Chapter Twenty Five
"Be careful around this 'un," grunts a stubbly-chinned stableman as he walks past, meaty bucket thrown over a shoulder. His beady eyes are locked on the dark stable we'd just approached, his gaze reproachful in nature. "He bites. Take a chunk out of your arm, this 'un will. Very nasty temperament. Think he might be depressed meself, but I haven't ever seen the likes o' one so bitter."
Hugo frowns at the boarded up doorway – most of the other wolves can enter and exit freely – and questions, "Why is he locked up? That's probably not helping his temper. In my experiences, if you've got an angry wolf, you just let it go its own path."
The stableman shrugs, dumping the raw meat into the stable beside the nasty wolf's. "Wasn't me decision, it wasn't. But whenever we'd let him out, he'd start snapping at the other wolves, and trying to get out over the town. Couldn't let him nip at children or nuthin', so we had to lock him away. Poor fella. Doesn't even like the light, 'e's so irritable."
The stalls on either side of the stable aisle are mostly well-lit and airy, with all sides adorned with large windows to allow a breeze through the otherwise stagnant air. Even the ceilings filter light through the mesh coating them. The stable doors are nonexistent on anything but nursing mothers, allowing many wolves to stretch their legs and trot down to a pen at the end of the long stable yard. Most of the canines seem content to sit in their large, padded rooms, however, and sleep or rest. Some have more than one nestled in the rooms, as if two wolves are hanging out with one another to pass the time, just like people. All thus far have greeted us with lolling tongues and drooling grins.
This particular wolf's dark, despondent stable puzzles me, and I can't help pursuing further. I try to peer through the windows into the stables, looking for some signs of the acrimonious wolf in the shroud of darkness he dwells in.
"What's his name?" I ask, searching the front of his stall for a nametag as the others have. "Does he not have a name? Maybe that's why he's so grumpy."
The stableman frowns, pursing his lips. He comes over to our group, placing his grimy hands on his hips to stare into the dark room. "Dunno. Think it might be Pepper."
"Pepper?" Bay repeats, his eyes widening with recognition. "Pepper was the wolf that refused to join the work force this morning. He threw a fit and nearly bit a stableboy's head off."
"The same," the stableman agrees with a terse nod. "I told Horace just to leave the fella alone, let him be in his peace in quiet til I came 'round to gather him, but that tyke wouldn't have it. It's his own damn fault the mongrel tore the chunk from his shoulder, but cha can't help feeling sorry for the boy. Didn't know no better."
I recoil from the window, repulsed at the evil doings of the animal.
"So this creature's why Scruffy's not right here." Hugo's lips twist slightly. "You know, that does put a dent in my admiration for him. Scruffy doesn't like to work for people other than me, you know. By tonight, he'll be achy and sore and sweaty. Now that, that will be a poor –"
"If slightly melodramatic," Bay inserts, smiling at Hugo with unabashed adoration.
"– wolf, it will be." Hugo casts Bay a smitten glance, and the two huddle slightly closer together.
"I'd like to see this Pepper," Bryon decides, stepping closer to the stable. "I'm willing to bet that he's a lot more docile with a calm hand. Exaggerated fierceness is common, you know." He shoots me a meaningful gaze, as if hoping I'd learn something from his preaching. "An accurate rumor never is a rumor that tends to be spread."
Shrugging helplessly, the stableman grunts, "Suit you'self, Mudda Teresa. Just wander up to his window and stick a hand through. Like this, lemme show ya…"
The stableman strides warily to the wolf's door, and taps his fingers along the pane. Whistling innocuously, he calls out Pepper's name once or twice with his drawling accent, cautiously sticking his head in to locate the wolf. A throaty roar echoes from inside the dark box, sounding almost like a cross between a dog's snarl and a leaf blower. The stableman recoils immediately, falling backwards onto his rump in his hurry. Instantly following the stableman's retreat from his cell, a grey wolf head appears at the window, flashing its white fangs threateningly. He scrambles through the wood shavings backwards until his back hits the opposite stable wall. The wolf in the stall he'd thumped against lifts its head absentmindedly, ears swiveling forward and then flicking back in nonchalance.
Bryon jumps in before the wolf can withdraw into the dark bowels of the stable, leaping forward with his palms raised nonthreateningly. He murmurs beneath his breath strange, foreign words, trying to calm the wolf.
