Bloodlines (22 page)

Randall

L
ONG
BEFORE
birdsong crept through the morning, long before the mist was scorched away by the rising sun, Randall was out of bed, standing at the window and watching the camp beyond. Some wolves were early risers, creeping out on two legs or four to greet the barely-there morning.

Randall’s nose twitched as the faint scents of bacon and coffee drifted from the communal kitchens. He should get some, for Anthony. The morning cold lately seemed to make Anthony stiffer, make walking just a little bit harder. Randall tried to think ahead most days, to simply provide alternatives to the actions that caused Anthony the most issues. So he should go and get breakfast now, before Anthony was awake, or else he’d be pretending everything was fine, that everything was
normal
, and shuffling a painful path across the camp to get it himself.

Sighing softly, shoving his hair out of his face, Randall glanced down at his watch. Given how deeply Anthony was sleeping and how long the past few days had been, he probably had another two hours before his brother would wake up. Enough time, maybe, to do what he needed to. And then he would bring breakfast.

Edwin was passed out in one of the beds, limbs sprawled everywhere, blankets tangled by his feet. Randall paused to cover him, to smooth the blankets around Edwin and gently rub his hand through the messy waterfall of blond hair. Edwin snorted in his sleep, rolling over, ever the exhausted pup, even now. Randall turned to Anthony, who slept in wolf form. Always protecting them, Anthony, always doing what was necessary to keep them safe. So he slept that way to have every advantage possible, should the worst happen. The chill in the air would make it even more difficult for this form to get out of bed. Brow creased in concern, Randall gathered the blankets from his own abandoned mattress and tucked them around Anthony, careful not to wake him as he fussed over the covers.

He grabbed a sweater and slipped into his shoes, then silently crept from the cabin. He left footprints in the mist-dampened grass, a ghost trail over bent green, making his way toward the Gray Lady’s home. Two wolves were standing at attention outside her door, but they did no more than flick an ear toward him as Randall passed. The door seemed larger today, more imposing without his brothers at his side, without Anthony to lead them.

But that was why he was here. So, after a moment, Randall straightened his tie, smoothed a hand down his worn gray sweater, and lightly knocked on her door.

There was no answer for a long while. Randall shifted his feet, awkward and cold, but he didn’t leave. Both of the guardian wolves ignored him. The faint sounds and scents of the camp seemed far behind him. It was just him, alone on a porch, waiting. Finally, there was the soft noise of movement from within, and the door released, swinging open slowly to admit him.

Randall hesitated. He wanted to move swiftly, with purpose. The way Anthony would. He wanted to march in and demand respect, to earn their way into the pack. But he hesitated. Hand on the doorway, he paused, listening to the measured footsteps from within, the hiss of boiling water, the clink of a spoon on china. And he nearly left. Because who was he to approach the oldest of them all? He was books and research, he was knowledge of things long past. There was no
power
in him.

Not like Anthony.

Not like her.

But his brother was sick. Anthony was dying, was
fading
, bit by bit. So Randall screwed up his courage and stepped inside.

The Gray Lady was seated, pouring a cup of tea, seemingly unconcerned with him. Randall politely stood by the doorway, closing it behind him to keep the damp morning air from her warm cabin. Long seconds turned to minutes, ticking away, but Randall was silent. The Gray Lady seemed to demand that kind of patience.

A low table filled one half of the room, but Randall didn’t dare sit. The Gray Lady was at the head, holding court with ghosts, the gentle morning breeze curling around the bright fabrics that covered the windows. Last night the room had seemed so much more welcoming. Then again, last night Randall had his family by his side. Now it was only him.

Finally, she spoke. “You have sought me out, little one.” There was a laugh in her voice. Her eyes sought his over the rim of her mug. “I did not realize we had an appointment.”

“You said you needed time to think.” Randall took a step forward, hands spread in supplication. “I realize that it’s only been a day—”

“Less than that.” The Lady set her cup down, legs crossed and arms resting loosely on her knees as she leaned forward to study him with that intent, piercing gaze. “Barely a full night passed before you were back at my door.”

