Page 68 of Mate
“You can tell her anything, but if this information came to you through a computer, she’s likely to know already.”
“Ideal, as it would spare me an ethics-breaching conversation.”
I laugh, freshening up the coffee, and send a text:
I can’t help noticing that either you did not ask Lowe how a boy of fifteen managed to unify an entire pack, or you’re keeping the answer to yourself.
Misery:Lowe is in the south on pack business. I am but a lonely, neglected bride.
Serena:Don’t walk into the lake without first feeding Sparkles. How is my boy, by the way?
Misery:Last I checked his intestines were happy and productive. He may look like an overgrown hamster, but he sure shits like a lion.
Serena:Fantastic. Since your intellectual curiosity is clearly at its peak, can you find out something else for me?
Misery:Probably.
Serena:I need to know what specifically happened twenty-one years ago here in the Northwest. Weres died, especially older Weres. Humans were involved.
Misery:On it.
Misery:Although, and this might be too galaxy-brain an idea to have occurred to you despite your career as a journalist: you could ask questions? For instance, to the guy you live with? Who happens to have been an active participant in the events you just mentioned?
Serena:Everyone is being very cagey. This is obviously the Northwest’s big, formative trauma event, and they’re not over it. It’s like that thing you Vampyres always yap on about, with the blood and the wedding.
Misery:The Aster?
Serena:Yup. Except this happened years, not centuries ago, and I’m pretty sure that everyone’s genealogy tree died in it. It seems more tactful to seek alternative sources.
Misery:You soft hearted bitch. I could never.
Serena:Uh- huh. Where’s Ana, by the way? Snuggling on top of you? Yawning in your face? Drooling all over your pillow?
Misery:Absolutely NONE of the above.
Misery:But if she were, she’d tell me to say hi to Aunt Serena and to ask her when she’s coming back for more zip-lining.
Serena:Is she asking for your phone to play Tetris?
Misery:No comment. Goodbye.
I pour some coffee in a mug and set it aside for Koen. I’m gathering the seconds’ used but surprisingly clean plates when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch something in the hallway.
It’s a yellow flannel. The flannel I stole from Koen and slept in last night. The one I sweated through. The one I thought I’d put in the washing machine with the sheets.
“Shit,” I mutter, hurrying to pick it up. Unfortunately, at the exact same moment, the door opens.
Koen enters the cabin in human form, finishing pulling up a pair of jeans, the worn denim soft around his hips. He doesn’t bother buttoning them up all the way, and . . . I don’t know. I guess I could rapidly avert my eyes and maybe even flush. But in a place where no one seems to care about nudity, I’m the one making it weird.
Plus, I’m busy hiding the flannel behind my back. Which seems to accomplish very little, given the way Koen’s nostrils flare. I’m suddenly seized by terror: Can he smell the remnants of my sweatfest?
Clearly, yes. Because he goes rigid as a statue and asks, “What is it?” The words sound a bit like a growl, as though they’re coming from deep within his body.
“Nothing.” I swallow. Smile to soften the lie. “Just, my pj’s. I need to wash them.”
His eyes darken. Panic prickles up my spine.
“I’ll be right back. Give me a sec,” I plead, turning around and starting down the hallway as fast as I can.