The stableman's breathing becomes heavy, and his hands clutch wildly at the wood shavings.
Rolling blue eyes fix on Bryon, their malicious glare find his soothing gaze, and after a few more muffled snarls, the wolf stills. Something mildly akin to shock blankets Pepper's lupine expression. Flaring his nostrils and swiveling his ears to Bryon, the wolf focuses intensely on my uncle, his abrupt stillness allowing me my first real observations of his appearance.
His fur is dark, dark grey, the color of a menacing thundercloud, each hair tipped in the same velvety black as the midnight sky's diamond-studded veil. His muzzle is grizzled and his whiskers are silver, blatantly accenting the wolf's age. A trickle of crimson blood is dribbling over his black, slavering lips, the chilling crimson shade reminding me of the boy the wolf had mauled earlier this morning. His blue eyes are the brightest I've ever seen on an animal, nearly white in color, but sheathed in a gossamer-like sheen of powder blue. Laboring through each breath, the wolf slowly calms himself, and his pants grow less and less grotesque. The snarl curling his lips diminishing with every passing second, he appears to square his shoulders and curb his expression, like a man may shield his anger or swallow his rage.
"See?" my uncle murmurs, voice melodious and gentle as blades of grass rippling in a summer breeze, but firm and steely enough to prompt respect from all parties. Bryon moves towards the wolf with his lips in a hard line, gesturing with one hand for us all to get back. "He's calm." Without breaking the intense eye contact, Bryon grasps a type of lupine halter on a hook nearby, and approaches the wolf slowly. "Aren't you, Pepper? Nice and calm."
To my surprise, the wolf accepts the halter without much of a protest – he gnashes his teeth and rolls his eyes, but he doesn't try to rub it off, even as Bryon slips it over his ears and fastens a lead-line on a clip beneath is chin. Upon tightening the muzzle slightly, my uncle swings the door open and leads Pepper from the dark stable, tugging at the rope around Pepper's head.
My heart pulls as the wolf slowly emerges from the dark room, each one of his labored steps revealing more of his scrawny body. His fur is matted and oily, perhaps a side effect from living solely in one dank room with all excrements. A magnificent pair of steel grey wings peppered with brown and silvery flecks dangle around his paws, bedraggled feathers crooked and filthy, speckled with sawdust. The wolfs paws drag over the wood shavings, as if they won't work properly after so long cooped up in his cell. His mane, especially, is rugged and lopsided, and his belly's width is far from its preferred girth.
I glance at the stableman, coiled on the ground in fright. If the fear is so great amongst all the stablehands… it makes morbid sense that none of them had gathered the guts to clean out his stall, make sure he had plenty of food and water, maybe even brush out the mess of a tail hanging limply. How long had he been in that stall, cooped up, jailed in a cell instead of gamboling in the warm sunshine?
"Poor boy," I whisper, alarmed at seeing such an unkempt creature living alongside the other wolves with glossy coats and full stomachs. My words draw the wolf's intense blue eyes – they land on me, and his ears swivel my direction.
More than a few moments pass with our gazes locked, as if the wolf is unwilling to look away. His head cocks from inside the restricting halter, as if my presence stumps him, as if he cannot fathom why I am here in these musty stables. But before either he or I can mull for very long on the subject, a loud, energetic cry echoes down the stable's corridor.
"Bryon!" shouts an angel from the end of the stable, his tone euphoric. "Bryon, come here! You didn't tell me I was a grandfather! Look, my granddaughter! Her name is Paige, and she loves chocolate. Can't say I disagree with her! But why didn't you tell me? Bryon, I'm a grandfather!"
As the angel lopes closer, grinning broadly, there are a few things I can't help puzzling over. The first is his almost startling goldness – golden tan, golden eyes, shimmering golden wings, even golden hair like a lion's golden mane. He hadn't been nearly this sparkly drenched in water – now, he reflects light like a polished coin.
Unlike any other angel I've seen, Sariel also has an aged look about him. Not to say he doesn't maintain the Adonislike beauty of the angelic bastards, but there is something that seems weathered in his expression. Whether it's the smile crinkles around his eyes or the uneven stubble at his chin, whether it's the sparse silvery hairs at his part line or his crooked and dented nose, there's something sufficiently more fatherly in his appearance, as if having a family had changed him in some biological way.
