots a few stables in the distance. While she can’t see one from where she’s standing, there must be a chicken coop out there if the white feathers floating in the wind are anything to go by.

She should leave it. This isn’t her circus, and she should go home. Whatever is going on back there isn’t any of her business, and she doubts Cyrus wants her meddling any further than she already has. But the sounds of distress intensify, and her feet drag her closer. Alana arms herself with her phone’s flashlight and a rake she finds lying on the ground, her grip tight. She moves slowly, her footsteps hushed and careful as she approaches the source of the commotion. The squawking has gotten worse, and when Alana points her flashlight into the coop, a flurry of feathers and hens fly frantically from one end of the confinement to the next.

“Easy, ladies. What’s going on?”

Her light catches a shimmer of red. It paints the ground in splatters—a gruesome show that prompts Alana to take a step back. Her flashlight follows the trail, her movements shaky. She finds the source of the massacre through the chain-link fence, where reflective eyes dart her way, dull and scarred as though blinded. It glares at her with a hen in its jaws, and Alana isn’t sure which sight distresses her more: the dead hen, or the animal that caught it. Upon first glance, its appearance is that of a coyote. Thin, wiry fur is missing in several spots, leaving behind patches of dry, rotted-looking skin. Sticky, foamy saliva forms at its jaw, and its body is riddled with scars that make bile rise against Alana’s tongue. She stands frozen, heart thundering as those eyes lock on her own, unmoving.

Coyotes are skittish creatures, in Alana’s experience. They steer clear of people for the most part, opting to keep their distance. So long as you left them alone, they would do the same. Yet this one shows no fear of Alana’s presence. She expects it to take its prize and run back into the night, but drops the hen and begins creeping closer. And as it steps further into the light, it’s clear this isn’t the animal she thought.

The skin on half of its head has rotted off to reveal the yellowing skull of something undeniably canine, but otherworldly. It didn’t look as if it should be alive. Its good eye is a milky grey, the one on the side of its exposed head a pinprick of white against a void of obsidian black.

A shiver runs down the base of Alana’s spine. This thing was the product of someone’s magic gone wrong.

An irresponsible necromancer, most likely. But she doesn’t have time to spend pondering.

Her body tenses, every muscle rigid as cold dread seeps into her chest. Alana’s attention narrows on the hole in the fence the beast had dug under and pried open with its ravenous jaws. There’s blood on parts of the chain-link, trickling like thick sap against the pale moonlight.

Suddenly, the air is too cold and too inert to breathe in. So much so that even the chickens have grown quiet. They huddle in the corner amongst one another, too terrified to utter a single noise.

Alana swallows. If she ran, she’d have seconds to make it to safety. She grips her phone and takes a half step backward. The faint crunch of gravel beneath her sneakers causes the coyote’s head to jerk, its milky white eye locked on her, unblinking. Then, it surges through the fence, jaw snapping and teeth gnawing to tear at her through the barrier. A scream rips from Alana, the sudden motion forcing her to stumble back onto her ass. Dirt and rock embed themselves into the flesh of her palm, and she scrambles to her feet. The second she’s standing, she runs, as fast as her body can possibly take her. The creature finds a way out and its mange-ridden paws pound against the ground behind her as it gives chase—snapping, chattering teeth, and guttural snarls of an animal that’s no longer itself.

Please. This isn’t how I’m supposed to fucking die.

A sob wrenches through her chest as teeth catch the hem of her pajama pants. The fabric jerks, dragging her to the ground hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs. The world spins, and her body locks by reflex, curling in on itself as every muscle braces for the inevitable. For the pain of gnarled, yellow teeth tearing into her skin. For darkness to crowd the corner of her eyes as her vision fades. But it doesn’t. There’s a heartbeat of stillness, and then—

A howl. No, a roar, powerful enough to reverberate against her bones. It’s the kind of sound that turns your blood to ice and freezes you where you stand. Or in this case, where you lie curled in the fetal position, praying for your life. The ground shakes, and gravel scatters as something rushes past Alana and collides with the coyote in a blinding rush of muscle and fur. She scrambles away on her hands and knees, eyes wide as the two creatures brawl—teeth flashing, claws raking, and snarls splitting the night. The coyote yelps, a pitiful sound compared to the thunderous growl of who’s pinned it down.

A wolf. Massive, with tawny fur and dark, furious eyes like melted amber.

“Cyrus?” Alana’s voice cracks as she whispers the name.

Her breath comes in shallow bursts, hands trembling as she crab-walks across the gravel. She should run. Every nerve in her body screams for it, but she can’t tear her eyes away from the chaos. The sheer size of Cyrus is unlike anything Alana has ever seen. He’s far beyond what he was during their first night together. He looks too big to be real; the muscles in his shoulders ripple as he pins the coyote down, snapping jaws hovering just inches from its throat. The smaller beast thrashes wildly, whimpering, until a single crushing snarl silences it into taciturnity. Alana swears she can hear its heartbeat. Wild and erratic, mirroring her own.

Cyrus keeps a massive paw against the other creature’s frail body, pressing into it in a vicious warning. When he releases the beast, it bolts away with its tail between its legs, vanishing into the dark with a pathetic cry. Cyrus stands, chest heaving, every inch of his enormous frame haloed in silver. When he turns towards her, Alana’s heart pounds so hard it’s painful. She can’t breathe, can’t think. Her stomach feels hollowed out and tied in knots, nausea curling inside her. Then, Cyrus prowls forward. His paws sink into the dirt with quiet weight, closing the distance between them inch by careful inch. As if she’s the animal he’s afraid of startling.

Alana is wide-eyed as the werewolf approaches. On all fours, he’s as big as a car, his fur wild and free and partially matted from the dirt.

Despite the beast that sits so prominently in front of her, there’s the same man she recognizes behind those eyes. Eyes that watched her from across the bakery counter, warm and disarming in the ways she’d missed so painfully earlier.