Hope(less) (Judgment of the Six) Read online

  The water dripping from the faucet had stained the porcelain brown. I let the water run while I dug through the bag still slung across my body. My stomach rumbled and I regretting not grabbing some food before walking off on my own. Ignoring my protesting stomach, I scrubbed my teeth with the toothbrush I’d found in my bag. When the water ran clear, I spit and rinsed, smelling the water too late. Rotten eggs. After rinsing, instead of wishing for food, I wished I’d just left the toothpaste in my mouth.

  I wanted to go home, where a clean bed waited... where inadvertently swallowing water from the bathroom sink wouldn’t put me in the hospital… where I could pretend this weekend never happened.

  Purposefully not thinking of anything but the present, I focused on getting sleep. I left the bathroom light on and moved to the main room turning off the lights. Setting my bag on a chair, I collapsed fully dressed on the bed, pleading with the universe that nothing gross contaminated the coverlet.

  The drama of my day had taken its toll. My eyelids refused to stay open. Grossed out and hungry, my last thoughts were of the creepy guy at the front desk and chaining the door.

  * * * *

  I stretched, only half awake, and fell off the bed. Laughing at myself in the darkness, I pulled myself back up on the bed wincing at the soreness in my legs from the walking I’d done. For a queen size bed, I must have rolled around on it a lot to work myself so close to the edge. I paused trying to get my bearings. Darkness? My stomach flipped in fear as I remembered the light I’d left on in bathroom.

  I blindly stretched out my arm, remembering there should be a wall near this side of the bed. The door to my room swung open. Light flooded in blinding me.

  A shadow moved to block the light and I suffered a moment of disoriented panic thinking it was the man from the front desk. By my third squinted blink, I saw Sam standing silhouetted by light. Behind him, I spotted his foldout bed.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I turned, looking at my familiar room at the compound, confused. “What am I doing here?”

  “Dunno,” he mumbled. “He brought you back before dawn. Didn’t say a word, just knocked on the door carrying you. I let him in. He set you on your bed then left.” Sam’s hair stuck up in places, and he absently scratched the hair on his chest, wobbling a bit as he stood in his flannel house pants. He needed his coffee.

  I looked down at myself. Dirt clung to my clothes as if he’d dragged all the way back here from the motel... by my feet... through mud. I reached up to comb my fingers through my hair and a leaf fluttered to the floor. I stared at it in disbelief and let my hands drop back to my sides. He’d left me looking like a wreck. What was going on with this guy?

  “What happened after I left? Did he follow me?” I watched Sam closely. If he didn’t respond with complete honest, I wouldn’t be responsible for what I said next.

  “Not right away. When you started walking, he looked up from the truck and watched down the road for a while.” He paused and added, “Long after you passed from sight anyway. Then, he just took to the woods leaving my truck in a heap.”

  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.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, swinging my bare feet over the carpet, I thought over my options. Stay and accept my fate or find a way back home to continue with the plans I’d made for my own future? Sure, I could stay, and make an effort to understand and learn more about Clay. But I’d already made my plans. How fair was it to expect me to change them? If Clay truly lived in the wild, it’s not as if he had any plans. Maybe he didn’t even understand the concept of planning. I wondered if I could talk Clay into letting me go. He didn’t seem too fond of me.

  Absently, I started to towel dry my hair. When I hinted we might not be mates, he hadn’t turned away to ignore me. Did that mean that maybe he had doubts too? If he did, maybe I had a chance to escape the fate Sam planned for me.

  Determined, I rose from my bed not bothering to finish drying my hair. Due to the pull I had on human men, I’d honed my skills of reason and avoidance. If reasoning didn’t work, I avoided them. This would be no different. Piece of cake.

  I gave myself a pep talk as I hurried through the halls drawing a few curious glances from some of the men I passed. I remained focused on finding Clay, while thinking of, and rejecting, the possible reasons for his doubt.

  Pushing open the main door, I hopped off the porch, stepping back into the sun and winced when my bare feet met with the sharp gravel. Too absorbed in my purpose, I hadn’t thought of shoes. Resolute, I tiptoed across the parking area as quickly as possible. Clay still tinkered with the truck.