Luna
A long, loud groan leaves my lips as I wake. I try to remember where I am, what happened. I’m in a bed that smells… Foreign. I take a few sniffs. The scent is musky and makes my body warm. I turn my head in the other direction and smell something sour like the way the clothes Mama and I found wrapped around the bones smelled before we washed them. It seems to be emanating from the sheets themselves, which feel a little greasy to the touch.
I think back, trying to remember coming here. An assault of pain, both emotional and physical, launches through me instead.
A bond I never wanted in the first place, torn from my soul. Mama’s eyes closing, never to open again.
With a gasp of shock, I sink into the excruciating aches and gaping holes that leave my body open, vulnerable, and bereft.
Why am I still here? Why didn’t I die like I wanted?
Footsteps tromp about somewhere in the house. Men growl and laugh. I struggle to an upright position, finding myself in a small room with the door closed. I quickly scan the room. Clothes litter the floor. A small
brown, square metal box sits next to the bed. Curious, I reach out my toe and pry open the door. Cool air wafts onto my foot from the blindingly white interior. The chilled air is a welcome change from the stuffy heat surrounding me.
The box is filled with brown bottles and shiny silver cans. I lean over and pick up one of the metal cans. Sometimes Mama and I found cans like this floating down a creek or inlet. The contents were always strange- some sweet, some bitter, but always thirst-quenching. Mama told me humans sometimes put beverages in the water to get chilled in the Florida heat, and they washed away.
I’m thirsty, so I pry open the little metal gizmo on the can the way Mama taught me and take a long swallow.
It’s the bitter kind. Blegh.
The door opens, and a male chuckle interrupts my train of thought. I yelp and drop the can. It lands on the floor, and pale, golden bubbly liquid seeps out onto the floor. I shriek and leap from the bed, searching for something to dab up the mess. Mama and I may not have had many things, but what we had we kept neat. I pick up a soiled t-shirt already getting soaked by the liquid and use it to sop up the mess.
The male laughs. “Don’t worry about it. Won’t be the last time we spill a beer.”
“Who are you?” I say, backing into the wall. “Where am I?”
I’m dressed in a large, thick shirt, black with a gold skull emblazoned on the front. The sleeves are folded up several times over, and it falls to my knees.
“We found you in the swamp looking half-dead.” Casually leaning against the door jam, he tucks one hand beneath his armpit.
“Why didn’t you leave me there?” I ask, my voice accusatory. “I would have died.”
“Is that what you were after?” he asks, cocking his head.
“It would have worked, if you hadn’t brought me here,” I point out, glaring at him.
“True enough,” he says. “I been there. Done that.” He lifts his hand to scratch the stubble of fur lining his face. He’s the most muscular man I’ve ever seen-not that I’ve seen many. I’ve only seen a handful of men in my lifetime, and most of them in the last two days.
Dressed only in shorts, muscles ripple across his bare chest. Three howling wolves are drawn on the left side, directly over the heart. Bold, blocky letters beneath the wolves read, “Our bond is thicker than blood.” Black, patterned bands adorn his upper arms. Flowy writing covers his left forearm, and I squint to make out the words. “We must live together as brothers or perish together as fools.”
My gaze lifts to his face, framed by shaggy locks, the rich loam’s color. His eyes are gold, like autumn leaves. He has the same musky scent as the sheets.
A smile forms on his face as he studies me. “So,” he says, not moving from the door. “My name’s Callan. What’s yours?”
Should I tell him my name? Mama said never to trust a wolf.
“Why do you want to know?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.
“Just making conversation,” he says. “If you don’t want to tell us your real name, pick something else. I’ll call you anything you like.”
“Luna,” I say. “You can call me Luna.”
He doesn’t have to know it’s my real name.
He steps across the room and crouches before me-not too close to crowd me, though.
“Nice. Like the moon.” He gives me an easy smile. “Tell me why you wanted to die.”
Tears prick my eyes. “My Mama died.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he says, reaching out to wipe a tear away with his big, calloused thumb. “Dinner’s ready. Why don’t you come out and eat with us? Maybe that will help you feel better.”
I yank my head away from his touch. A sob bursts from my throat before I can explain.
Callan studies me, a wary expression on his face like he has no clue what to do. He rises to stand, towering over me like a giant. I cower back against the wall.
“I’m, uh, real sorry,” he says, lifting his palms. “About your Mama, I mean.” He glances toward the door, and I can tell he wants to bolt. “Maybe I’ll just leave you be.”
“Okay,” I whisper, nodding and trying to keep my tears at bay. For some reason, I don’t want him to leave. I feel too alone already.
He blinks and takes a step backward. “If you change your mind… Food’s ready.”
My stomach lets out a loud grumble. When was the last time I ate?
A sunshiny expression like clouds parting after a storm covers Callan’s face. “See? You need to eat. Food fixes everything.” He extends his big hand to me.
I hesitate, torn between hunger and the desire to crawl back in bed and hope I don’t wake up.
“I don’t bite,” he says, his mouth serious but his eyes laughing as he draws an X shape over his chest with his finger. “Unless you beg me to.”
My brow crumples into a frown. “Why would anyone beg to get bitten?”
“It’s a joke,” he says, making an encouraging motion with the hand he’s still holding out. “Come on. Let us feed you.”