Paige is riding on his shoulders, her arms wrapped around his forehead. She's smiling tautly as ever, her little cheeks flushed slightly with pleasure. Upon seeing me, she unravels a single hand and waves stiffly from her perch, as if gloating about her sudden height.
But perhaps the most interesting thing about Sariel is the wolf attached to his arm.
It's the same armored wolf I'd seen Thea riding earlier, with the same deep, dark brown color and the same shining silver eyes. Her fangs are buried into the Sariel's bicep, her jaws locked on his bone, reminding me of an inescapable mouse trap. Blood pools around her thick yellow fangs, dripping from her chin and dribbling down to her mane. As he strides down the aisle, Sariel drags the wolf with him as if it weighs nothing, even as it growls and shakes its head from side to side like a dog with a chew toy.
"Hello, Father," Bryon greets warmly, holding back Pepper with two fingers through his halter; the wolf had grown remarkably violent once more upon their approach. "You were slightly preoccupied for me to tell you anything last time we met. I'm glad you and Paige are getting along good. Even if Cara seems to have a bone to pick with you."
"Eh?" Sariel lifts his arm, slight annoyance discoloring his joy as he stares down Cara, the wolf gnawing on him. "Oh, her. I'm here to drop her off. She doesn't understand that the discovery of grandchildren means we don't play tough anymore. Overexcited, just like a baby Nephilim. But, Bryon" – Sariel's eyes shine again, like a child himself – "on the way here, I was talking to your mother, and Bryon, Paige can stay with us! Paige can be raised by us, by you!"
And, at this point, I realize that there truly is nothing to fear from this towering giant and his magnificently shimmering display. Though Sariel may have the makings of a fearsome warrior, though his eyes do show the warrior's seasoned experience as they dart about the stable to check for threats, there is nothing baleful in his demeanor or his attitude. More like a golden retriever than an avenging angel, I cannot find a fault in his broad grin and distinctively happy eyes.
Hugo chortles. "You're a funny angel, Sariel. I can see where Bryon gets it from."
"Paige and I get along well," Sariel continues, his golden eyes for the first time roving over Bryon's companions. "She's still a little spooked by my wings – can't move 'em, she'll freak – but that's acceptable, considering what the angelic bastards did to her." My eyebrows raise, wondering both how he knows such things about Paige and why an angel is discriminating against his own species. "But it's okay! As long as I keep the feathers folded up, she's okay! Oh, Thea was so excited, she went off to go brag and gather the Wives, and I'm out here trying to find Paige's sister!"
"She's got a sister, does she?" I can't help questioning, smiling innocently at him, hoping he'll believe I'm just a resident of Sercem Domu. "What's her name?"
"Uh…" Sariel's eyebrows pinch together, and, above his head, Paige clasps a hand to her mouth with shining eyes. "Penelope, I think. I was… Well… Daine told me, but I was a bit obsessed with Paige at the time," he admits bashfully.
"Hmm." I grin at him. "Well, I'm Penryn. Penryn Young. Nice to meet you." I lift a hand for him to shake, keeping my expression as curbed as possible as his mouth drops open with belated recognition.
"N-nice to meet you too," he stammers, taking my hand and shaking it with a firm grip. "Very nice. Penryn."
Bryon clears his throat, clearly attempting to keep his expression impassive as well. "Should we deal with our wolves before we continue to seek out Penelope?" he inquires, still holding the snarling Pepper back with one hand. "I don't think this one's too eager to do anything than get a good brushing." He stares down at the stableman, a slight hardness glinting in his bronze eyes. "Can I trust you to take Pepper here and give him proper living conditions instead of treating him like a leper? I take that back." Bryon's gaze grows more intense. "We treat lepers better than you have been treating this animal."
"I – I'll do my best, sir," the pathetic stableman promises, stumbling over his words nearly as much as Sariel. He scoots a little further from Pepper, eyes wide with fright.
"You'll do more than that, I hope," Bryon growls, but he doesn't wait for a response. He smiles at his father, gruffness disappearing, and jerks his head down the way. "Shall we?"
And the two are off with little more than exchanged smiles and promises of a quick return. I can't help noticing from behind how similar their physical builds are – broad shoulders that rotate slightly with each long-legged stride. The two are so alike that their heights are nearly identical as well.
