Mate - 24

He easily resigned himself to a lifetime without her, but . . .

Simply put, he is unwilling to contemplate a universe in which she no longer exists.

T HAT NIGHT KOEN HAS A PACK MEETING AT THE CABIN.

I get out of the shower, quickly put on leggings and one of his shirts (which I sniff for over a minute, with inappropriate enthusiasm). I’m about to move to the living room and not mind my own business, when my phone lights up with a call. From someone who usually prefers a string of twelve multi-paragraph texts over a one-minute chat.

“What’s up, Bleetch?” I ask, terrified that Koen might have gone behind my back and told Misery about my situation.

I will stab him , I vow. I will chop him into pieces and sell him at a wet market. For pennies.

“Not much.” A beat. “First question: Are you alone?”

“You mean, existentially, or . . .”

“Is there someone around you?”

“No. Why?”

“Second question: Are you in the right headspace to receive information that could possibly hurt you?”

My heart drops. “Misery, if— ”

“No, I’m serious. I talked to Lowe about the Northwest, and it’s bad .”

“How bad?”

“ Bad bad. Like . . . Our lives , bad.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah. I feel way less special, knowing that there’s all this trauma waffling about.”

I sit on the edge of the mattress. “Is this about the cult I might be related to?”

“Koen told you about it?” She sounds surprised. “Lowe said he probably wouldn’t.”

“Some of it. Yesterday something weird happened.” Understatement of the week. Prepare the wall plaque. “A guy came at me and started yelling thesaurus prophecies.”

“Hang on, I thought they killed the cult twenty years ago?”

“They thought so, too. Surprise.”

A long pause. “Cool.”

“Yeah.” I sink back into the pillows. “Very.”

“Serena, are we bad people?”

“Um . . . Morally? Spiritually? Fiscally? Because I did your taxes every year and exploited every single loophole in the medieval castle that is our financial system, but— ”

“I’m just saying that we must, to some degree, have done something to deserve the shit coming our way.”

“Well.” I rub my palm against my belly, wondering if the cramps I’m experiencing are a fun new addition to my symptoms dance card. “We did pretend you were overtaken by bloodlust that time Mr. Barca got a paper cut.”

“And made him piss himself. You know what? Maybe it was worth it.”

“Still, I don’t know that our lives necessarily needed a cult plotline.”

“Agreed. Wanna hang up and spend the rest of the day buddy watching that Human show about the MILFs?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Tough shit. I’m giving you the cult deets whether you want them or not. What do you know already?”

I take a deep breath. “That Constantine was like, the Were equivalent of Rasputin.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

History was never her strong suit. “Do you know what his ideas were?” I ask. “What he promised his followers?”

“How do you know he promised something?”

“Isn’t that the whole point of a cult? I’m your leader. You do what I tell you, and I’ll give you eternal life, unlimited wealth, rebirth in a world where everything tastes like pineapples— ”

“What about, ‘And I’ll turn you into a Were’?”

I sit up in a quick, fluid movement I did not think my abs were capable of. “Are you for real?”

“Yup. It was some deranged shit. The cult ran several generations deep. The original founder was one of those cuckoo bananas Were supremacist guys who thought that the other species should dedicate their lives to massaging his feet. Weres should control the means of production, that kind of stuff.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Totally. Roscoe, the former Alpha of the Southwest, was a bit like that. His wife, Emery, is Koen’s aunt. And I’m sure in some East Coast packs they won’t let you graduate first grade if you can’t spell at least ten Vampyre slurs. The world’s full of assholes, and the dung beetles love it. Sadly, the original founder of the cult was just a little too batty for everyone’s taste. He was originally from the Southwest, but they politely asked him to leave. Lowe used the word ‘exiled.’ I’m not sure whether he was being melodramatic or if that’s a thing among Weres.”

“Why did they kick him out?”

“Ruining the vibes? Unclear. But the dude took his family and friends and made himself comfortable at the border between the Southwest, the Northwest, and the most rural parts of Human territory. Kept themselves busy by writing their scriptures on the inside of cereal boxes. It started as a small settlement, less than twenty Weres. Packs monitored them, even interacted, but nothing significant happened for decades. Until his daughter, or his son’s daughter— Lowe tried to draw me a diagram but got stuck— went to a trading meeting with the Northwest and met her mate.”

“Constantine?”

“Nope, some guy named Jochem. Originally, the couple were going to live together in Jochem’s huddle. But, big surprise, Jochem decided that the cult made some valid points and that the other species should, in fact, show their soft underbelly and let the Weres feast on them. They moved in with the cult. Even brought some friends. And had a few kids.”

“Among them, Constantine.”

