Page 15 of The Alpha Dire Wolf (Bloodlines & Bloodbonds #1)

Sylvie

“W hen they’re ready to believe. What a crock of shit,” I muttered, the mocking words dying away as I turned onto my grandmother’s street.

Those were the last words the forest-man, a.k.a. “Lincoln” had said to me before he’d gotten in his truck and departed, leaving behind a town in panic. By now they were probably getting torches and pitchforks ready to go on a witch hunt.

There had been a point behind his speaking up like that. I was sure of it. Knowing next to nothing about him or not, it was pretty clear for anyone to see that he wasn’t the type to say words like that on a whim. Something had propelled him to open his mouth.

The question was what ? What could have been so important that he would try to drive a wedge between the townspeople? He couldn’t really believe one of them was actually some sort of evil. Could he?

And why was he staring at me the entire time before he spoke.

The car bounced slightly as it went up the driveway, tires rumbling over the compacted gravel.

Could he have been insinuating that I’m the evil? That makes no sense, though. I haven’t done a thing to him or anyone in town. It must be something else.

I pulled to a stop in the driveway, staring out the passenger window at my grandmother’s house.

My grandmother’s house.

That thought penetrated deep into my psyche, past the mundane weirdness of the day, striking right at the very center of my being, of who I was. And shattered it.

It wasn’t her house anymore. It was my house.

Because she’s dead. She’s not coming back.

That sharp thing that had been sticking into my stomach since the moment I first read her letter chose that moment to twist. Driving itself deeper, it lodged itself firmly, a heavy reminder of that simple fact.

She was gone and wasn’t coming back.

The brittle chains around my soul snapped and broke free, flying away and leaving me untethered, exposed to a sudden, brutal acceptance of the fact.

She’s dead. And you’re all alone.

The shock evaporated, and I hunched forward over the steering wheel, huge sobs racking my shoulders and back. I cried and cried in the car. The empty car. Because that’s all I had now was emptiness in my life where a family should be. It was just me.

Tears stained my shirt and soaked my arms as I shook. Sweat gathered at the back of my neck, making it worse.

It was a long time before the tears stopped flowing. Grief had a mysterious way of twisting it so that seconds felt like hours, but hours could feel like seconds. And my grief had been piling up in my heart, and now it broke through the dam, washing over me in one giant wave.

I let it go. Pouring out the loss of my grandmother, the only family I had left.

I mixed it in with the loss of, well, not Caidyn per se, but a relationship.

Something familiar and often comforting.

Someone I would have turned to in a time like this, who had done something worse than die. He’d betrayed me.

All of it flowed through me and out, leaving wet stains on my forearms and down to my jeans as I sat there bent over. Hurting. My shoulders shook with tremendous sobs. My stomach muscles clenched until the ache was the only thing I could feel. The only thing I had left.

Pain.

All I wanted was one more day with her. One more time to open the door and call out, “Grandma, I’m here!” and listen to her sounds of happiness. One more sunny spring afternoon on the back porch, drinking tea and laughing over some nonsense or another. One more—

One more. That was all I wanted. But I couldn’t have it. It was gone, taken from me, without so much as a hint of warning. All I had were the fragments of a warning that might not even be real.

“What were you trying to tell me, Grandma?”

Knuckles rapped on the window.

“Ohmygod!” I shrieked, yanking myself toward the center of the car.

“Sylvie? Are you okay?” a distantly familiar voice asked through the rolled-up glass.

“Mr. Atkinson, you scared me half to death!” I exclaimed, popping open the door to say hello to my grandmother’s neighbor from across the street.

“I’m so sorry.” Don Atkinson bowed his head apologetically. “I was just out cutting the grass when you pulled in. When you didn’t get out of the car, I started to worry if you were okay, so I came to check. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He backed up as I got out. In his mid-sixties with gray hair, he was the quintessential “lawn dad,” wearing a plain white T-shirt with sweat stains, beige cargo shorts and thick, clunky white New Balances that had long ago been stained green.

Pulling the glasses from his face, he wiped his forehead with the back of his arm and smiled at me.

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “I just needed a moment. The past few days have been a lot.”

“I understand.” He shrugged. “I wish I could say more than just my condolences. Something that would ease your burden, perhaps. But at times like this, words don’t do much. Do they?”

“No,” I said with a half-smile, appreciating his effort nonetheless. “They don’t.”

“We’ll miss her,” he said, meaning he and his wife, Nina. “A lovely neighbor. Always had food ready for us when we went to check on her. Sometimes I wondered if she knew we were coming.”

I laughed. Donald and Nina had gone to “check” on my grandmother every Sunday evening for the past twelve years like clockwork. If my grandmother hadn’t known they were coming, it would have been a miracle. I frowned.

“She never forgot that you were coming, even lately?”

“Not even this past Sunday,” Don replied. “She was ready as ever for us. No hint that anything was wrong or that she was sick. I wish there had been. Perhaps we could have done more, helped her. We had no idea she was sick.”

“She wasn’t,” I said. “It seems she just … went.”

“It happens that way sometimes.” Don nodded as if confirming something with himself. “Now that she isn’t around, I think we’re going to have to make sure you’re doing well too. At least, for as long as you’re in town.”