As they depart, I can hear Sariel's voice echoing down the stables, loud as a boom of thunder.
"So, that's my other granddaughter? Penryn? I suppose that sounds a bit like Penelope… don't look at me like that! Spunky, isn't she? I like her! I like her a lot!"
I wave farewell to Sariel as he rises into the sky until he is no more than a golden star amongst the twinkling white. Thea waves back with a motherly smile, her now-familiar rounded face softening from its stony, impassive mask into glowing affection. Paige waves stiffly as well, encouraged by my own goodbye.
After a busied evening of fun and a warm sense of family she'd never truly experienced before, Paige looks weary and ready to sleep. Sariel had paraded her around all night at the great feast Thea had insisted upon, the golden angel wearing her as a sort of crown as he'd dashed about introducing Paige to all of his Watchers and all of the Wives. Paige had been enthralled about it all – Bryon and Bay had enforced the rule that all angelic wings had to be shut throughout the night at the door, and, in their eagerness to meet their leaders' granddaughter, the Watchers had all complied without question.
I had found myself by Thea's side through most of the feast, more than a little in awe of the woman. Just like Sariel had appointed himself as leader of the Watchers after they'd left Raffe's domain of control, Thea had done the same with her Wives when they'd grouped together after what many called "The Decade of Weeping Children". Theophilia is a tough, firm woman that usually wears an expression so sagaciously impassive it'd make you believe that she'd never break into a smile, which, as it happens, isn't true. After tailing her around through the fortress's massive dining room for a night, it'd become clear that she smiles perhaps more than her gregarious husband. And when she does smile, her face softens into a gentle, motherly expression, so different from her belligerent façade.
My belly had filled with scrumptious foods that I'd thought had become unavailable in World After, more than sating my ravenous hunger. The angels had torn into all sorts of meats and cheeses, whereas the women found themselves better acquainted with thick soups and bisques. Daisy, the cheerful artist I'd met first, made herself known several times as second-in-command of the Wives when she'd scolded boisterous Watchers quite scathingly as she'd hounded them from the corpulent tankards of ale. Bryon had mingled with everyone, refusing to choose a side or be dealt a stereotype, chatting and socializing all throughout the hall, his melodic laugh echoing off the rafters more often than anyone else's. Bay and Hugo were beneath such impartiality, Hugo preferring the company of the Wives, laughing and horsing around with Thea and me oftentimes, whereas Bay tended to socialize with the Watchers quite adeptly. Throughout the feast, Nephilim had dropped in occasionally. Emilio's red-cheeked mother had come more than once to the hall, bringing new platters of her delicious garlic lamb, if only to hear the Watchers' roars of glee every time they saw her face.
The Watchers themselves had been nothing like I'd considered them to be, very different from my concept of lusty angels looking for pleasure rather than companionship when they married their Wives. In fact, prolonged exposure to silly monkeys and cheerful Nephilim seems to have molded them into a bunch of winged goofballs. Aside from a few tipsy men, they don't especially seek out the alcohol, nor get too rowdy in their celebrations. They merely have innocent, honest fun, oh so different from the proud, licentious gatherings of all other angels.
Paige yawns and yanks on my pant leg, looking up at me with wide, questioning eyes. I pat her shoulder with a gentle smile, yawning myself.
"How about you head back to the room?" I whisper to her, leaning down and patting her shoulder comfortingly. "I'll be right behind you, and then we'll say goodnight, alright?"
Too tired to protest in any way, Paige plods off, slipping into our room without glancing back at me. I smile after her, without a doubt that she'll be sound asleep before I return. But before I turn in, there's one last person I feel a need to check on, one that didn't show up at the feast or give any sign that he's still been breathing these last few hours.
I rap my knuckles softly on Raffe's wooden door, not truly expecting a response this late into the night. The silence from inside prompts another slightly louder knock, but still, he does not stir from inside the room. My sole intention to check that he's in one piece, I turn the knob quietly, finding it unlocked, and push open the door.
Raffe's navy blue eyes are already fixed on me, illuminated by the liquid moonlight pouring in through the crack in the door. He's stretched out over the immaculately made bed with his hands and wings dripping over the sides, as if he had thrown himself down without a care. Dried sweat encrusts his bare chest and hardens the black strands of hair haloing his face.
