"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
The night is dark and endless when Woolf lifts his heavy head, green eyes seeing through the crowds and to the island. His mind whirls tirelessly as he remains silent, his mulberry face impassive as ears prick in the thicket of his mane. He can see it there, in his mind’s eye, nestled into the belly of the ocean, its very solitude calling to him. There is something else—something dark that hangs above it, pregnant with things that should be important to him—and he frowns as he sorts through it all. He can see them, his half-siblings, and although he has never seen them, although he has never met them, they are his.
(They are all his. These foolish children of dust and love and hate. These children who spawn and spread outward, seeping in their misery and sowing their own misfortune. They are his charges. They are his.)
For but a moment, he tilts his head, lips pressing together, as he pulls back the shadows around the island, as he dips his fingers into the cavity of it. When he finds the root of it, the swirling blackness that lashes out, that has left wounds upon his own flesh, sorrow upon the cheeks of the blood of his blood and bone of his bone, he frowns. Dovev. He finds the cave where he rests, where he dreams, where his child lies, and although anger is foreign to Woolf, protectiveness is not. They are his. All of them—his.
In one moment, heavy, feathered hooves sink into the mulch and the needle of the forest, and the next, he finds them wet with saltwater, the sand of the beach crawling up and claiming his powerful legs. A small gash, familiar as his pulse, opens up and bleeds upon his shoulder, a minor, shallow cut—one that he feels but does not notice. He is single-minded in purpose, pulse thrumming, as he steps forward, moving to where he knows he will find him, where he will find the devil who wrecks so much havoc—
He pauses, nostrils flaring.
His gaze moves to vegetation that grows upon the slopes, the heartbeat he feels there, the screaming mind that reaches and claws at his own. He is not sure whether it is irritation or curiosity that drives him, although it is certainly not compassion. Ultimately, it does not matter because the result is the same. He moves until he finds her and when he does, he does not bother to act as if he does not belong there. “Wallace,” his voice deep and echoing in his throat, dipping his head in greeting as if they had met long ago.
She grazed. She didn't really care to but that is what her body told her to do, and so she grazed. Beneath a sun, even, so that she could be easily found when they got hungry again. The lavender-splashed twins were still near enough to catch on the occasional breeze, but often seemed so completely consumed in each other. She'd had a twin once.. She could understand.
"Wallace."
Her name on a stranger's tongue had her lifting her head and turning. It hadn't startled her this time, though she wasn't sure why, but his color so similar to the childrens' purple did and she flinched from it. Brown eyes glanced away, logging this in her mind, coming to terms with it before she turned back to him again.
She shifted her hips so that she faced him squarely, sliding the scars of intricate lace out of obvious view. He'd sounded like he knew her though, and she immediately thought of Reilly and his familiarity with her when he had been a stranger to her. The large Irishman had known her, had been there when she was found and she'd been too incoherent to remember him. Perhaps this stranger, too, had been there. Perhaps he already knew how useless it was to hide the marks from him.
I don't remember you, she said flatly, hollow and quiet. Not an accusation, but an explanation. Perhaps an apology of some kind, but not likely. If he'd been there when she was found after her.. ordeal, then she hadn't been lucid enough to recognize him. Surely she would have remembered that color, shades different but still purpled.
She noticed blood at his shoulder, just a little from a small cut, but her eyes didn't settle on it long. That was nothing. Dull, brown gaze wandered back to his. If he was here to see how she was doing, she was fine. See? So he could leave free of guilt for not coming sooner.
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
She shifted her marking out of his sight but that didn’t matter because he had already seen them, watched it happening from her own perspective—the blood, so much blood, the pain. The frown that creased the edges of his mouth was, for perhaps the first time in his life, genuine. What kind of monster cut up someone just for sport? What kind of monster enjoyed watching someone else scream for amusement? It was a question he would ponder for another day, but it was enough of a distraction that he forgot, even momentarily, about his original purpose in coming to the far-flung island. Instead, there was only her.