“You know what? You’re clever for a hybrid.”

I bite back my laughter until my cheeks bleed. Sometimes I miss Misery so much, it hurts every atom of my being.

“The thing about Constantine, he was also cuckoo bananas, but smarter about it. Early on, he figured that if he wanted to take the family cult business to a pro level, he needed more followers. But Weres, even the assholes, were not interested in leaving their cushy packs to sit around a bonfire and discuss their infinite superiority. So he turned to his Human neighbors. But he needed to offer something of value, and what’s more valuable than becoming faster and stronger, living longer, and having a fluffy secondary form?”

“How the hell was he proposing to turn Humans into Weres?”

“Apparently there were bites and mutual blood drinking and a not insignificant amount of sex rituals.”

I groan. This is too stupid, even for me. “What about the fact that they are different species? What about science ?”

“You are so cynical. A little science could never stand between a frat boy and his desire for a monthly howl fest.”

“It makes no sense. We both lived among Humans— have you ever met anyone who said they wished they could be a Were?”

“No. But I’ve also never met anyone with a belly-button fetish, and they exist.”

“Do they?”

“Alvinophilia. Look it up. Anyway, fast-forward ten years or so, and Constantine has hundreds of followers. Lots of them are Humans from the rural places neighboring the original settlement, but some are from The City, too. They basically act as servants and free labor, which in turns begets new Were followers. The leadership is fully Were. Constantine’s career as a charismatic leader is up and coming. If dudes do as he says, they’ll be able to bench-press women at the beach with their pinky fingers. If women do the same . . .” She hesitates. My throat tightens, because I know what she’s about to say. “Their children might just be born Weres.”

I close my eyes. Wait for the room to stop spinning. This scenario fits my situation better than a bespoke dress. “Like me.”

“Well, your mom drinking Were blood had nothing to do with you being a hybrid. But . . . yeah.”

“That’s why they want me. It’s not about who I’m related to. They think that I used to be Human, and Constantine turned me into a Were.”

“Yup. And in case you’re wondering, Why did Lowe and Koen not consider the possibility that I was a child of the cult the second they learned about my existence? the answer is, they did. They investigated it, but they were sure that every child was accounted for. Anyway, this is where the shittiness of Koen’s life starts paralleling our own, because the whole showdown that led to him becoming Alpha— ”

“Actually, stop. Don’t tell me.”

“You don’t want to know?”

“No. Yes.” I swallow. “I think I should hear this from Koen.”

“Aw. Are you guys sleeping together yet?”

“What? No!”

“Well, since it’s probably going to happen, would you like a heads- up on the biology?”

“The what?”

“His dick. It— ”

“It’s not going to happen, Misery. It’d be against the law. He took an oath of celibacy.”

“I mean, sure.” She doesn’t sound sure. “But you should know that because you’re his mate, at the base of— ”

“Stop.” At the what of what ? “I liked you better when you were a virgin.”

“Yeah, well, Lowe didn’t. So.”

I hang up and massage my eyes till the mental image is scrubbed from my brain, trying to ignore the way my stomach weighs a thousand pounds. Then something occurs to me: this could be my last conversation with Misery. The last time I hear her voice. The last time she hears mine.

I start texting.

Serena: Now that I think about it . . . Our shitty lives? I wouldn’t have them any other way.

Misery: Seriously? No other way? You wouldn’t, idk, skip over the part where the anti-Vampyre coalition mixed up our rooms and pumped you full of carbon monoxide?

Serena: What I’m trying to say is that I am grateful that our misfortunes brought us together.

Misery: Oh my god. Are you dying?

Shit.

Serena: Is that the only reason for me to tell you nice things?

Misery: It’s the only reason for me to listen to them.

I roll my eyes and throw the phone onto the bed. When I walk into the living room, the seconds are still there. I wave at them, listening in as I start the electric kettle.

“. . .all of their known hideouts. No sign of recent activity,” Saul is saying.

“That we know of,” Elle points out. “But our trackers extended their search and still couldn’t find any trace. And the cult didn’t create problems just for the Northwest— they’re despised by everyone in the area. We asked Human neighboring towns if they’d heard anything about them being back, and they were horrified.”

“Did you follow the kid’s trail from Dr. Silas’s home?”

“As much as we could,” Brenna says. “He knew what he was doing. Covered his scent in the ocean.”

“Any match between his and Serena’s DNA?”

“Unrelated. He was a full Were. According to the forensic expert, he spent most of his life in wolf form.”

I exhale. Continue puttering around the kitchen.

“Any Northwest markers in his DNA?”

“None.”

Koen nods slowly. “The good thing is, there can’t be many of them, or we’d have found them by now.”

