Page 3 of The Alpha Dire Wolf (Bloodlines & Bloodbonds #1)

Sylvie

“I don’t understand,” I whispered, staring into nothing.

The four-hour drive had allowed plenty of time for the numbness of my failed relationship to begin to spread as reality hit home.

Now that numbness was like a blanket of ice, sinking into every inch of my body and robbing me of any remaining warmth until I caved and descended into the black abyss that was reaching out with a welcoming hand.

“It appears to have been peaceful,” Pastor Nevis said, still squeezing my hand. “In her sleep, nothing more. There was no suffering.”

“She can’t be gone.”

That was denial. I knew it well. We were old friends, really, a presence that had never truly faded after my parents …

I chopped the thought off with ruthless precision. If I opened that door now, I would never escape.

“I’m sorry,” the pastor repeated again. He knew I wasn’t overly religious, and did not push his feelings on the matter of death to me, which I appreciated greatly in that moment.

I might not fully agree with his beliefs, but Pastor Richard Nevis was absolutely the epitome of a true believer in God.

A real believer, who cared about those around him, in public and private, and would give the shirt off his back to anyone who needed it.

“Nobody told me.” It was more of a whine than anything else. I hated it.

“How are you here then? I saw the car, and when I heard your voice, I just assumed you were also back for the funeral,” Pastor Nevis said, squeezing and patting my hand as he talked, a gentle reminder that he was there, that I wasn’t alone.

I shook my head. “No. I got a letter from her. This morning .” I fished it out of my purse, pointing to the top.

“Look, it’s dated yesterday. She always dates things.

Always. And it’s right there. Yesterday’s date.

Now you’re telling me she’s been gone for three days? I don’t understand. That’s impossible.”

Leaning over so he could see the date, Pastor Nevis shook his head. “I don’t know. There is no good reason I can think of for her to write that date.”

“You think she wrote it ahead of time?”

Pastor Nevis smiled, a soothing gesture from an older man who had seen a lot.

“Dear Sylvie. While I believe in the afterlife and forgiveness, and that each person has a seat at the table with God, such as it were, I am not sure that even angels would be allowed to return to write a simple letter. Your grandmother moved on three days ago.”

“Yeah.” I reread the date and opening line of the letter for the hundredth time. “I guess.”

He was right. She wrote it before she died, of that I had no doubt. But that did precisely nothing to solve the question of why she did it that way.

“She says here, her time is running out.” He pointed at the line in question. “If she knew that she didn’t have long, is it possible her memory was beginning to go?”

“No.” There was no hesitation. “Look at this handwriting. It’s impeccable. Not a mistake to be found.”

“Possible signs that she wrote another version first.”

“Would a person with cognitive decline be so aware of it to write a rough draft?”

Pastor Nevis shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“No, not my grandma,” I said, though I spoke calmly. This wasn’t a challenge on his part, nor mine. “She was very deliberate and always thought about what she was going to say ahead of time, but it was all up here, in her head.”

I tapped my temple, reading over the opening lines again as I did, trying to puzzle it out. There was a meaning here, a reason for the specific dating of the letter and sending it express post.

I just didn’t know what it was.

“Maybe not. But forgetting the date is a very common sign, a mistake that elderly people make on the regular. You can’t rule that out.

I wouldn’t think on it much,” he said. “Now is a time for reflection on Helen Wilson, your grandmother, a time of positivity. We don’t have to focus on the circumstances that come with such a trying time. ”

“I suppose. But it’s hard to believe. She was sharp as a tack,” I protested lightly.

“That she was,” Pastor Nevis said, sitting back into the floral-patterned couch, a big smile on his soft features.

“A great woman, Helen. A wonderful person I was happy to call a friend. Well-liked by everyone who knew her, which a lot of people in this town did. We’re all going to miss her wit, and her insight. ”

“Me most of all.” I stared at the area rug underfoot, not seeing the pattern of cats and dogs sewn into it. “She’s all I have left. Was all I had left.”

“Yes.” That reassuring hand was back again.

“She often talked about your parents, about missing them. Truly a tragedy. We do not have children so that we may bury them. And in such a senseless way too. As I was that day, I am here for you now, if you seek the comfort and security of one such as me to help try to soothe your pain.”

I smiled, still looking down, once again cursing red trucks and their interactions with my family. “Thank you, Mr. Nevis, but no. I appreciate your caring for my grandma, and helping her through. She would be happy to know you’re taking good care of her, but I’ll handle this on my own.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. You have become a wonderful young woman, Sylvie. Your parents are proud of you as they watch over, I feel confident in saying that. Now your grandmother will as well.”

“Thank you.” I still wished they were here to watch in person.

Pastor Nevis gave my hand another squeeze. “I know this is a lot, my dear, but the funeral is scheduled for this afternoon, as per your grandmother’s wishes. She did not want it to be long and drawn out.”