“Of course you don’t,” his voice was still dry, the syllables sounding off methodically, the voice deep and cavernous from his large body. “You’ve never met me before.” He shrugged, never one to shy away from the truth. He had all the capacity to become a trickster, and while he would perhaps entertain the idea for amusement, he did not have the genetic makeup to truly enjoy it. He was a scientist above all else. He was singularly focused and cruel with apathy, but not cruel for the sheer purpose of being cruel.
“My name is Woolf,” offering her that because it seemed fair she be on even ground.
When her gaze found his shoulder, he laughed, although the sound was rusty. “You’re right, it’s shallow.” He nodded in her direction. “Nothing like what has been done to you.” He turned his head to consider her, a frown building between his brows. “Although you’re certainly not fine so I’m not sure why you’re pretending.” Another shrug, a puzzled expression claiming handsome features, before washing away, like the tide claiming the shore. “I don’t feel guilty though. Why would I? I wasn’t the beast who did this.”
"Of course you don't," he responded to her comment on her lapse of memory from that time, when she'd been found in a puddle of her own blood -and other fluids, not all of them her own- in the forest. "You've never met me before." Her brows tugged downward in confusion, wondering how, then, did he know her name. He shrugged casually, a fluid roll of a large shoulder, and introduced himself as Woolf.
A deep laugh erupted from his large chest when her eyes slid to the cut on his shoulder. She was just thinking how light it was when he answered her thoughts as though she spoke them aloud. Her eyes jerked back to him, wide and fearful. Afraid he would learn more than she wanted to share. He was like the colt, Kharon? He could hear her thoughts?
And that was all it took to unlock it. Her mind bloomed open, uncontrollably thinking of all the things she wished never to reveal to him, or anyone. Helpless once those dams burst open.
Looking a little dull there, metal man. Bet a good dunk in the lake would fix that. Oh, or would you sink? Her snide remark, pushing buttons she'd been unaware of in her naivety.
The sexy, wicked grin that answered. His power over metal, over the very iron in her blood. Puppeting her, holding her in whatever position he wanted. Wallace is no name for a girl, he'd said. Named her Lacey. Formed a blade of his iron and drew an artist's masterpiece of intricate lace at her dull brown hips, permanent lingerie to pretty up the plain and boring creature she was.
Here, in the present, she shook her head and held back a strained moan, her eyes tightly closed. She was glad Kharon was not near, hoped he was far enough not to hear these dark memories play out without pause. Dumped out in such a rush and slipped through her fingers as she struggled to clutch them back in.
The iron beast had taken his sweet time, had groomed her matted and tangled hair with such care until it flowed freely as it probably never had before. But something was still missing, and his blade had cut it cleanly off. Like a child's. She was so young, had to fight and stand tall and resolute to be seen as her own woman in their eyes. And so quickly, so easily, returned to the child she'd tried to bury behind a sharp tongue and piercing eyes, a quick wit.
She choked, her heart clenched tight in her chest, and she jerked her face away from Woolf as her darkest truth helplessly flew through her mind.
He had been so experienced, an expert at his deliciously wicked trade. He'd known her body better than she ever could. Had held her just so, had touched her just right, tasted her, heated her. He spoke the foreign language of her body.
He'd made her want it.
Self-hate, self-disgust burned so hot in her breast as she lifted her eyes to Woolf again. Angry tears pooled there, but held his gaze boldly and bitterly, daring him to say it; what they all thought of her. That she got what she deserved, that she'd been asking for it with her pushy ways and taunting comments. Impossibly soft hair flowed around her, a gift from Ashley after seeing the disgrace of her sheared mane.
She wanted to blame him for pulling it all out of her mind, but knew with great frustration that it had been her own lack in control that couldn't hold those hatches down from him. Couldn't keep her own damn secrets locked away.
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
The mental assault happens faster than he would have expected. He frowns as he is bombarded with her memories, the darkest secrets that she pulls from the depths of her belly. They were deeper than when he had first gleaned them from her mind—the emotions wrapping around his breast, pressing them into the flesh. It was unwanted but he couldn’t extract himself, the tangles of the darkness wrapping around him and pulling him down into the muck of it. He grit his teeth, mulberry chin clenching with tension.