“I know,” Randall admitted, having the grace, at least, to sound sheepish. “I apologize. But the matter at hand is not one that allows for procrastination.”

“You think I am dawdling?” Her voice trilled upward, not entirely in amusement, a warning entering her words.

“I think that if you are who I believe you to be, you hardly needed time to think. You knew what you wanted to do the moment we arrived.” There was a faint accusation there, Randall raising his jaw slightly. “My brother is a wolf, my lady. He is one of yours. Whatever our parents’ sins in your eyes, I do not believe you intend to deny him.”

“Oh, really? And tell me, little wolf, how do you know my mind?”

“You are Liadan. The mother of us all. I’ve read about you all my life. My father kept books, and I read them all. You wouldn’t turn away a wolf in need.” Randall took another step closer, daring in his desperation. “My brother is ill, my lady. Tell me what you need me to do, what I should say, what the magic words are. Tell me anything and I’ll do it. Just tell me you’ll help him.”

Another silence descended on them, this one unbearable. Randall wanted to scream at her, to rip the silence apart, to force her to speak. But he made himself stand still as she stared at him, eyes calm. She stood, every movement liquid, turning her back to him while she prepared more tea, as if there was nothing else to do that day besides make
tea
. At the fireplace in the corner, she made busy work with the kettle and water, pouring in careful, measured moments. In that moment, Randall hated her. She held Anthony’s life in her hands, and she refused to speak.

“He is a leader, your brother,” the Gray Lady mused as she added sugar to the cup. “We have need of those. You and your brother are strong, healthy, so he must be fit to lead.”

“He’s taken care of us our whole lives,” Randall said, voice tight, studying the line of her back, the set of her shoulders, trying to read anything at all from her. “He’s never gotten to be anything but our brother. Even when he was a kid, all he did was protect us. He’s the best man in the world.”

The clink of her spoon against the china was like nails grating against his back. He wanted an answer. He’d done the research, he’d read the books, and he knew what it
should
be. But she was refusing to give him the satisfaction of it, the peace of knowing that he’d done what he was supposed to. When she at last returned to her seat, Randall’s hands were all but shaking, his nails digging into his palms as he forced himself to remain silent, waiting for her.

“You are very impertinent, speaking to me as you do. You are not your pack’s leader.”

She didn’t sound angry, but Randall instinctively took a step back, his shoulders losing some of their defiant slant. “I know,” he agreed quietly. “But—”

“But it’s for your brother,” she finished, and Randall nodded. The spoon was moved slowly in her tea, silver dragging through tan. She seemed entranced by it, letting the quiet fall once more. Her next words held an edge of warning. “The pack is kept safe only by its cohesion. I will not tolerate any lone wolves. Those who leave will be cutting themselves off from my protection.”

Randall nodded. Whatever the price, it would be worth it, if it got Anthony the help he needed. “We are not our parents,” he reminded her.

“No,” the Gray Lady agreed. “You are not.” That seemed to decide her. She put the tea aside, standing and holding out her hand. “You and your brothers may stay. We will give you whatever assistance we have.”

It was like a dark, tangled ball of sour fear was suddenly pulled from his throat. Randall took her hand, bowing his head to kiss her knuckles, gratitude babbling out of him, the words all slurred together and meaningless. She smiled at him, and with a graceful gesture she led him to the door. “Geoffry”—she gestured to one of the wolves—“let the healers know that Anthony Lewis is to be put in their care. Give him whatever help he requires.”

Randall turned to thank her again, only to find her shaking her head. “I do not know if there is anything we can do,” she warned quietly. “His sickness may be beyond the scope of our healers. But if your brother is to die, at least he will do so with his own kind.”

And then she was gone. Geoffry had taken off, leaving the remaining guardian to watch Randall climb down the stairs, walk across the grass, in a daze. It felt like he’d been in the Gray Lady’s presence for hours, and yet the sun was barely peeking above the horizon. Nothing at all had changed.

He wanted to feel relief. Instead, that knot of fear simply settled back in, clutching at him. They were there. They were accepted.

