Page 11 of Forget Me Not (The Shifters of Timberfall #1)
Syve
Syve let her head fall back and sighed, her mom just kept dancing around this secret, which was apparently a family secret that her friends—who were not family—also had. Confusing was an understatement.
At least now she knew it was a gene, but that didn’t narrow it down much. And what gene could possibly be so secretive people were being killed because of it? It’s not like they were fucking vampires—she could barely even look at a steak.
The coffee pot chirped, signaling it had done its job, and a fresh carafe of blessed caffeine was waiting for her.
Syve leaned onto the kitchen table and pushed herself off her chair with a groan, then picked up her empty mug.
Lightning prickled through her muscles as she shuffled to the counter; she’d been sitting in the same spot unmoving for God only knows how long and her legs had fallen asleep.
After they pretended to watch Twilight for the fifty-billionth time, Aimi and Cam stumbled home, leaving Syve awake for once and standing on her front porch staring at what was left of the paw prints in the snow.
Two hours of lying in bed staring at the ceiling was enough to know she wasn’t going to be getting any sleep.
Instead, she curled up in the kitchen with her mother’s journals and read.
Syve caught her reflection in the vintage mirror above the counter, a design choice by Aimi that she still questioned.
Her hair was a mess. At some point in the night it had been in a braid, but now at least half of it had been pulled loose from running her fingers through it.
Dark circles—darker than usual—shadowed her hollow eyes, making her look almost as much a zombie as she felt.
She was wearing her favorite nightshirt, one of Erhard’s old work T-shirts, so worn and faded she could no longer make out the words on it.
She hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since college, back when four hours of sleep and an octo-shot espresso could get her through anything. The ache in her back and legs were side effects she did not experience in her younger years and she suddenly understood the phrase, ‘I’m too old for this.’
With a long exhale, she refilled her “I need sew much coffee to function” cup, pivoted to the fridge to add a splash of cream, and then slunk back to her chair.
Dearest Syve, Okay. Are you sitting down?
I feel like you should be sitting down. Maybe I should be sitting down…
Well, you probably are, I wouldn’t imagine you’d be driving or anything like that.
I doubt your father would ever teach you to drive and make you think it would be okay to be reading a book at the same time…
Right, focus. If you’re not sitting, sit.
I told your father the secret. I don’t know what I expected and honestly, I’m ashamed I thought it would be anything less than what it was.
I should have had more faith in the man, truly.
He’s not even mad I never told him and that just makes me feel even worse.
I asked him what his thoughts were on telling you.
He agrees that while it would be easier, for us, to wait and see if you show the gene before telling you—we should have trust in our little fawn.
Hi, baby girl! -Love, Dad Oh, and I also told him about these journals.
I did tell him he needs to get his own and to stop reading over my shoulder (Rich, I mean right now—I love you, but go away!) Anyway, sweet Syve, we’ve decided to tell you this year—on your birthday—that this gene? It makes you a shifter.
Syve cocked her head to the side, and mouthed the word shifter a few times in utter confusion. What kind of 1990‘s lingo was her mom using here? Was ‘shifter’ slang for swinger? Once upon a long-ass-time-ago they stoned adulterers to death…so it was not an awful assumption ?
Gross.
Did her dad accept the knowledge so easily because he was into that kind of thing too? But wait, could a gene even affect that?
Syve blinked away her rapidly spiraling thoughts and turned back to the open book, running her fingers through her braid again to prop her head on her hand.
Gods, why was it so much harder to write than to say out loud to your father?
I am a shifter. Okay, way easier the second time.
Your Nan—your entire family on my side—are all (or were all) deer shifters.
Like shapeshifters, but we only turn into deer.
Oh! Your school bus just pulled up—I’ll explain more later! More than all the stars in the sky, Mom
Syve’s hand slid from under her head, causing her to fall forward with her mouth agape. She stared at the paper, reading the entry, over and over while replaying her dreams in her mind.
Suppose they were not dreams after all?
Suppose that made everything worse?
She shot up from her chair so quickly she sent the poor thing tumbling, clanking loudly across the floor. Her heart was thundering in her chest; she couldn’t catch her breath and the temperature in the room dropped.
Deer.
Shifter.
Deer shifter.
She backed into the wall with her hand clutched to her chest, afraid her heart would beat straight out of her ribs.
“Deer,” she whispered, before the world spun.
“Syve! Syve, are you up here? Bitch, you’d better have a good reason for making me worry!
” Aimi’s voice echoed up the stairs. “You didn’t show up for coffee, you’re not answering your phone, and your worst crime?
! Making me use my spare key on that dicked-up front door of yours!
Let’s be real, I wasn’t going to walk all the way around the back when I was already at the front…
” her rambling trailed off when she came out of the laundry room that sat at the top of the landing.
The loft was a disaster.
It looked exactly like someone let a wild animal loose.
The entirety of Syve’s DVD collection was strewn from the kitchen to the bathroom down the hall, couch cushions flipped off the couch, the curtains were barely hanging above the window, and the TV was lying face down on the floor with a nice hole in the middle.
Aimi stood in the center of the living room with her mouth—all but literally—on the floor.
Syve took that moment to make the smallest sound, calling out to her best friend because what the fuck else was she going to do?
The damned mirror in the kitchen, which was also a catastrophic mess, already confirmed what had happened, but she was still in firm denial.
When her friend heard the soft bleat, she spun on her heel.
“HOLY SHIT!” She jumped back, tripped over the coffee table and landed solidly on her ass. “HOLY FUCK! SYVE?!” she screeched, glancing over her shoulder toward the bedroom, obviously looking for her human friend.
When her eyes locked back onto the deer in front of her, she scrambled back to her feet—equipping herself with the TV remote that had conveniently toppled off the table when she did.
Syve repeated her small, panicked sound, flinching and retreating a step when her best friend raised her arm in preparation to throw said remote at her .
Aimi’s head jerked back in surprise, and she began blinking rapidly.
Syve’s teeth were softly clicking as her body was wracked with shivers from the adrenaline flooding her veins.
Slowly, Aimi lowered her arm, dropping the remote to the floor.
They stared at each other a moment more before Aimi pointed at the door. Syve took a tentative step, then another.
“I’ve officially gone and lost my damn mind,” Aimi finally mumbled to herself, as she reached for the door.
The second she threw open the door, Syve bolted, tumbling gracelessly down the stairs.
When the little birds stopped circling her head and she could make sense of which way was up, she stood on shaky legs and began running, the sound of her name fading behind her as she went.