Finally, it subsides, the waves of it lapping at his feet, receding back into oceanic depths.
He growls low and deep in his throat, frustration at the dregs of emotions that remain, the way his heart hurt at the sight of her, at the intricate lace that cover her curves. “It wasn’t your fault,” his voice rumbles low, echoing in his throat—the sound terrifying but contained. “He was a monster, “ he wasn’t sure why he was trying to comfort her, why he was trying to bring reason into a situation that was not his own. He had no stake in this game; she was not his flesh and blood, he had no reason to protect her.
And yet—here he stood, rooted with narrowed emerald eyes. “I didn’t come for you,” he says, honesty in his voice but not kindness. “I came for…” his voice dies off as he lifts his head to look to the horizon, to where he knows the man lives. “It doesn’t matter why I came.” Sand swirls around his legs, responding to his emotions, to hers. “I heard your thoughts while on the beach so I sought you out.”
Another frown that finds and creases his mouth, another lurking behind his eyes.
“I’m not sure why. I don’t normally care about people’s problems.”
"It wasn't your fault. He was a monster." His voice was the dark thunder of a landslide caught between valleys, deep and echoing with power. She could almost feel it vibrating within her own chest. The words of comfort from a stranger, from anyone, set her teeth smashed tight and her ears pulled back. She could ignore that little blossom of warmth, a hint of security from his confirmation, as a brief fire lit in her eyes. She didn't need comfort, didn't need coddling. She was fine.
"I didn't come for you," he answered, "I came for..." His voice and his attention fell away as he looked to the horizon behind her. She almost followed that faraway stare, but realized she didn't have to. Nobody lived out there. Nobody important, anyway. Only the nasty boneman who Ashley worked with, probably anger management considering the constant blaze in his eyes. He's not there, she offered blandly, her voice dulling, face blanking. His child is gone too. Maybe they left, she shrugged, indifferent. Good riddance.
"It doesn't matter why I came. I heard your thoughts while on the beach so I sought you out." She didn't like the sound of that, didn't like thinking that if he could hear her so clearly then how much could the boy hear, how much could Ashley hear? How much of her secret suffering was she yelling to them when she wanted to bury it so deeply within herself where they could never find it? Where she could never feel it.
"I'm not sure why. I don't normally care about people's problems." Good. Don't, she said shortly with an abrupt nod. She didn't need anyone's pity, anyone's words of comfort as though she were a child with a nightmare. Her thoughts shifted back to her new worry, a worry he'd formed in her.
Can I block you out somehow?Can I keep my secrets from them. She glanced behind her, where in the far distance the young twins would be, where even further out might be a magician she dearly wished not to see just then. Or maybe ever. Humiliation flushed her face as she pinned her brown eyes back to him.
Why do you bleed? Wasn't he a mage? Couldn't he just heal it away? She'd never seen Ashley bleed, why would he? Why did this man bother to either.
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
He didn’t bother to acknowledge her comment about Dovev. That was fine. He would hunt down the boy another time. Woolf had all the time in the world to find the man made of bones and teach him a lesson; besides, he was rather preoccupied at the moment. It was unlike him to care, even a little, so the fact that he was willing standing here, interested was almost more fascinating than the mare herself. He would remain if only to discern just what about the mare was piquing his interest.
Her reaction to everything was harsh, biting, demanding, and he found he preferred that to the anguish. That still lurked, somewhere, but he preferred to direct her to the anger. It was more useful there. “No, you can’t.” He shrugged, dismissive of it. “But you have to be listening to hear it. You’d be amazed how many people, even those with the gift, simply aren’t paying attention.” They were just numb to the world.
Woolf raised his head a little and glanced outward to the beach, to where her children roamed, to where the ginger man was off somewhere. He shrugged. “You will likely not be able to keep your secrets from them forever.” It was just a truth. “No matter how hard you try, they will eventually rise to the surface. Truths like that always do.”
