Wendigo
Member
Sammy hadn’t been there when he went back.
Sure, Cryptid had taken a while to eat the kid – kicking and twitching dragged out the process just a little too long – but she’d been so badly wounded he’d forgotten that his little firebird could fly off. The anticipation had given way to concern. Not quite fear – he was somehow still high on the hunt. It should’ve worn off while he ate. Maybe he’d been starving himself too much over the last few years, halving the number of meals each month. Or maybe the way thinking about her excited his hunger was affecting him.
But she was gone, and he had a nervous energy about him in the place of real nerves.
He could hunt again, maybe. Maybe he could disappear, get in the Malibu and wake up somewhere else; but that would only result in confusion when he woke up. He could leave a note for himself, but he didn’t trust himself not to drive back and accept death. Plus, most of his stuff was at Sam’s apartment. And given her track record with Slate, once she’d healed, there was no way he was going to escape from her without a long hunt.
He hated the idea of being prey. He understood that there were forces he should be afraid of. Slate as a pack, even just Obsidian. He briefly considered going to the Diamond instead of a truck-stop shower. But his quail was the alpha’s little sister. Obsidian wouldn’t forgive him, and he wasn’t in the mood to try to play that to his advantage. Still, he had to do something if the shower didn’t bring him down. He could at least get the blood out of his skin, and use the recently replaced spare clothes from his kit until he could wash out his coat. He hadn’t bothered to change when he ate the little bug. It would’ve been a waste of time before he got back to his firebird.
But he had to do something. Driving usually helped. Even if he didn’t leave town, he could at least drive long enough to settle his spinning mind. Long enough for his hair to dry.
Long enough to realize he was parking outside of a familiar house.
It was late. Later than he’d ever been picking Adelyn up for anything. He didn’t bother looking at the time; late was good enough. He stared at the suburban home, with its clean front door and neat yard. Through the crack in his window as he finished his cigarette, he could smell her here. He could smell the similar scent that had to be her grandfather, and the other scent that had to be her grandmother. This was a home. This was something he’d never had.
In a better headspace, he would’ve turned the car back on and left before he could disrupt that. But the buzz of the hunt, combined with a memory of a scaled girl held close in his arms, sharing his limited body heat with the smaller predator. There was attraction there. Nothing like Sammy, not at all. If anything, the opposite. The way he’d caught her watching him once or twice when the facade slipped, when she got to see his predator. When she got to see this.
He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it, then picked it up and dropped it into his cupholder before closing the door behind him. Maybe the tobacco smoke would hide the blood to the overly-observant. Hopefully.
Then he made his way up the driveway to the door, and rang the bell.
Sure, Cryptid had taken a while to eat the kid – kicking and twitching dragged out the process just a little too long – but she’d been so badly wounded he’d forgotten that his little firebird could fly off. The anticipation had given way to concern. Not quite fear – he was somehow still high on the hunt. It should’ve worn off while he ate. Maybe he’d been starving himself too much over the last few years, halving the number of meals each month. Or maybe the way thinking about her excited his hunger was affecting him.
But she was gone, and he had a nervous energy about him in the place of real nerves.
He could hunt again, maybe. Maybe he could disappear, get in the Malibu and wake up somewhere else; but that would only result in confusion when he woke up. He could leave a note for himself, but he didn’t trust himself not to drive back and accept death. Plus, most of his stuff was at Sam’s apartment. And given her track record with Slate, once she’d healed, there was no way he was going to escape from her without a long hunt.
He hated the idea of being prey. He understood that there were forces he should be afraid of. Slate as a pack, even just Obsidian. He briefly considered going to the Diamond instead of a truck-stop shower. But his quail was the alpha’s little sister. Obsidian wouldn’t forgive him, and he wasn’t in the mood to try to play that to his advantage. Still, he had to do something if the shower didn’t bring him down. He could at least get the blood out of his skin, and use the recently replaced spare clothes from his kit until he could wash out his coat. He hadn’t bothered to change when he ate the little bug. It would’ve been a waste of time before he got back to his firebird.
But he had to do something. Driving usually helped. Even if he didn’t leave town, he could at least drive long enough to settle his spinning mind. Long enough for his hair to dry.
Long enough to realize he was parking outside of a familiar house.
It was late. Later than he’d ever been picking Adelyn up for anything. He didn’t bother looking at the time; late was good enough. He stared at the suburban home, with its clean front door and neat yard. Through the crack in his window as he finished his cigarette, he could smell her here. He could smell the similar scent that had to be her grandfather, and the other scent that had to be her grandmother. This was a home. This was something he’d never had.
In a better headspace, he would’ve turned the car back on and left before he could disrupt that. But the buzz of the hunt, combined with a memory of a scaled girl held close in his arms, sharing his limited body heat with the smaller predator. There was attraction there. Nothing like Sammy, not at all. If anything, the opposite. The way he’d caught her watching him once or twice when the facade slipped, when she got to see his predator. When she got to see this.
He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it, then picked it up and dropped it into his cupholder before closing the door behind him. Maybe the tobacco smoke would hide the blood to the overly-observant. Hopefully.
Then he made his way up the driveway to the door, and rang the bell.