But it might not make any difference at all.

His feet led him. Randall barely paid attention to where he was walking, his shoes damp in the grass, faint shivers sliding down his arms. Randall wasn’t one for wolfish running, for letting go of everything but instincts. At the moment, though, he felt the need to be
wolfish
. He didn’t shift, but he wandered around the outside of the camp, near the trees, lost in his own head, in a thousand thoughts and none at all. The wild woods called to him, and he let himself be drawn in, barely aware when he walked past the van that had brought them there, now parked by the path that had led them to the clearing.

“Randall!” Victor’s voice sounded decidedly croakier than usual. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

At the sound of his name, Randall jumped, startled, turning toward Victor and showing his teeth. His eyes blazed yellow, a growl rumbling out before his thoughts managed to catch up to what was happening. Randall choked back the rest of the warning sound, fumbling his glasses off to clean them on the edge of his sweater, trying to look like he hadn’t just acted like an idiot puppy during a thunderstorm.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, shoving his glasses back on his nose and giving Victor an embarrassed look. “I was a bit distracted.”

“Oh. Er, that’s quite all right,” Victor said haltingly, peering at him. He was sitting in the driver’s seat of the van with the door open, a takeaway cup of what smelled like tea sitting in a drink holder. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, my fault.” Randall hesitantly took a step forward. Victor looked incredible first thing in the morning. Then again, Randall was hard pressed to think of a moment when Victor
wouldn’t
look incredible. The problem was, Victor had no interest at all in Randall, he was sure, other than as some amusing idiot who sometimes stumbled into his path. And the
worst
part of it all was that Victor had seen inside Randall’s head. All those stupid thoughts Randall pretended weren’t there had gotten trotted out and shown off. Really, if the option existed to just hide under a rock for the rest of his life, Randall would have taken it.

Then again, if he did, he’d never get to see Victor first thing in the morning, with his hair just a bit out of place and a little hoarseness to his voice. So maybe rock dwelling wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“They let you back in,” he observed, almost immediately internally kicking himself. Of course they had, otherwise Victor wouldn’t be there. Next Randall would be pointing out that the grass was very green that morning and that sometimes people inhaled oxygen.

“Surprisingly, yes.” Victor laid the book he was reading down on his lap. “Mallory was at the gate when I arrived. He mentioned the Gray Lady wanted to speak to all of us later, so I have something of a day pass.” A small smirk curled the edge of his lips. “I nearly ran over Jed and Redford. Did you see them?”

“No.” Randall took another cautious step forward. Victor smelled like tea and shaving cream and a tang of oranges, but Randall wasn’t sure if under that there was acceptance for his presence or not. Reading nonwolves was hard sometimes. “Where was Redford? His cabin was next door to ours, but I was busy convincing Edwin not to go for a midnight run with strangers. I didn’t see him after he went to bed.”

“Oh, he was out at the gate with Jed.” Victor waved a hand in the direction of said gate. “Lying on the ground with a sleeping bag underneath the gate. I’d almost call it cute, if it wasn’t so amusingly melodramatic.”

Randall wrapped his arms around himself, warding off the morning chill. “They acted like it was forever. I don’t understand. It was only one night. You would have thought one of them was shipping off to war.”

“The perils of being in love.” Victor looked torn between being amused and exasperated. He gave Randall a look he couldn’t quite identify, something deeper than the idle smirk Victor was still wearing. “I suppose one only understands when one has felt that way about another person.”

“Haven’t you?” The question was out before he could stop himself. Randall wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer or not. Dropping his eyes, he shrugged, striving for a casual tone. “I mean, I would have assumed someone like you would have.”

The way Victor absently rubbed his fingers over the two scars on his neck made Randall’s hackles rise. “I thought so,” Victor said contemplatively. “It was love, in a way, and very much
not
love in others. But it was acknowledged—” He paused and gave Randall a rueful smile. “Well, it’s probably not something you want to hear me prattle on about. I do apologize.” He abruptly changed the topic. “Have you had breakfast yet?”