Page 118 of Mate
“Oh. Well.” She glances at the door, clearly considering getting Irene.
“I— I don’t care about traditions, I mean.” I bite my tongue. To punish myself. “No need for the markings.”
“But Were customs are important. And if you don’t . . . Irene might be angry.” In the slight tremble of her lips, I hear what Nele doesn’t say.At me.And I don’t want that.Irene is a stand- up gal— good to know.
“Eva— ”
“It’s not my fu— ” I stop. Take a deep breath. The abduction/Heat combo isn’t doing my temper any favors. Or maybe I just take after Irene. “Nele, will you please call me Serena?”
“The name the Humans gave you?” Baffled lines appear on her forehead. “You want to honor it?”
“It’s not that . . .”Deep, I want to say. Except, isn’t it?
Serena is the name by which my sister calls me. The name on my diploma. The name Koen whispered in my ear last night. Eva might be what Fiona chose when I was a child, but it belongs to someone who was at the mercy of others, someone who doesn’t exist even in her own memories. Serena was a spur-of-the-moment decision by a nurse, but it’s my name because I made it so. Everything I built is attached to it.
“Yes. I do.” I glance at the jar in her hand. “How do I know it’s not poison?”
“It’s not at all! Look.” She smears a large quantity of the liquid on the inside of her wrist. When she wipes the excess away, the stain is a dark, brilliant green. It reminds me of a forest at night.
It reminds me of Were blood.
“Can I, then? Irene taught me, just for you. I’ll do good.”
I nod and let her guide me into the bathroom.
FOUR HOURS LATER, THE RAIN HAS YET TO STOP, AND IRENE HANDSme Fiona’s letter.
She calls me from downstairs and asks me to join her for tea, addressing me asdearonce again. I put on the hoodie that Nele laid out for me and stumble out of the room, stopping by the hallway window to press my burning forehead against the glass.
It’s bad, this fever. My abdomen is cramping. I desperately need new underwear. My thoughts feel slippery, difficult to chase and impossible to catch. Every once in a while, I snag the tail of one and am dismayed to find that they have little to do with my insane aunt wanting to use me as proof that orgies and drinking Were blood are Good, Actually. It’s usually a large, coarse hand closing around my hip. The scrape of stubble against my throat. A soft kiss on the curve of my shoulder. My nest, back at the cabin.
Several new people have appeared, including three male Weres, bringing the total in the house totoo fucking many. Everyone smells putrid. I need a shower. I need to bury my face into the T- shirt I’m wearing and chase Koen’s scent. I need that hormone shot, right now.
“Would you like me to introduce you?” Irene asks when I sit at the table. “You will have to make a choice soon.”
The acquisitive glances of the men are hard to miss. They stand by the entrance, fidgety, pupils blown wide. Maybe I didn’t overreact by too much when I broke the ceramic soap dispenser in the upstairs bathroom and stuffed the sharpest piece in my pocket. “No. I would like to read the letter, then leave.”
She surprises me by handing it over instantly.
“The photos, too,” I say.
“You have seen them already.”
“And I want to see them again.”
“Very well.”
“How will I know that the letter is real?”
“You won’t. You’re going to have to make a decision, but you are an intelligent girl, thanks to your parents. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
The letter is not addressed to me. It’s the first thing I notice— theDear Irenein unexpectedly round, neat handwriting. Mine is slanted and messy, hard to make out.Looks like an ECG line, Misery always says.You make people work for every damn letter. No one should have to expend that much effort to know that you want them to buy zucchini.As if she ever once went grocery shopping.
But this, this is bubbly. Girly.
Mymother’s.
Dear Irene,
