Page 88 of Mate
“Hang on, I thought they killed the cult twenty years ago?”
“They thought so, too. Surprise.”
Alongpause. “Cool.”
“Yeah.” I sink back into the pillows. “Very.”
“Serena, are we bad people?”
“Um . . . Morally? Spiritually? Fiscally? Because I did your taxes every year and exploited every single loophole in the medieval castle that is our financial system, but— ”
“I’m just saying that we must, to some degree, have done something to deserve the shit coming our way.”
“Well.” I rub my palm against my belly, wondering if the cramps I’m experiencing are a fun new addition to my symptoms dance card. “We did pretend you were overtaken by bloodlust that time Mr. Barca got a paper cut.”
“And made him piss himself. You know what? Maybe it was worth it.”
“Still, I don’t know that our lives necessarily needed a cult plotline.”
“Agreed. Wanna hang up and spend the rest of the day buddy watching that Human show about the MILFs?”
“Yeah, actually.”
“Tough shit. I’m giving you the cult deets whether you want them or not. What do you know already?”
I take a deep breath. “That Constantine was like, the Were equivalent of Rasputin.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
History was never her strong suit. “Do you know what his ideas were?” I ask. “What he promised his followers?”
“How do you know he promised something?”
“Isn’t that the whole point of a cult? I’m your leader. You do what I tell you, and I’ll give you eternal life, unlimited wealth, rebirth in a world where everything tastes like pineapples— ”
“What about, ‘And I’ll turn you into a Were’?”
I sit up in a quick, fluid movement I didnotthink my abs were capable of. “Are you for real?”
“Yup. It was some deranged shit. The cult ran several generations deep. The original founder was one of those cuckoo bananas Were supremacist guys who thought that the other species should dedicate their lives to massaging his feet. Weres should control the means of production, that kind of stuff.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Totally. Roscoe, the former Alpha of the Southwest, was a bit like that. His wife, Emery, is Koen’s aunt. And I’m sure in some East Coast packs they won’t let you graduate first grade if you can’t spell at least ten Vampyre slurs. The world’s full of assholes, and the dung beetles love it. Sadly, the original founder of the cult was just a little too batty for everyone’s taste. He was originally from the Southwest, but they politely asked him to leave. Lowe used the word ‘exiled.’ I’m not sure whether he was being melodramatic or if that’s a thing among Weres.”
“Why did they kick him out?”
“Ruining the vibes? Unclear. But the dude took his family and friends and made himself comfortable at the border between the Southwest, the Northwest, and the most rural parts of Human territory. Kept themselves busy by writing their scriptures on the inside of cereal boxes. It started as a small settlement, lessthan twenty Weres. Packs monitored them, even interacted, but nothing significant happened for decades. Until his daughter, or his son’s daughter— Lowe tried to draw me a diagram but got stuck— went to a trading meeting with the Northwest and met her mate.”
“Constantine?”
“Nope, some guy named Jochem. Originally, the couple were going to live together in Jochem’s huddle. But, big surprise, Jochem decided that the cult made some valid points and that the other species should, in fact, show their soft underbelly and let the Weres feast on them. They moved in with the cult. Even brought some friends. And had a few kids.”
“Among them, Constantine.”
“You know what? You’re clever for a hybrid.”
I bite back my laughter until my cheeks bleed. Sometimes I miss Misery so much, it hurts every atom of my being.