“That’s very kind of you. But I’m okay.”

“There’s nothing we can do for you?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m hurting, but I’m doing okay, Mr. Atkinson.”

“Do you have food for dinner?” he asked, cocking his head sideways in question, a bead of sweat dribbling down his forehead.

“Uhh.” That was a good question. In the hubbub following the stampede and dealing with forest-man— Lincoln —I’d forgotten to go shopping for food.

“Well then, you’re coming for dinner.” Don spoke like it was a finalized deal, happy with himself.

“No, I couldn’t. I’ll be okay,” I said, trying to decline, but Don insisted.

“It will be good for all of us,” he said. “Please?”

I caved. His wife, Nina, was a very good cook, and whatever she made would surely be far superior to anything I cobbled together. Or ordered, as I wasn’t sure I had the energy to make food at the moment.

“Okay. I’ll come have dinner,” I said, smiling.

“Excellent.” Don beamed from ear to ear. “Supper is at five thirty sharp. Don’t be late, or the missus will give me trouble for it.”

We laughed.

“Thank you, Mr. Atkinson.”

“Don, please,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I’m here if you need anything.”

“Thank you … Don. I’ll see you at five thirty.”

Grinning, pleased with himself to have helped solve a problem, he went back to his grass, and I went inside the house and closed the door.

The big, echoey old house, I thought as the shutting of the door bounced off the walls. So empty and cold now. Unlike when she’d lived in it. Especially back when I was a kid and still lived nearby with my mom and dad. Back then, it had been full of life and laughter.

In my mind’s eye, my mother, grandmother, and I all came scurrying around the corner from one room, giggling wildly to ourselves.

A moment later a bone-white monster came rushing after us, his arms in the sky.

My dad roared in mock anger as he chased us, the flour bouncing off him with every step, leaving a fine dust cloud in his wake.

The image of him disappeared right next to the coffee table, as my eyes landed on my grandmother’s journal. She had left the journal for me, and me specifically.

“All right, Grandma,” I said, kicking off my shoes and sitting on the couch, journal in hand.

“Just what were you trying to tell me by leaving this? What’s in the pages that’s so important I had to read it?

It’s time to figure out your mystery. Not to mention why you couldn’t just come out and say it.

You were never one to do things by accident or without meaning, but this time you’ve outdone yourself on the complexity.

I’m fumbling in the dark here. The only thing that’s come out of it is meeting Lincoln. ”

I sat up straight. “No. No way. That can’t be it. She couldn’t have been. That’s way too diabolical. Even for her. There’s more to this than my love life.”

There is no way she put this all together as an elaborate way to set me up with him.

She wouldn’t involve her death like that.

Lincoln may be hot, but he’s not worth losing you over, Grandma.

Besides, you knew I was still dating Caidyn.

After that spectacular explosive ending, I think my dating life is going on hold for a bit, thank you very much!

Thinking of the ex reminded me I probably had a whole new wave of messages on my phone. Pulling my phone from my purse, I glanced at it—

And immediately regretted it.

“What a loser ,” I moaned angrily, swiping away the two dozen missed call notifications along with the angry text messages about being ignored, demanding that I respond and insisting we need to talk. That we could work through this if I would just talk to him. Lots of swearing.

“I’m so done with you,” I muttered, swiping it all away and tossing my phone down. I gripped the journal with both hands, open to page one.

I considered just flipping to the final entry, the last one she ever wrote, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The wound was just a little too fresh. Better if I started from the beginning and worked up to it. That way, it wouldn’t hurt as much.

But as I adjusted my grip to begin reading, I noticed something in the pages. One of them had been dog-eared, the tip folded down to mark a spot.

Did you do that on purpose, Grandma?

I opened to that page and read what she wrote. The language was weird. All English, but she’d written it not as a journal entry but as a letter.

Could she have done this on purpose for me?

There was more talk about the guardian and how it was the duty of him and his people to protect the town and keep the forest secure.

It talked about how a century and a half ago, they had done so with honor and duty, despite a tremendous cost. She put emphasis on that part, reminding the reader that such things need always be remembered.

That even if his people forgot, others must not.

I read on:

There is a link between us and them and a bond that must remain. If it is not restored, there will be nothing for the guardian to protect. When I am gone, what remains of that bond with the forest will go with me.

Unless it is taken up by another of my blood.

I looked up, tearing my eyes away from the page with great difficulty. That was damnably ominous and could hardly be vague. She could have written this letter-entry for only one person. Only one “of her blood” that it could be referring to.

Me.

Unfortunately, while that part was clear—I knew she couldn’t be referring to my uncles, if they even lived, no, this was meant for me and me alone—the rest was still a blur that had no meaning.

A bond? What type of bond? How does one bond with a forest? That’s impossible.

And what happened 150 years ago? That’s ancient history.

I sank back into the couch. History, hmm? Seemed like something the New Lockwood Historical Society would know about. Now I definitely had to go visit them and see what my grandmother was up to there. She had a finger in so many more pots than I’d ever known.

And that, I was discovering, was what hurt the most. That if I had never left, never been forced to go by my parents, I might never have missed out on all of it. Maybe my grandmother would have confided in me.

Maybe she would have trusted me.