Page 21 of Anders
Another spike of pain made her gasp.She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to will away the building pressure in her skull.
But she couldn’t stop now.Not when she was finally starting to see the connections.
The way the currentranching associationseemed to function more like a secret society.
How people deferred to Malcolm and Larissa like they were some kind of tribal leaders.
The practiced way they all spoke, choosing their words so carefully, as if there was something they couldn’t say.
The way they moved, the way they always seemed to know when someone was approaching, the way their eyes sometimes seemed to glow in certain lights…
Like an animal’s, she thought and immediately regretted it as agony lanced through her head.
Her hands were shaking as she pulled another volume from the shelf.This one was older, the binding cracked and faded.As she opened it, a loose page fluttered to the floor.
Etta bent to retrieve it, and the world tilted sideways.She grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself, blinking hard against the spots dancing in her vision.
The loose page was a photograph, brown with age.It showed a group of people standing in front of what she recognized as the Old Packhouse—though when they remembered, everyone called itthe old community centerwhen speaking to Etta.
She squinted at the image.The faces were unclear, but something about their poses struck her as familiar.The way they arranged themselves, with the larger figures protective at the edges, the smaller ones gathered in the center…
Like a pack protecting its—
The thought shattered as pain ripped through her head, worse than before.The photograph slipped from her nerveless fingers as she doubled over, pressing her fists against her temples.
Images flashed through her mind: moonlight on fur, the taste of blood, running through darkness on four legs—
No, something in her mind snarled, and the images vanished, replaced by a wave of nausea so intense she had to grab the trash can.
When the nausea passed, she found herself on her knees, gasping for breath.The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like angry wasps, each flicker sending new spikes of pain through her skull.
She needed to get out of here.Needed air.Needed…
Etta staggered to her feet, using the shelves for support.Her vision blurred, but she could still make out the words on the page she’d been reading:
LOCAL LEGENDS SPEAK OF WOLF-MEN
Ancient Tales Tell of Shape-Shifting Warriors
The pain intensified until she thought her head would split open.She stumbled toward the door to the staircase but didn’t make it before her knees buckled.
Pain fractured Etta’s world into kaleidoscope pieces, each shard reflecting a different memory.
Soft fur against her cheek.The rumble of a gentle growl that meant love, not threat.Massive shapes curled around her tiny form, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.
No,she whimpered, trying to push the impossible image away.But the memory swept over her like a tide.
Her mother—not the prim woman who’d raised her in Montana, but someone else, someone who smelled of wildflowers and wilderness—nuzzling her face, making her giggle.
Her father—not the quiet accountant she remembered, but a huge man with laughing eyes—tossing her in the air, catching her with sure hands.
This isn’t real,she tried to say, but the words came out as a moan.What she was seeing couldn’t be real.Couldn’t be true.
Running through moonlight on unsteady legs, still learning to coordinate four paws instead of two feet.
That’s it, little one,came her mother’s voice in her head.You’re doing so well.
The memory shattered like glass, replaced by another.
