Hope(less) (8 page)

That meant he’d left after I’d walked far enough that I could
no longer see his spark.  He’d probably tracked me by scent, keeping his
distance.  Clever.  But why?

“Where is he?”

Apparently, he wouldn’t let me go easily.  Not that walking
half the night had been easy.  I needed to talk to him, figure what he wanted,
his expectations and the new rules – his rules - I needed to learn.  My
impotent frustration grew.  Better to get it done now so I could figure out a
way out of this mess.

“Gabby.  Before you do anything else, I’d like two minutes
of your time.”  He eyed my mulish stance and added, “You need to hear what I
have to say.”

My anger at Sam still lay in a dark dormant pool inside me. 
He should have told me their plans for this weekend before we came here.  I
didn’t want to listen to anything he had to say.  Some of my anger and
frustration collapsed in on itself as I acknowledged the truth.  Sam’s
dishonestly bothered me, but my brush with freedom, to have it so close and then
ripped away in the last few seconds, hurt more.

Defeated, knowing if I didn’t hear him out that I’d wonder
what he’d wanted to tell me, I agreed.  “Fine, but please hurry.”  I stayed
standing next to my bed.  I didn’t want to get it any dirtier than I’d already
done.

Sam turned and walked away from the door to my little room
heading back to his bed.  I trailed after him.

“His name is Clay,” Sam said sitting on the lumpy mattress. 
“Clayton Michael Lawe.”  He looked up at me when I moved closer, eyeing me from
head to toe.

In the brighter light of the living area, I really did look
like I’d been dragged, or at least rolled, in mud.  How had I slept through
someone carrying me for miles?

Sam continued, “He’s twenty five and completely alone.  His
mother died when he was young, shot accidentally by a hunter while she was in
her fur.  His dad took him to the woods.”

It meant he’d been raised more wolf than boy.  Sam explained
much of the recent pack history to me when we first start coming to the
compound.  They’d only maintained enough of the original building to keep up
appearances. They used the 360 acres that came with it to live as wolves.  Charlene’s
arrival had brought about huge changes, mostly in the social aspect of the
pack.  Afterward, most pack members started acclimating to their skin.  Only a
few of the old school werewolves, like Clay’s father, still preferred their
fur.

“His father died a few years back,” Sam continued, pulling
me from my own thoughts.  “Clay’s been on his own ever since, still choosing to
live in is fur more than his skin.  He’s quiet and has never been trouble.  He
comes when an Elder calls for him, but still claims no pack as his own.  So, by
pack law, he’s considered Forlorn.”

Forlorn.  I closed my eyes tiredly, recalling my werewolf
history.

Prior to Charlene, the decimated numbers had only supported one
main pack in Canada and a few packs overseas.  After nearly twenty years, the
Canadian pack had grown to the point of branching.

Because of the still low numbers, and the dangers of
discovery, joining a pack ensured an individual’s safety and continuity for the
pack.  Some, like Clay, stubbornly remained reclusive.  The majority of those who
stayed solitary did so because they disagreed with the changes Charlene helped
establish.  Many felt the superiority of the pack entitled them to an elitist
isolation from humanity and the world.

By staying on his own, Clay had effectively stated his
opinion on the pack’s reentry into human society.  However, Sam’s comment about
never being trouble meant Clay had not yet actually sided with the other
opinionated Forlorn.

In addition to pack politics regarding humanity, the Elders
had discovered some of the Forlorn could ignore a command from an Elder.  Elders
acted as the lawmakers and enforcers for all werewolves while the pack leader enforced
the rules for the pack, settling disputes.  Elders and pack leaders worked hand
in hand to keep the pack healthy and growing.

According to Sam, a werewolf could not break their society
laws.  Once an Elder declared a law, it became an ingrained piece of the
werewolf.  Sam had compared it to a hypnotist.  The werewolves heard the law,
could contemplate it, have opinions about it, but followed the law regardless
of their thoughts and feelings.  Most laws made sense and werewolves didn’t try
to fight them, but even when a werewolf disagreed with a law, they had no
choice other than to obey it.

Pack leaders had a similar effect on their pack members.  When
they spoke, they forced submission through the pack’s mental connection, often
painful to any attempting to resist.