Another frown as he took a small step forward and then shifted his weight, getting slightly more comfortable. “Of course, if you did not want to keep secrets, I could simply remove them from you.” It wasn’t easy to manipulate memory, but certainly not impossible. Woolf could imagine why a girl like her would want to move forward with a fresh slate.
He glanced down at the cut healing slowly on his shoulder and then back up. He had almost forgotten about it. “All magic has a price,” a shrug.
“The price that I pay for mine is just a little more obvious.”
No, she couldn't block him out. Or anyone. She frowned, but her spiny disappointment was silent -and yet so loud for him- a prickly burr lodged within the mess of her emotions. "You'd be amazed how many people, even those with the gift, simply aren't paying attention." It was only marginally reassuring, but she supposed that had been his intent and so she gave a half-hearted shrug of her shoulder. He would already know her thoughts anyway. It seemed she was very loud for him. Hmm..
Can I at least quiet it somehow? Wait, what? What a stupid question. She wasn't seriously worried she was hurting him just by thinking, right? Look at this guy, a damn hoard of wyverns probably couldn't touch him. And what the hell did she care anyway. Ah man, and he can hear every word of it, can't he?
She blushed furiously and ground her teeth, jerking her eyes away from him. She almost didn't hear him telling her how dumb it was to think she could keep her own secrets, especially one like this; this huge and dark thing that effected her actions and threw her in to various, sudden moods. Well, he hadn't said they were dumb but that was pretty much the gist of it.
Her eyes caught on his movement as he took a step closer, swinging back to him warily, but he only settled himself more comfortably. That was odd, though. Typically people couldn't be rid of her quick enough. Or maybe that was only before the forest and iron.
"Of course, if you did not want to keep secrets, I could simply remove them from you." An offer. A way out of this madness and pain and memories. Nightmares. Loneliness. Abandonment. Weakness. She withdrew into herself, pensive as she glanced away again and considered. He didn't have to make an offer, didn't have to do anything for her, but she shook that away before she could think deeper on it.
Instead she focused on all the things she would forget. Focused on who she was before and who she was now. There was so much bad, how could it hurt to have it removed as though it never happened? Would she be a weaker person for it? She damn-sure wouldn't be seen as weak, she'd had plenty of that and was sick of it. Sick of being treated like she might break at the slightest drop of a leaf. But also, what good did it do anyone to feel all this pain? Remember all these things and unintentionally shout them soundlessly to others.
Brown eyes returned to him again, fading into uncertainty that she'd rather hide. Like everything else. Is there something to learn from this? she asked him, barely above a whisper in a fragile voice that betrayed the strong person she struggled to be.
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
He shrugged off her question. “It’s doubtful.” Not with those who had the ability to read it, at least. She would not be able to control the volume, would not be able to simply adjust the frequency to turn to another channel—one that they could not access. Still, part of him felt some shred of pity for her (he could imagine it being frustrating, to say the least, to have your thoughts laid out on display), which was in and of itself an unusual sensation. He was not used to feeling anything of the sort for others.
This was simply the way the world worked.
You either accepted it or died.
Looking at her now, Woolf could not imagine her doing anything of the sort. She was like tumbleweeds that make their way slowly, surely across the savannah. She would survive this because that is what she was made to do: she was a survivor. It would not be this easy for someone to choke the life from her.
“There is something to learn from all things,” another shrug from his powerful shoulders as he considered her. “Steel is forged in fire,” he reminded her, “and this is your flame.” It wasn’t pleasant, and it certainly wasn’t enjoyable, but it was the inferno that would strengthen her spine, hammer out her armor.
And so, Woolf decided to give her a gift.
Cutting his shoulder deeper, he began to weave an illusion before her—a vision of her future. In it, she is whole again, happy even, but the details of it are not for him to see. They are, instead, details that are pulled from the most intimate of wishes of her heart, the dreams that comfort her in her darkest hours. In the quiet, he brought them to life before her, showing her the possibilities of a future yet to come.
"It's doubtful," he said, and she didn't even bother to feel dismay at that. She was powerless and her secrets were just going to be yelled at everyone with the magic to hear them. Fabulous. Awesome. Fantastic.