"Penryn," he greets, voice thick with weariness. "At last. I assume you're here for the mutt?"
"Uh." My eyebrows pinch together, my lips pursing in bemusement. "What?"
"The mutt." Raffe lifts the hand closest to the door in explanation. His entire bed shakes as if something beneath it had rammed against the springs, and Scruffy's enthusiastic tongue and muzzle follows Raffe's hand. The wolf laps excitedly at Raffe's fingers, as if exulted by the sudden movement. At the end of the bed, a fluffy tail I hadn't noticed earlier wags viciously.
I can't help laughing exuberantly, amused by Scruffy's sleeping place. He must've plodded after Raffe and collapsed in the first cool place he'd discovered, which happened to be beneath Raffe's bed. To show his gratitude, the wolf must've taken to licking Raffe's dangling hand, completely unaware that his affections weren't appreciated.
"Actually, no," I chuckle. "I had no idea Scruffy was here. But I'll take him with me, if you want to lose your companion that badly."
Raffe hesitates, his pause making me wonder if he truly despises Scruffy the way he pretends to. "You'd better if you don't want me ripping his tongue off. Give him something to eat, while you're at it, so he won't lick some guy's fingers off. Some water, too."
My eyebrows raise. "Do you need something to eat, Raffe? I didn't see you at the feast tonight."
Raffe's gaze darkens, going nearly black with brooding emotions I don't try to comprehend. "The Watchers and I would hardly get along, and it would be impolite of me to spoil such a festive mood."
My skeptical glare moves over his chiseled chest, noting the dark stains of grit and grime, and towards the cuffs of his pants, where sand clings religiously to the fabric. His shoulders are cloaked in sunburns, raw and angry red. Though they'd grown tougher from his time on the ground with me, his feet are still far from calloused, and seem to be glazed in a fresh coat of blisters.
"Don't you think you should eat something?" I offer dubiously. "Or, I dunno, take a shower?"
"There will be plenty of time for hygiene in the morning," Raffe mutters, dismissing thoughts of ablution and pulling the hand Scruffy had been licking from the wolf's reach to drape his arm over his eyes, blocking out the moonlight. Scruffy, from beneath the bed, seems to be having a serious crisis on how to proceed with his adoration of Raffe.
Laughing slightly, I clap my hands to my thighs, grinning welcomingly at the wolf. "Cm'here boy!"
Scruffy breaks out in a delighted grin, and, before I can repeal my beckons, he stands, not bothering to slither out from beneath Raffe's bed first. His slender legs unfold lissomely, propelling him upwards with ample muscle. Raffe's eyes slam apart, his expression abruptly panicked as Scruffy first lifts the bed on his back, teetering and tottering like a boat caught in a storm. Then it tips backwards towards Scruffy's rear end as he strides forward in my direction, the two legs of the bed slamming against the floor with a jerk that unsettles Raffe. His fists curl around the sheets for security, but it doesn't stop him from spilling from the bed like the rest of his pillows. With a pained "oof" he hits the floor, hidden from my view by the tilted bed.
Responding to Raffe's grunt, Scruffy realizes the chaos he'd caused – grin faltering, his head swivels around, searching for the source of the pained exclamation. At the sight of what I assume is Raffe limp on the ground, Scruffy yips excitedly and pounces on him, tongue flailing. All four legs of the bed crash back to the floor.
Raffe snarls out profanities harshly. A mixture of horror and delight brawling deep in my stomach, I dash around the bed to find Raffe writhing on the ground in an attempt to shield his face as Scruffy attacks the angel. His black wings flail about, slapping at Scruffy's sides – but the scythes are sheathed, so there's not a chance that Raffe would be able to do anything more than annoy Scruffy, a fact I'm certain he's aware of.
I can't help laughing, now that they're obviously both safe, as Raffe struggles against Scruffy's persistent, slobbery tongue. He shoots me an evil glare through the drool coating his face, a glare that only lasts a second before Scruffy's next barrage.
One of Raffe's kicking feet catch me unawares in the darkened room, his foot colliding with my shin. Caught off guard, I don't have the time to regain my balance nor truly recognize what's happening or truly to do anything more than cry out with surprise as the world whisks around me.