“Three days,” I muttered, still trying to make sense of the timeline.

“Will you be okay? I can stay with you until the time. You need not be alone.”

I gave him a smile I knew looked as empty as it felt and shook my head.

“Thank you, but no, pastor. You’ve done plenty, thank you.

This is … a bit cold, perhaps, but after burying my parents, I think I can handle this easier.

I will miss her dearly, but she was also eighty-six.

I knew it could come at any time. The shock is easier to accept.

Besides, I am sure you have a great many other things to do in the meantime. ”

“All of which would be just fine on their own if you needed me, dear. But I understand.” Pastor Nevis stood. “Are you okay if I take some pictures with me?”

“Of course. Help yourself,” I said.

I stayed seated and unmoving long past when Pastor Nevis had left, the door closing heavily behind him. Then it was me.

Just me.

Time passed. The grandfather clocked filled the house with its deep, resounding gongs that then faded into silence. Fading like everything else.

I fidgeted with the note, twisting it between fingers, folding and unfolding it, over and over again, glancing at its words. The last words I would ever have from my grandmother.

My Dear Vi-vi,

There’s something I never told you. Something important that you should have known about, but time and circumstance were never right for me to tell you. Now it may be too late because my time is running out.

The forest, Vi-vi, it’s the key. At the heart is a darkness. You must not forget that. They did, and now it’s too late. I can’t do anything about it. I should have told you, and I’m sorry.

I’ve watched for the danger and the spreading darkness, and I’ve seen no signs of the guardian. They’re out there. I know it. They must be.

They have to be.

I’m sorry to put this on you, my dearest Vi-vi, but I have no choice.

All my love,

Grandma

“The guardian. What guardian? Guardian of what? The forest?” I shook my head, frustrated at the lack of transparency in the letter. What had my grandmother been trying to tell me?

And why?

There was so little information in the letter. Almost none of it helpful, other than to act as a foreboding sense of impending disaster, now that disaster had struck, and she was gone. Leaving me alone and confused, without anything to go on.

No, that wasn’t entirely true.

A niggle in the back of my brain drew my attention away from the letter in front of me and back to the front hall. To the table next to the grandfather clock in particular.

In a rush, I was on my feet, standing over the wooden surface and staring down at the piece of paper with my name scribbled on it and the journal beneath it.

Grabbing it up, I thumbed open the first page and whistled.

“Journal #74?” I noted the date as being her birthday. Quick math said she’d been journaling since she was twelve. “Seventy-three more of these?” I hefted the journal. It wasn’t slim.

Tapping the book against one hand, I let myself become lost in thought about the woman who had become a second mother to me in many ways. I’d known much about her, but journaling was a new thing.

What else had she kept secret?

Thumbing open to the first entry, I read more about the forest, mostly skipping that, and the mundane notes about what she’d done that particular day.

I smiled when I got to the part where she talked about me showing up with cupcakes and a card.

Tears trickled down my cheeks, warm tracks on the cool skin. She sounded so happy.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it as much as I did, Grandma. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here when you really needed me.”

I didn’t need you in death, dearie. I had you in life.

I wasn’t sure where the words came from, but they certainly sounded like something she would say.

Blinking until I could see clearly, I read on.

I wished I hadn’t.

Time is running out. I have failed. The bonds are being withdrawn, and soon the chains will begin to fail. They must be reforged before it is too late.

I stared at the four sentences. The writing was very clearly hers. But the words. I had never heard the woman speak like this. Ever. She was a kindly old lady who enjoyed her bridge, going to church and weekly bingo nights. This … this was different.

Flipping the page, I was again left stunned at the opening lines.

The guardian presence of the forest is fading. It’s strength and welcoming are dissolving as the cold darkness begins to worm its way in. No longer do I feel protected in its arms.

The last sentence in particular held my attention. I reread it a dozen times. More. My grandmother used to feel protected in the forest too? A validation of years of my childhood, and it was right there, on the page.

I had told my parents, over and over again, how walking in the forest made me feel safe and secure. Like it was looking out for me. None of them had understood. All my childhood life, I had thought I was crazy. Now here, on the page, was confirmation that someone else had felt it too.

Only she was saying it was gone.

I looked into the kitchen, out the window and across the back lawn, past the giant oak tree standing alone with its tire swing, to the tree line of the forest another fifty feet back.

Fresh sadness welled up as I fought with the realization that now, after all these years, I would never get the chance to talk about it. Because she was gone.

The harsh gong of the grandfather clock startled me out of any impending reverie or downward spiral, reminding me that my time was also running out. I had a funeral to attend, and I needed to pull myself together if I was going to make it.

Returning to the funeral home where I buried my parents wouldn’t be easy.