Whatever.
She found it curious that he just stood there so strong and still, watching her with those piercing eyes that saw all of her regardless of how badly she wished she could hide. But, like the scars of lace at her hips, she was just going to have to bear it openly and let the world stare. She still didn't really understand why he was here though, what made him stop and talk to her. He could have easily shut out her thoughts and kept on his way. But she also didn't want to think about it, didn't want to know.
"Steel is forged in fire, and this is your flame." Her head tilted at that, her eyes going a little distant as she brought up other memories, much older memories. Visions of her and her twin as children, always playing tricks and getting into trouble. Wallace and Dharwyn, named after scientists and equally as sharply intelligent and clever. She'd buried that part of her when they'd been separated, hid it and dumbed down her intellect to keep from being shunned by the rare people that would actually speak with her. It did no good to speak in jargon they couldn't comprehend.
But she shook the memories away with an inaudible sigh. It also did no good to live in the past. Must also be tempered in water, quenched and strengthened, she murmured low, her heart a little heavier at remembering her sister. Yes, there was two of them with men's names. Unless she was dead. But where was her water? What would bind and strengthen her again.
She lifted her eyes, but they snagged at his shoulder where his wound drew deeper. And then he was hazy and distorted as his magic swallowed her in an illusion. She was instantly afraid, taking a step back, so afraid of what he would show her. Kindness so often hurt her lately, and he had been that with her thus far; short but kind. She got the feeling maybe that wasn't his usual side, that he pitied her and became something else for her fragile moods. But she didn't want to think about that either, and tried to grasp at the vision that played before her.
It was Reilly, tall and white and strong with his heart in his eyes. For a moment he just stared at her that way, so deeply, and her pulse suddenly soared because he was changing, shifting, transforming into another face, another body, -Ashley?- and then back again. And then he was pressed against her, his body so strong and solid and safe, fevered kisses along her neck and she gasped. It felt good, so good, but she was terrified and bit into him to get him to back off. And he did. He jerked back as if she had burned him, and she instantly felt regret that the warmth and heat was gone. Instantly missed it.
But then he shifted, wavered, and it was Sabrael instead. And that was definitely a look he'd never given her before, wild and hungry as he breathed heavily, trembled, tried to control himself, hold himself in place. She felt her eyes match the heat in his, ache for him even as she stood and challenged him and tried to tell him to go away. And then it played over again, and it was him ignoring that demand and pressed against her, his urgent kisses claiming her. That definitely felt good, her adrenaline charging and racing. She was afraid though, so afraid.
Afraid to feel love. To be loved.
She bit him as before, as hard as she could, but he only groaned -roared- and pushed more firmly against her. She gasped, wished that didn't send her pulse racing and blood heating, wish she didn't like it so much. Still, she fought, battled her heart and him. He shimmered, smoothed. "That's right, Lacey baby, fight all you want. I'm not going anywhere," he crooned sweetly, he promised in Kirby's perfectly sexy-smooth voice. He knew what she was running from, and he didn't care. He'd make her face this until she was whole again, until she accepted there was nothing she could do to make him abandon her.
She almost fell for it, almost sank into it. She wanted to surrender, she did, but she couldn't. And they kept changing, even as she knew it was Sabrael or Kirby against her he would wear Reilly's face, or Ashley's wings, or even Woolf's eyes. Never holding one body completely.
Then it was mostly Woolf, staring down at her with hard eyes that were somehow soft too. She stared back with wide eyes, uncertain if she wanted to reach tentatively for him or piss him off, get a rise out of him. That should not be as fun as it sounded just then. But it was a vision, right? So she could do whatever the hell she wanted. He was only here because she didn't know any other men anyway. So she did both, in her way. She glared a challenge at him, and yet also tested boundaries with a soft kiss to his nose. Do something, I dare you, she didn't say.
And then her eyes focused, and she realized she really was staring up at him from barely a hair's breadth from his nose, her heart still beating frantically against its cage. Oops. Ah, hell. She grimaced, but didn't step back.