I hit the wood floor with a solid crack, and pain shafts from my hand.
All playful growls and colorful swearing cuts off immediately. In the blur of my periphery, I see Scruffy being batted aside. The next thing I know, Raffe's arms are lifting me from the ground, supporting my head in one of his hands, tilting my gaze towards his. Raffe is a dark silhouette, the only color aside from the beige ceiling being his blue eyes.
"Penryn!" he husks, urgency sending notes of strain through his voice. "Penryn, are you alright? Did you hit your head? Can you see clearly?"
The soft huffing of a canine nose puffs in my ears, and whiskers tickle my forehead. Scruffy snorts and pulls back, sitting obediently behind Raffe.
My coherence comes back abruptly, and my cheeks flush with heat as I realize that Raffe is not only clutching me close to his chest, cradling me in his lap, but that concern brightens the color of his eyes, concern so wonderful it tightens my chest with pain.
"Yeah," I mutter sheepishly, glancing away from his gaze to keep things from becoming too awkward. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just klutzy. 'S all."
Raffe halts my attempts to rise from his lap with a single hand, his blazing eyes still glued to mine. "Not quite yet, missus. You're sure you didn't hit your head?" His fingers probe the base of my scalp, leaving scolding trails as they filter through my hair.
"No. No, nothing, I – it's nothing, Raffe." My cheeks feel even warmer, and I fix on a point somewhere above Raffe's head, studying it intensely, as if I can't register the gentle fingers slowly being pulled from the base of my scalp, combing through the length of my hair instead of merely exiting.
At last convinced, Raffe releases a massive sigh, rolling his blue eyes as if the ordeal had been a great annoyance to him. "You're not allowed to do that anymore. You hear?"
"What?" I challenge, grateful for the familiar note of Raffe's lazy arrogance. "Fall down?" Though I know I shouldn't, though I am perfectly aware of how odd it may be, I can't help subtly breathing deeper; beneath the layer of odorous sweat and grime, Raffe's masculine fragrance is hidden, and the sour saltiness of his perspiration has almost a positive effect on its woodsy smell. The intoxicating scent cocoons me, making it difficult to focus.
"Not just fall down; fall down and shout," Raffe corrects, his grave tone painting the picture of a very punishable crime. "Don't do it. Making a racket, slamming against the floorboards! If you're not more careful, people will think we're hiding a body or something."
Sure, I can't help but think. That's exactly what you were thinking just then.
"But we're not," I point out, toying with the concept of sitting up again. "I think I have the right to fall down and shout as much as I like. We were born with basic rights, you know."
"Yes, but, you see, giving me a heart attack takes away some of my basic rights," Raffe explains with condescending patience. "And that's not fair. Not ethical."
Abandoning all pretenses of civil conversation, I meet his eyes. "Do you really think that you'd get a heart attack from me taking a little tumble?" I ask, my otherwise deadpan streaked with incredulity.
Raffe's face turns stony. "I've seen people put out to pasture for lesser things, Penryn. The damsel shrieked as she fell, which is enough to raise anyone's hairs, and then she hit the floor with a great big smack. Groaned a bit, too. Moreover, I'd been the one to kick you. Blame would've fallen on me with Scruffy as my only witness and – well, I'd have been hard-pressed to find a soul willing to believe in accidents around here."
I understand his concerns, but they're not what I'd secretly hoped I'd hear. Nodding in secretly disappointed comprehension, I once more, attempt to sit up. Like before, Raffe's hand stops me and gently pushes me back down.
"Where," he growls, throaty tones absolving any crestfallen emotions I may have hosted, "do you think you're going, exactly?" He tilts his head to one side. "Hmm?"
Pulse spiking, I meet Raffe's lofty questioning gaze with wide eyes. "I have to get back to Paige," I explain breathlessly, failing to keep my cadence under tabs.
"And I have to get back to sleeping." Raffe purses his lips, as if faced with quite a dilemma. "How unfortunate. I suppose our paths cleave from this point, Evil Princess. I only ask that you'll remember me as you go forth to do great things."
