The scene Cory found himself in seemed familiar although there was a distinctive difference.
He recognised the pack mess hall. He was seated at one of the several long, dark wooden tables within the tent. As usual he sat alone at a table that could effortlessly accommodate twelve people. The pack members never sat with him – avoiding him as if he would infect them with some sort of shameful weakness. Cory kept in mind what Joy had said, that it wasn’t their fault. It was merely in their nature. As a result he wasn’t hurt or offended. He had already grown accustomed to the loneliness.
The distinctive difference within the scene was the glow of the candles that lit up the tent at night. They didn’t glow their nostalgic warm, orange light. They burned a low red – like a decaying red LED light. The air in the tent wasn’t as nonchalant as Cory had remembered it to be. Danger lingered in the air; it had the perfume of doom that pumped adrenaline through Cory’s veins.
“I need to get out of here,” Cory whispered.
He slowly stood up. None of the pack members within the tent spoke. There was absolutely no movement within the creepily red lit tent. The other occupants, like lifeless mannequins, stared straight down at their table. Were they waiting for a sound? Waiting for prey to appear or make itself known so that the hunt could begin?
That was the feel Cory got from the scene and atmosphere.
He wanted to run; he wanted to escape swiftly. His paranoid mind advised him to slowly creep out. He crept to the right side of the tent that led directly to the mouth of the ominous tent. The closer he got to the opening of the tent, the lower the red light burned. He sped up ever so slightly so as to not be trapped in darkness; his eyes bouncing left and right in paranoid anticipation. They didn’t see anyone near the mouth of the tent. His heart finally began responding, thumping harshly in his chest. It locked his limbs in fear. Cory soldiered on through the fear getting even closer to the exit.
A hand painfully grabbed his wrist, shooting icicles into his skin; they punctured his flesh and froze his blood. Cory didn’t want to look at the owner of the hand. His eyes were wide with panicked focus on the entrance; it was only a few feet away. He tugged on the grip but it just tightened around his wrist in retaliation. The arctic icicles dug deeper into his flesh.
“Oh…Cory…” That recognisable deep voice taunted; it held a malevolent tone.
Cory yanked on his wrist more desperately, determined to leave the nightmarish tent. The grip on his wrist was made of iron-like resolution – locked. The grip yanked him back into the tent and spun him around. The scarlet-haired man finally looked at Grayson. By all appearances he looked unaltered: his tousled white hair, his thick brown eyebrows, his warm tanned skin and his strong jawline.
It was his eyes that were different; they were still the familiar icy-blue colour. But the intent within his blue eyes was strikingly distinct. Four years ago they held hatred in them, but now they held undiluted murder. The anxious red glow within the tent was on its last leg – the tent slowly descending into pitch black darkness.
“L-Let go of me,” Cory commanded. The fear in his voice was evident. He stared with wide eyes into Grayson’s malevolent blue ones. The taller man’s lips spread into a smile; an evil smile that promised harm. The lighting in the tent was on the verge of giving up as Grayson’s smile grew unnaturally.
“I reject you, Cory.”
Those already spoken words inexplicably threw the freezing punch into Cory’s gut; it knocked the air out his lungs. Cory’s vision blurred yet confusion bloomed within him. Grayson had already rejected him – why was it having the same effect as if this was the first time?
“I already k-know that,” Cory huffed slightly.
Then the snickering began. As it had four years ago but, these snickers were distorted. They wavered between loud and soft. The tent grew darker as the snickers continued growing louder.
Cory yanked on his wrist again; Grayson’s grip was impossibly strong. The darkness loomed on edge. The snickering was almost as loud and shrieking as tortured screams from a woman being attacked in the night.
The tent then became completely dark; there was no light and no visibility. The agonizing grip on his wrist did not disappear, instead it was released. Cory could still feel the presence of other people in the dark tent. His breathing picked up, lungs rapidly expanding and constricting in panic. His legs refused to move; he ordered them to run. He commanded them to fulfil their purpose of carrying him to safety. It was like slithering vines had wrapped around them, keeping them in place. He could hear the movement in the dark tent, soft footsteps – some coming closer while some wandered around in the distance.
The fear stopped when he heard the all too familiar words, “You’re a disgrace to this pack – you bring shame to the Lightpaw pack!”
The fear stopped because it was replaced with an even stronger emotion. The welcomed fire that forged his resistance and will. The explosion within the scarlet-haired man that had obliterated the wall that kept his power at bay. His most powerful and effective tool; the hatred he held for Grayson Lightpaw.
The vines around Cory’s legs withered and burst into brilliant flames, roaring in magnitude and light. It illuminated the previously frightening tent. Cory had expected to see the snickering Lightpaw pack members along with his ex-mate in the now illuminated tent. Yet, there was no one inside. He was alone in the mess hall tent, surrounded by vacant wooden tables and extinguished candles.
Cory scowled in anger – he had hoped to return the hurt Grayson had so generously given him.
“There’s no point. I can finally leave and never come back to this hellhole,” Cory muttered in both bitterness and happiness. Bitter because he wouldn’t be able to see the pain in Grayson’s eyes as Grayson had seen in his; happy that he could finally return home, far, far away from the Lightpaw pack.
