Page 15 of Fated Exile

"That old bit about never changing into wolf form in high school?" He smirks at me. "You never got the chance to see, I guess, but students at the high school broke that rule all the time. One of the reasons why the fable exists in the first place is because we got tired of replacing the desks and gym equipment. But I promise you that moon sickness is real, though more common when a pack's birth rate is high."

Bastian blinks at both of us. "Of course moon sickness is real."

I guess I'm the only one who thought it was a fable, then. Maybe because I was exiled and only recently found my wolf form, after taking out the chip my father secretly put in my neck.

Moon sickness is what they warned us about when we were twelve or so, claiming that once the shift came on us, we'd have to be careful. As the fable goes, werewolves who stay in wolf form for too long forget they're human. They become like wild things, stalking through the wood and killing livestock. Bigger and more dangerous than regular wolves, they pose a serious threat not only to safety, but also to the peace efforts with humans.

What's worse is the moon sick desire for a pack. Once stuck in wolf form, a moon sick wolf won't just stay a lone wolf. They'll infect others with the sickness, howling their loneliness out into the world and calling for other members of the pack to join them. As the legend goes, one pack once lost itself so thoroughly to moon sickness that they lived their natural lives as wolves, and their descendants never changed to human form again, eventually becoming fully feral.

I'm not sure how much I believe that. I always thought the reason our teachers told us about the sickness was to keep us from shifting into wolf form on school grounds. I can imagine that having large, furry, fanged students would make history class difficult. So the high schoolers, once they discovered their wolf forms and their intended mates, would spend all evening howling and frolicking because they couldn't do it at school.

"What's the compound like?" I ask Niall, returning to the subject at hand. "They always told us that it was secure enough that no werewolf could break out of it, and if we went sick and wound up locked away no one would ever hear our howls."

Bastian comments, "Sounds intense."

"I don't know about howl-proof, but it's definitely inescapable," Niall says. "The cells are six foot thick concrete with iron bars and five locked gates between the quarantined and the outside world. If we put Bastian in the compound, he won't get out until we're ready."

I know it's for the best. Still, my heart twists at the thought of him in there all alone. "Who will check in on him? Feed him, make sure he's okay?"

"There are plenty of pack members who live nearby. We can get some of the warriors and local enforcers to set up patrols and check in on him. And once the compound is cleaned up, we'll have the pulley system up and running—it delivers meals, fresh clothes, and clean water right to the cells. He'll want for nothing."

I don't like it, but based on the bloodless quality of Bastian's hands, it's probably our only option. If he's tied up for much longer he'll start losing some of his beautiful extremities. While I'd prefer for him to be loose, the way he went after us and especially Finn made it clear that isn't an option. That shadow in his mind needs to be cleared before we can trust him again.

"It's only temporary," I tell Bastian, wincing at the authority in my own voice. "I promise that I'll figure out what's going on with you and find out a better way. Maybe we'll even find a more comfortable place to keep you secure, after tonight."

Bastian shakes his head. "The compound sounds perfect. I don't deserve comfortable right now, Delilah. What I deserve—what the pack needs—is for me to be locked up somewhere safe, very far away from anyone I could hurt."

Niall nods in sharp agreement, which leaves me as the lone hybrid unhappy about this arrangement. There's nothing to be done about it except what I was already planning on doing: researching my powers, figuring out why I can heal the severed mate bonds, and kicking that shadow out of Bastian's head just like I healed Kieran's broken mind.

Meanwhile, there are other pressing matters.

Like my last living biological family member, if she's still alive.

* * *

The room they've transferred Kerry to is as white as death. I walk in on cautious feet, trying not to make too much noise. Though Lance and Roarke came with me to the medical center, they haven't been allowed in the room. It's one visitor at a time in Kerry's recovery suite.

Machines glow near her as a nurse taps notes on a loud keyboard with clunky keys. She glances at me once before departing on her rounds, leaving me alone in the room with my aunt. The surgeon who operated on her only spoke to me briefly before being whisked off to care for another patient—here in werewolf territory, we're always getting into scraps, and he has plenty of other patients to stitch back up.

Kerry's eyes are closed, but her eyelids flutter as I near the edge of her bed. I feel a lump in my throat as I take in the color of her irises: a pure, piercing green. I've always thought of my eyes as a trait I took from my father, since we share the same heterochromia. But what if my birth mother also had green eyes?

Laura Glass had brown eyes. It didn't occur to me when I was younger that she might not have evenbeenmy mother. Now, looking back, it seems obvious. Not because of the features we didn't share, but because of how little she was attached to me.

"I didn't mean to wake you," I murmur, grabbing a nearby chair and sliding it up to Kerry's bed. She's alone in the recovery suite for now; the chart on the wall across from her has vital signs scribbled across it in fifteen minute intervals. "If you need to sleep some more, go ahead. Don't mind me. I just wanted to come make sure that you're okay."

Kerry blinks, staring up at me. The various lines running to her chest register soft, steady beeps. Her pale arm is connected to an IV that leads to a saline bag on the left side of the bed, and the thin gown over her chest bares a surgical scar that stretches towards her collarbone. I shiver at the red, twisted flesh and the neat stitches that hold her weakened body together.

"You look so much like her," she says, six delicate words that draw all my attention. "I'd forgotten all about her little round nose until I saw you. There's no mistaking it. And those three freckles on your left cheek—no one else ever had those. I used to call them her little constellation."

It's all I can do to breathe steadily, and keep the tears in check. Every part of me wants a single answer to the question that burns inside me, but I prepare myself for disappointment.

"My mother... your sister." I inhale sharply, staring at my aunt's pale face, which holds so many of my features. "Is she still alive? Could she be...?"

Kerry sends me a pained look, her eyes full of sympathy.

It's answer enough.

Her next words only bring more questions.

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