Forlorn, not having a link to a pack, still had the link to
the Elders.  A link all werewolves shared.  Though a pack leader did not control
them, the base society rules laid down by the Elders still bound them.  At
least, no one had proven otherwise.  However, I overheard Sam speaking with
another Elder about several instances where a Forlorn had ignored certain aspects
of their laws, which made the relationship between pack and Forlorn even more
strained.

“He was here last night to help keep the peace.  He didn’t
come to be introduced to you.”

At least that explained his presence by the door and not in
the line with the rest of them.  My conspiracy theory that Sam set me up
shriveled.

Sam sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, “There are two
things I can promise you.  Though he is technically Forlorn, he’s always chosen
to follow pack law.  He has no issue with humans.  With him, you are safe.  His
control over the change is unusually strong.”

When over stimulated, the change can burst upon a werewolf
with less than adequate control.  Sam had drilled that into me when I first
started hanging out with Paul and Henry unsupervised.  He didn’t want me to
freak out if one of them went wolf on me for no reason.  He’d stressed that
whether in their fur or in their skin, they had the same intelligence and
instinct.  The change was just a defense mechanism because in their fur, they
had teeth and claws to fight with.  So, saying Clay had control meant he kept
his emotions in check.

“And he won’t give up,” Sam added.

Clay hadn’t been looking for a mate like most werewolves did
once they reach puberty.  Did that give me any advantage?  I doubted it.  Sam
had repeatedly stressed that instinct ruled this business.  And fighting
instinct proved extremely difficult for them.  So Sam’s final warning was a
given.  Once they scented their mate, they couldn’t turn back.  Why couldn’t
werewolves get strategically timed head colds like the rest of us?

I sighed.  “Alright, where is he?”

“I think he’s still tinkering with my truck.  Try there.”

Sam slid back under his covers and I turned off the lights
for him before walking out the door.  My sock covered feet, the only thing on
me that didn’t seem too dirty, muffled the sound of my passing.  By the front
door, I found my mud caked shoes and put them on.  They hadn’t been mud caked
when I took them off last night.  I couldn’t believe he’d put them back on me
before abducting me.  Had I really been that tired?  Maybe there’d been
something wrong with that water.  And why were my shoes caked with mud if he
carried me?

When I stepped out the door, the sun shone bright, already
high in the cloudless sky.  Moving off the porch, I closed my eyes for a
moment, tilting my face to soak in the warmth.  The sound of a ratchet drew me
back to my purpose.

I found Clay right where Sam had said, his torso bent over
the grill of the pickup looking closely at the engine.  Purposefully relaxing
my shoulders, I started toward the truck.  The yard had emptied of many of the
vehicles from yesterday, leaving Clay more room to spread out the pieces he
continued to remove.

Slowing my approach, I studied him a bit.  The mid-day sun
didn’t show him in any better light than he’d looked in last night’s shadows. 
He still wore that heavy jacket despite the warm day, and some type of very
dirty, very baggy cargo pants.  His bare feet looked surprisingly clean after
walking miles last night, following me, and then carrying or dragging me back.

Frowning, I looked at his feet again and then down at my
shoes.  No way!  How were his feet cleaner than my shoes?  With feet larger
than mine, he couldn’t have worn my shoes.  Didn’t Sam just tell me he had
complete control over his change?  Couldn’t he have partially shifted his
feet?  Maybe.  It still didn’t explain how I slept through being carried.

He continued his examination of the truck.  I knew he could
hear me coming, but I waited to speak until I stood next to the truck.

“We weren’t officially introduced last night.  My name’s
Gabby.  Gabrielle May Winters, officially.”  I tucked my hands in my back
pockets hoping I wouldn’t have to shake his hand or anything.

He straightened, turning toward me, giving me his undivided
attention.  I didn’t think it would be possible, but he was even dirtier than
I’d first thought.  Long hair hung in clotted strands obscuring his eyes while
his unkempt facial hair covered the rest of his face.  I kept my thoughts about
his hygiene to myself.

At no less than six feet to my five foot five inches, he
intimidated me and I fought not to show it.  His continued silence didn’t help
matters.  It puzzled me until I remembered Sam’s comments about his
upbringing.  Maybe he didn’t even have the social skills to return a greeting.

