Page 20 of Moonlight and Mischief
“I’ll see you tonight.” She’s busy, and I’d better get ready for patrol. At least she turns and waves at me before more kids run through the door and steal her attention.
My hand grips the door frame as I look back. She’s beaming even as she instructs her rowdy students, like sunshine that can’t stop shining. My afternoon duties suddenly seem dull in comparison, but I won’t shirk my responsibilities.
Striding across the meadow, I’m joined by packmates also assigned to afternoon scouting. In the training building, we strip and shift into our four-legged versions.
Taking a deep breath, the scents of the entire pack stream through my consciousness. I can pick out Hazel’s honey scent mixed with Slate’s woodsy smell. Onyx, Marigold, Heath. And I can sense the general emotions of my packmates clearly, now that my human inhibitions are wiped away.
A gentle contentment simmers between all the members of the Bracken Creek Pack. I’ll never get tired of these feelings, after twenty-plus years of jealousy, anger, pride, and greed from my birth pack. In lieu of avoiding my pack’s bond, I sink into it, letting it fill me.
I lead our group northeast, toward Ironcrest. We circle the pack’s boundaries, looking for any hint of invaders, rogue wolves or other packs. All is calm. Moving west, our group picks up speed.
Patrol isn’t only about safety. It’s about running together as much as enforcing our borders. The small groups are always varying, and today I run beside Slateand Aven, a reserved woman a few years older than us. She’s talented enough to hold a higher role than her Theta title, but she isn’t as dominant as other females like Cassia and Hazel. She’s a steady presence as we venture deeper into our territory.
Pine needles churn under my paws, my nails gouging the soil. My ears swivel to pick up the sounds of little creatures and even larger prey. The sense of freedom that comes from running as a wolf is intoxicating. It’s why I shift for my own short run every morning.
After a couple of hours, we head back toward our clearing, the day’s work done. I slow near the school building, spotting a familiar strawberry blonde head of hair.
Marigold stands in the doorway, smiling and chatting with Cedar. She laughs, throwing her head back. My muscles coil and I have to suppress a growl as she reveals a length of creamy neck and chest to another male.
I’ve been so stupid. Every one of my thoughts has been taken up by this woman, and she’s busy pining over someone else. I knew she had a crush on him, but it didn’t seem real when she was touching me, curled up on my sofa, resting her head on my shoulder.
Feeling sick, I lope toward the training building to shift back. Even after dressing, I’m still fighting the jealousy I never expected to feel over my friend and roommate.
MARIGOLD
The afternoon goes quickly. After lunch, my older students work around the pack, assisting adults with various jobs to gain experience. The remaining younger students are eager to finish math and earn some art time, and I’m happy to let them get out paints and paper.
Sitting beside Daisy, I doodle little cartoon wolves across a page while I praise the children around me. Their concentration is impressive as they build their own masterpieces.
After releasing my students for the day, I linger out in the meadow watching them play for a while. Honestly, I’m hoping to see Jasper come back from patrol.
Cedar steps out of the diner and heads toward his garden. “Hey, Marigold,” he says in passing.
“What are you up to?” I ask. His feet slow.
“My mom wants some rosemary and chives for dinner,” he answers. He grows all sorts of herbs and I love joining him in the pack garden.
“I’ll help you!”
“I don’t need help,” Cedar says, “but I’d enjoy the company.”
Beaming, I fall into step beside him. “Perfect.”
We pass through the archway and my hand brushes against the trailing vines. He heads down the central path without glancing back.
“I love this time of year,” I share, swinging my arms and enjoying the warmer weather.
“I do too. The transplants are all doing nicely. We’re starting to see more bugs.”
The walkway circles around the barrels that contain most of the herbs Cedar grows. Rosemary and mint overflow their containers, always trying to take over the rest of the garden.
He pulls a tiny pair of shears out of his pocket, making me smile at his quirky habits, and snips several sprigs. I take them from his hands, trying to be useful in some small way.
A lower, long garden bed with a protective screen arching over the top holds the delicate herbs. With practiced expertise, he harvests chives from among the thyme, oregano, and marjoram.
“Marigold, you smell like Jasper,” he states, standing to face me.
My fingers run along the collar of my dress uncomfortably. It’s such an unexpected accusation and his impartial tone gives nothing of his interpretation away.
