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“Wouldn’t call it a turn on. August pissed me off. The sight of you wounded …If you were capable of driving yourself, I would have taken the paw that did it and more."
“How can someone be bred to kill?"
He closed his eyes for a couple breaths before regarding at me. “Your cat was bait for dog fighting. Do you know more about the process, Marcy?"
“Miss Davins," I corrected him coolly, shifting in my seat. No position was comfortable. Everything from my neck to my breasts throbbed. “No, I don't. Never been exposed to worse than newspapers and TV segments."
“Are you alright listening for a couple minutes? If not, I can keep driving."
“I'm cool." I brushed the sticky fabric adorning my shoulder. “Not bad, right?"
“Right." His reassuring smile wavered. “Wolves have roamed North America for thousands of years. Our ancestors were wolves before they were cursed to share the shape of our competitors. Different strains rose on different continents at different times in different species, but mine turned first. Vengeful god, lunar goddess, migrations, aliens: doesn't matter how we arrived. Our ancestors didn't keep records. We are here, and we've been here in the shadows since our four-legged kin went extinct."
“What does this have to do with dog fighting?"
“The more advanced humans got, the harder it became to live alongside them. Humans killed what they feared.
The first strain had seen what change had wrought upon their numbers, knew how important it was to keep our people safe. Known for loyalty and brute strength, they dedicated themselves to protecting our kind around the world. Eventually, as humanity flourished, Otherfolk of all kinds sought protection, and the Otherworld Society came into existence. Truth faded to rumor to myth to bedtime stories and silver screens. We are born for this, always bred faster, stronger, smarter, larger to compete and complete any task asked of us. The weak are culled. Reapers surrender their futures to ensure Weres have a future."
“So you serve the Otherworld?"
“We protect our kind no matter the cost, take care of whatever business is asked of us so the rest can live in peace. I don't enjoy it, but I do it. And the community stays safe."
“And the fighting?" Regripping my sweater, I winced and pressed harder on the claw marks. Caelan watched the gesture with undivided attention. I had to clear my throat to get him to continue.
“Thousands of years of conflict darkens my blood. It's who I am. The sheriffs, reapers, if you prefer, after today,"—he flashed a somber smile—“we're the ones who completed training. Join or die." I studied the serpent on his arm with renewed interest. The sheriff stared out beyond the windshield into undisturbed woodland. “I didn't even know I could be human until an opposing wolf ripped the silver out of my back. Almost died on the spot until I realized I could switch between forms at will. The wolf comes first, we're taught."
“Some choice."
“They bait you with humans and non-prospects," he continued. “Starved, beaten, chained in a filthy corner. . . For years killing is the only relief.” He smiled to himself. “I remember this older, retired sheriff destroyed me during a test for gameness. Crushed my front leg in his jaws, ripped it from the joint, tore a ligament in my hind leg. I was on two legs but I continued dragging across the floor straight for him, desperate to taste his blood on my tongue, until I lost too much of my own to move."
During his story my hand crept to my mouth, and stayed there as he finished. I was so angry with him for what he did to Rachel, but a part of me felt sorry for him. Choices are easy when you weren’t the one making them.
“Why, Caelan?”
“They don't trust you to do the job unless you've proven yourself. And if you clear the pit, you learn to speak and make friends and do all the things the humans do, but you don't see yourself as one of them."
“But you are."
“Skin is our disguise, Marcy. You grow up having hunted these weak, naked snacks for years. We’re encouraged to think of ourselves separate, from everything and everyone. I thought the same, until I was released into the wild and started interacting with y’all. I should’ve been retired once they realized I had strayed, but the gameness that got me out of the pit helps me kill a lot of monsters. I ain’t called the King of Graves for nothing.”
“You were called Big Spoon for something,” I thought suddenly. “I want to hear that.”
He turned red. “Not now,” he said.
“Fine,” I said. “Hey, you said you bite to kill. How does your line carry on then?”
“That ain’t entirely true. We bite to turn once. It’s a controlled process. Should we happen to impress our superiors, we are retired and get assigned a mate with optimal genes who is born one of us, or selected and given to us to turn. Females of my kind rarely survive the pits, if they’re put in at all."
I grimaced, and not just from pain. “Calico is right about your kind. They're horrible people."
“We're not people, Miss Davins." He rubbed his face, not seeming to notice my blood smeared on his forehead. “We’re wolves who walk like men."
“Gram used to tell me there’s no monsters in the woods, only men. Good and bad, I suppose."
We didn't say another word the entire drive to Calico's. I rested against the glass, distracting myself with the scenery.
Once we arrived, I didn't want Caelan’s help, but in the waning afternoon sun I wasn’t getting to the front door without his support. With his hand under my elbow, he walked me up the stairs and rang the doorbell, and turned.