There had to be a way out of this.  Please let there be a
way out of this, I thought.

“Sam said that your name is Clay.”  I waited for some type
of acknowledgement, but got none.  He just continued to look at me.  At least,
I assumed I had his attention.  I couldn’t really see his eyes to know for
sure.

“Listen, Clay, I know you think I’m the one for you...”  I
paused, and decided to change my approach.  Choosing my words carefully, I
started again.  “I don’t have a sense of smell to depend on, like you do.  Although,
the Elders say to trust the instinct of werewolves, I don’t trust blindly.”  Clay
hadn’t moved.  We stood maybe five feet apart with the front quarter panel of
the truck separating us.  I couldn’t read his expression or anything in his
body language to hint at what he might be thinking.

I decided just to say what I wanted.  “I really want to go
home.  If I asked to borrow someone else’s car, would it live?”

He turned away from me and continued with his examination of
the truck, his body language easy to translate.

“Ok.  I’ll take that as a ‘No’,” I mumbled more to myself
than him.

He surprised me by turning back toward me again, waiting.  I
struggled to decipher his mood from his face.  His ridiculously long and shaggy
facial hair covered most of his face, including his mouth, obliterating any
trace of a smile or frown.

“Clay, I’m not trying to be rude here, but I’m struggling to
figure us out.  What’s the plan?”  No visible response.  “Am I just supposed to
stay here until you decide I’m not really your mate?”  I hated saying that
word.  Again, nothing.  “Would it help speed things along if we spent a little
time together?”  This time a shrug.  One-way conversations rarely worked well
when trying to get to know someone.  “Do you talk?”  And again, I lost his
attention to the truck engine.  “Ok.  No talking.  Got it.”

Did being raised in his fur mean he’d turned feral?  The thought
of spending time with a Tarzan mentality werewolf, worried me.  Who knew what
he might do?  Only Sam’s assurance of my safety with Clay eased my fear before
it fully took hold.  No, he couldn’t be feral.  He appeared to understand
everything I said.  For whatever reason, it seemed that Clay had no intention to
speak to me.

I sighed, pulled my hands from my back pockets and leaned
against the truck.  Chin in hands, I watched him check the different fluids. 
“You seemed to like the idea of spending time to get to know each other,” I
commented.  He turned toward me again.  “But what’s the point in spending time
together if you don’t want to talk to me?”  I didn’t count on a response. 
“Isn’t the point to get to know one another?”

… and he turned back to the truck.  Good to know the
windshield washer fluid was getting low.

Frustrated, I wanted to kick a truck tire, but figured I’d
just hurt my toe.  Instead, I walked back to my room, head bent in thought.  The
one sided conversation hadn’t given me any useful information.  Why keep me
here if he didn’t want to talk to me?  And he obviously wanted me here.  First,
he killed Sam’s truck.  Then he brought me back to the compound in middle of
the night after letting me walk for hours.  That reminded me that I needed a
shower, bad.

The hallways in the compound remained empty.  I let myself
into the quiet apartment.  Sam no longer curled under the covers, his bed
made.  He’d probably left in search of coffee.

Grabbing clean clothes, I headed to the bathroom and cringed
at the sight of myself in the mirror.  He wouldn’t talk to me and dragged me
through mud and leaves.  How exactly was this a good start to a relationship in
his mind?  I spent longer under the hot spray than I would have liked trying to
work the leaf debris from my hair.  Too late, I concluded brushing the leaves
out first would have suited me better.

Someday, I’d have to get the full story about last night and
how I got so dirty.  But how could I?  He wouldn’t talk to me.  He seemed
willing to listen until I talked about something he didn’t like.  When I talked
about talking he stopped listening.  Did that mean he wanted me to do all the
talking?  It made sense that he wouldn’t really want to talk about himself
given what Sam mentioned about his childhood.  I could empathize.  There wasn’t
much I wanted to share with a stranger about my childhood either.

Sighing, I tugged on the last of my clean clothes, a pair of
cotton shorts (I’d been counting on a lounge day) and a tank top.  Having
planned a three-day weekend, I hadn’t packed much, limiting my options.  Balling
up the dirty clothes, I tossed them into a plastic bag and set them by the
bedroom door.  I hoped that Sam’s washing machine could take the abuse.