"What are you talking about?" I wonder, but his embrace's firm hold around me has lessened, and I sit up in his lap. Our heads are level, our faces close, breaths intermingling in the cool night air. I cannot help but notice how Raffe's hair, spiked with the rigid salt of his own sweat, falls into his face as if he'd just emerged from a modeling agency's salon. The dirt smeared in the shadows of his cheekbones seems to emphasis them even more in the dark of the night. As a flush once more colors my cheeks, I wish I hadn't obtained the knowledge that Raffe can see perfectly in the dark because keen shafts of unease and mild shame splinter my gut.
"You're embarking on an epic quest, aren't you?" Raffe chuckles, his chest reverberating with his laughter. My skin prickles where the vibrations brush it. "It's what I've been told. A dangerous journey through the courtyard and into your room where the treasure awaits you – a nice, neat bed" – he casts a semi-annoyed glance towards the contents of his own bed and their graveyard on the floor where Scruffy had dumped them – "and a cheerful sister. Going all alone like you are, how could I not sympathize?"
"You're acting really weird," I chuckle, shaking my head, smirking. "Do you want me to bring Scruffy with me or not?"
Scruffy, who'd been in the process of crawling beneath the bed, evidently raises his head at his name, and slams it into the top of the springs. From beneath Raffe's mattress, his pitiful howl sounds, a wailing bay of pain.
After rolling his eyes with overly exaggerated annoyance, Raffe hesitates, and a true battle of emotions plays in his eyes. "Leave him," he decides, voice as if attempting to not put the slightest strain on the choice. "I can't risk an innocent – albeit annoying – canine on a doomed mission."
"Okay, well, wish me good fortune, I'm getting up."
Laughing softly, I push myself from Raffe's lap. My laughter cuts off abruptly as, in an attempt to boost myself while rising from the ground, I blindly lay my hand on Raffe's thigh, horrifyingly close to his hip, and wrap it around him before I get the sense of what I'm grasping. Mortified, I quickly release his warm skin, and find a better handhold on the flat ground before pushing myself hurriedly from the ground.
Raffe's laugh is louder than any of his others had been. "You're as red as a tomato, you know that?"
"Sorry," I breathe. "I didn't see – I had my back turned."
"Don't apologize." The lithe flex of muscle and beautiful sinew glints in the moonlight, and, before I can obtain myself and channel my ogling gaze elsewhere, Raffe has risen to an almost uncomfortable proximity beside me. "There's nothing to apologize for. Now, would you like a chivalrous escort to your room, or do you think you can find it yourself?"
"Think I can manage," I mumble as Raffe edges back to give the two of us breathing room. I give him one last farewell smile, my expression much softer than I'd intended, and then head awkwardly towards the door, eyes glued to the floor.
As I pass Raffe's bed, Scruffy's tail thumps against the floor – he'd wormed his way back beneath the metal frame, and now is hidden beneath it once more. I can't help grinning – though I find it hard to believe that such a large wolf can fit in a space so small, I imagine it's nice and dark down there, with no one to bother you.
"Bye, Scruffy," I chuckle, and, at his name, the tail thumps a bit louder.
I don't pause again until I'm at the door. It's still open, the moonlight a silver ribbon that leaks into the shadowed room through the crack, the luminance revealing the gleam of sweat-encrusted skin and the watery shine of the comely blue eyes I fear I have become far too acquainted with.
"Bye, Raffe," I lilt, smiling into the dark recesses of the room. "Sweet dreams. Don't let the bed wolf bite."
Raffe doesn't respond. But, with the moonlight that drapes over him like a kind's regal garbs, I can see the dance of shadows over his face and know that he has smiled, that those lips have half-cocked, that the very corners of his mouth have perked for my sake and my sake solely. That, in itself, holds enough of a farewell for me.
If I had known the night that awaited me, I might've stayed a bit longer with Raffe instead of succumbing to the darkness of sleep.
What to write, what to write…
There shall be some action soon, to those getting bored with all this talking and building up. If not next chapter, the following one. Understood? Great. Brilliant.
Hey, just thought I'd say thanks to all the reviewers out there. You guys are awesome. Every last one.
POLL: Here's a thought: Scruffy is "in love" with a madwoman (madwolf?), right? Hugo, the one he spends the most time with, has the occasional bout of depression. When Penryn had been distressed about the cherub's bite, he didn't wail or whine initially, he tried to console her, he made sure she was okay before he wailed or whined. So now, he's chilling with Raffe… what could that possibly mean?
Ciao,
~wolfluvermh