Page 3 of Ranger's Oath
She hesitates, and I catch it. The little pause before she slips on the polished mask. I’ve known her too long not to. “You were shot. You were dying. I… I couldn’t let you go... you begged me not to.”
Memories crash back in a disjointed flood: the limo’s leather reek, the flash of gunfire, the crushing impact in my chest that stole the air from my lungs. I remember the panic thick in my throat, and then Cassidy looming above me with eyes that burned gold, her canines lengthening into fangs. That impossible image sears itself into me, half horror, half betrayal.
“You bit me.” The words scrape out, raw and accusing.
Her shoulders stiffen, but her chin lifts. “I saved your life... like you begged me to.”
“Don’t pretty it up, Cass. I had no idea what you would do or what it would entail. You bit me like something out of a nightmare.”
She crosses to the bed, kneeling so we’re eye-level. Her eyes glimmer, not golden now, but human blue. “I didn't have a choice. You would have died, and I couldn't let that happen, not when there was a chance I could save you.”
A brittle laugh escapes me. “Begging my sister to save me doesn’t mean I signed up for fangs and fur.”
Cassidy reaches for my hand, but I pull it back. The rejection stings; I can see the slight recoil, but I can't help it. I should feel bad, but I don't. I want her to feel even an ounce of what I'm feeling. Petty? Ungrateful? Probably, but I can't seem to help it. She's my big sister. She's supposed to protect me, but what she's done doesn't feel at all like protection. It feels as if I've been cursed.
She leaves me but returns with a tray carrying coffee, toast, and fruit arranged like a still life. The sight should comfort me and arouse my hunger, but it does not. Cassidy’s perfume,Gardenia Noir by L'Atelier, rides the steam of the coffee; topnotes of bergamot flick my nose, jasmine settles behind it, and a waxy gardenia root runs through it like an undercurrent. Instead, my nostrils flare as the scent rolls over me like a tidal wave. The coffee bites metallic on my tongue, the bread tastes overworked, and the fruit leans syrup-sweet as if everyone in the kitchen poured sugar on purpose.
Cassidy is at my side in an instant, steadying me as I shove the tray away. Her grip is firm, her eyes full of worry. “Your senses are heightened,” she says gently, as if speaking too loud might shatter me. “The world is going to feel sharper, harsher. It will take time before you learn to balance it.”
“Heightened?” I snarl. “Try derailed. I can smell the cleaning solution from beyond the door. The refrigerator hum is louder than it should be, the same two-note thrum from this morning turning sharp and metallic, every motor whine magnified until it feels deafening. This is not normal.”
She flinches but keeps her tone calm. “It is now.”
A band of pressure restricts my breathing for a beat. “So what am I, Cass? A freak show? A science experiment gone wrong?”
“You’re like me,” she says softly. “Like Rush. Like the others.”
The others. Team W. The names spin through my mind, but instead of comfort they leave me reeling. My head swims as a rush of confusion and dread all but overwhelms me. I press my palms to my temples, desperate to hold myself together, terrified that if I let go I’ll splinter apart completely.
“You turned me into some kind of monster and think it's okay because there are others?”
Cassidy’s eyes flash with hurt. “We’re not monsters.”
“Funny. I'm pretty sure that’s exactly what the monsters would say. Oh wait, I am one of those monsters and that's exactly what I'd say, but it isn't true.”
I know I shouldn't be so accusatory. I know she saved my life, but what kind of life has she left me with?
The hours blur, my body swinging between exhaustion and restlessness. I get up, pull on some clothes and pace the room, every step measured and controlled. Cassidy comes in and out hovering, worrying, smoothing my path like she can fix this with fresh linens and soft words. I snap at her, then apologize, then snap again. It’s a vicious cycle neither of us seems to be able to escape.
She tries to distract me with stories of her own transition—how the first time she woke, she could smell the perfume worn by a woman two floors down, how her hearing caught the flutter of a moth’s wings in the dark. I want to scoff, but too much of what she says mirrors what I feel now. My senses are a riot I can’t silence. A neighbor’s dog barking outside on the promenade makes me bare my teeth in response, a sound I don’t recognize until Cassidy lays a calming hand on my arm.
I jerk my arm away. “Stop touching me,” I snarl. "You've touched me more than enough." I don’t mean any of it, but I can't seem to stop myself.
Even as I want to fight or deny it, the contact steadies me.
Night falls and the world only grows darker, every detail pressing in more keenly. Outside the city pulses through the windows: honking horns, conversations on sidewalks, the bass from a passing car’s stereo, the sound of the waves. Every sense and emotion layering in on top of me.
I close my eyes and cover my ears with a pillow but the sounds press through anyway. I stagger to the window and stare down at the street below and the beach and ocean beyond. They seem impossibly far and yet so close, every detail etched into me like a brand.
“You’ll learn control,” Cassidy says quietly behind me. “It doesn’t have to feel like this forever.”
“And until then?” I whisper. “What if I go mad between now and then? What if I lose it? What if I hurt someone?”
Her silence is answer enough. The thought chills me more than the thought of her bite ever did.
The next morning I push myself out of bed, determined not to remain feeling like a prisoner locked in a cage. I test my body, stretching, moving, trying to find limits. The scar at my chest pulls faintly but otherwise there is no weakness. Instead I feel power thrumming in my muscles, wound tight and waiting. I pace, restless.
I rummage through my things Cassidy has brought me, and pull out a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater. They're soft, comfortable, familiar. I slide into them, my movements too fluid, too precise. Even the brush of cotton against my skin feels foreign.