“Maybe we could lure them out,” I muse, setting mugs, hot water, and tea bags for everyone on the coffee table.

The room goes so silent, the clicking of the porcelain feels louder than a chain saw.

I don’t let it bother me. “They think I’m their miracle Frankenstein baby, and they’re willing to go to some lengths to get me. If I were one of them, I’d think that I need me to recruit more followers.”

I plop down between Koen and the armrest, disregarding the way my thigh brushes against his. Tension swells in the room, heavy with discomfort, but I ignore it and gently press my knee against Koen’s thick quad to get him to stop manspreading.

He doesn’t budge, so I push harder.

He ignores me.

Until Saul tells me, “We’re not sure you were really a cult child, babe. And just to be clear, we would never think any less of you because of the circumstances of your— ”

“I know.” I smile. Reassuring, hopefully. “But the sooner we eliminate the threat, the better for the pack. And since we can’t find the cult, using me as bait might be the most . . .”

All the seconds stand at once, like they all received a simultaneous message from an alien mothership. I watch them do those weird, drawn-out nods in Koen’s direction, then quickly file out of the cabin. When I glance at Koen, I notice that he’s glowering and realize what dismissed them.

“Well.” I glance at the mugs. “That was a lot of work for nothing.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Not according to multiple physicians.”

His expression darkens further.

“Sorry. I was on the phone with Misery. Still in morbid humor mode.” It would make sense, now that there are more seats, for one of us to move away. We don’t, and Koen’s gaze stays on me, the platonic ideal of the concept of a scowl.

“Feel free to stop acting with reckless disregard for your life.”

“Aw. Thank you. Anything else I’m allowed to do, Alpha ?”

His hand comes up to snatch my chin. “You could be fucking good, for once.”

“I can try?” I smile. My lower lip pushes against his thumb. “Why didn’t you tell me immediately that you suspect that I might be a child of the cult?”

Slowly, keeping his eyes on my mouth, he lets go of me.

“Let me guess: because you didn’t want to needlessly upset me in case it didn’t turn out to be true.” I sprawl against the backrest. “Withholding information to avoid hurting people. Reminds me of something someone was recently criticized for doing— ”

His palm slides to my neck. Tightens in a threatening curve at my nape.

I laugh, unfazed. “It’s okay, Koen. I forgive you.”

“Aw. Thank you,” he says, parroting me. But his expression is somber. “Remember your interview? Those people outside of the studio?”

“Not really. What— ” I gasp. “The man with the sign . Yelling something about . . . reborn flesh?”

He nods. “His talking points hit a little too close. I asked Amanda to track him, but it was Human territory, in the middle of a crowd. She couldn’t shift and she lost him.”

“I see. How many children were there in the cult?”

Koen presses his lips together, clearly worried, and my entire body hurts with how much I care for him. I would give a year of my life, a year I don’t even have, to press a kiss against the corner of his lips. Lower, where the stubble is quickly regrowing. I would do illegal, maybe even unethical things, in exchange for the right to bury my nose in the crook of his throat, where the scent of him is densest. “Several. A handful were Weres, and they were taken in by Northwest families. But Humans reproduce more easily, and over two dozen minors survived the cult. We partnered with Human services, kept tabs as much as we could, but we didn’t have access to their records.”

That’s how it went, then. Dozens of orphans, just like me. I wonder if they kept their memories. If we used to be friends. Where are they now?

This is too much. I can’t process it, not tonight. “I should go to sleep,” I say.

“Okay. Which room?”

“Um, mine?”

“Okay. We’ll sleep there.”

“We?”

“We.”

My eyebrow lifts. “Uh- oh. Celibacy Threat Alert.”

His look withers me, and every garden on the continent. “I’m going to stay in human form and monitor your temperature. We’ll catch your fevers early, and they won’t get as bad as they did last night.”

I open my mouth to say, I don’t want to put you out. I can take care of myself. It’s fine.

But maybe it’s not. Maybe I can take care of myself, but I don’t mind some help. Maybe he wants to be put out.

Maybe this is equally for him and for me.

So what I settle on is “Thank you.” I let my head roll back on the cushion. Meet his shoulder. Don’t bother hiding the way I’m burying my nose in the soft, worn flannel. He doesn’t mind: I can practically taste his satisfaction and relief at not having to fight me on this. It’s a sweet, joyful flavor against the roof of my mouth. “You know, your room might be better.”

“Why?”

“Comfier bed. Tub.” I blink a few times. Leave my eyes closed. “Smells like you.”

He grumbles something low that I can’t make out. Before I can ask him to repeat himself, I’m already sound asleep.