The young man ran out of the tent and through the pathway he could easily remember. Through the dark woods of despondent memories in the shape of trees. He heard the satisfying crunch beneath his shoes as he sprinted through the forest undergrowth.
Then another series of crunches started close behind him. Cory looked behind him only to see Grayson running after him; the white-haired man was quickly catching up. Cory picked up his speed, painfully close to the end of the pack territory – he could see and smell the periphery that acted as a border for the pack.
The all too familiar and painful grasp shot through his wrist. Cory hissed and spun around – his hatred still roaring within him. He pointed to the ground, expecting to force Grayson to his knees, expecting to humiliate the Alpha that had humiliated him.
But Grayson did not kneel, he did not react.
“Your magic is bound, remember?” Grayson spoke gently now, motioning to the silver bracelet around Cory’s forearm. It hadn’t been there earlier in the tent…
“Let me go, Grayson!” Cory yelled, trying to yank his arm free.
“No”
Cory glared pure, angry, venomous hate into Grayson’s blue eyes. He noticed that these blue eyes were different from the blue eyes he had seen in the tent. As opposed to the murder they held mere minutes ago, they now held shame – as if remorse.
“You can’t keep me hostage here! I’m not a Lightpaw pack member!” Cory screamed and violently tugged against the icy-burn of Grayson’s hand.
Grayson seemed to ignore him and flung Cory over his shoulder. He began to wordlessly walk through the woods, carrying Cory effortlessly back to the inner pack lands.
It was insanely disorientating when Cory was no longer on Grayson’s firm shoulder. He was pressed against a solid brick wall – held there by a rough, fat and hairy hand around his throat. He could smell the stench of alcohol coming off the man’s breath.
This, too, was familiar.
“Bloody hell! I said gimme the bag ya’ butt ugly freak! Ya’ want anothah?!” The man yelled in a raspy voice, holding out his chubby fist. Cory simply clutched onto the duffel bag that Joy had given him before he left. He was still too rattled to go through all of its contents – and it seemed that Joy had predicted this. As the first thing he saw when he opened the bag the night he left Blackwood was an envelope with the word ‘MONEY’ written on it. He couldn’t afford to have it taken from him.
“Put him down,” a man spoke politely as he casually strolled into the alley. His voice was musical. It wasn’t as high-pitched as Cory’s voice, nor as deep as an Alpha’s voice. It was silvery; it was slightly deep and pleasant. Cory couldn’t see the man from the angle the brutish thug had him in. But he could hear the casual tapping of shoes.
The brute turned his head to the side to look at the mystery man, clearly sizing him up. He grinned in disgusting confidence, “Or wot? Are ya garn ter make me?” He challenged the man cockily.
“Yup,” the man said happily, “I’m going to make you put him down.”
The brute didn’t like that response; clearly he was used to frightening people and getting what he wanted from them. Cory judged by the stinky man’s cockiness that he didn’t perceive the other man as a threat in any way. He released Cory’s throat and the scarlet-haired man slid ungracefully to the ground – gasping in air.
“Okay, punk! I’m garn ter fuck ya up first then get that freak’s dirty bag,” the thug spoke angrily as he harshly stomped toward the man. Cory looked up – fortunately so – as the brute collapsed to the ground at the feet of the man. The scarlet-haired man could finally see his – potential – saviour.
The man wasn’t tan nor was he pale – he seemed to be a soft harmony of the two. He had thick, dark brown hair that seemed unkempt – yet fashionable. Complimenting his high cheek bones were his thick black eyebrows and sharp jawline. He wore a casually loose, black jersey with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black – clearly – formal pants as well as polished brown shoes.
What caught Cory’s attention was the slight, silver framed glasses protecting the man’s dark brown eyes.
The man looked up from the brute on the floor to a cowering Cory with his knees pulled to his chest – cautiously eyeing the semi-tall man. The man simply smiled boyishly and stepped over the thug on the ground walking up to a cowering Cory.
“Hi! I’m not going to hurt you. You should probably come with me,” the man spoke happily and politely as if nothing had happened.
Cory eyed him even more cautiously, “Why… would I go with you?”
The man smiled again and pointed at Cory’s left eye, “Your eye is purple.”
Cory had already known that. As he was running through forests and fields his left eye kept itching more and more. It only stopped when he got to Blackwood. He didn’t think much of it until he passed a couple who were leaving a movie theatre. He had asked them where the nearest airport was but they kept staring him curiously in the eyes. They eventually gave him directions and he gratefully thanked them. As he was about to walk in the direction they had pointed when the woman had asked him if he had heterochromia. Cory looked confused and the woman clearly saw that, she explained that his right eye was brown and his left eye was purple.
It was then that all the pieces clicked together; a liberating realisation washed over Cory. He now knew why he wasn’t able to shift, why he had a strange scent and why Joy was assigned to take care of him. He was half werewolf and half sorcerer.
This man must think there is something wrong with Cory so he probably planned on taking the seventeen-year-old to the hospital.
“Oh! Don’t worry about it, I have heterochromia-”
“I know it’s not heterochromia,” the man smiled and took off his glasses, “So do you want to come with me or not?”
Cory stared in disbelief at the man’s cold purple eyes.
Cory’s eyes slowly fluttered open. Once they were focussed he realised he was staring at a straw roof. His eyes wandered around to the right of the room and he saw the grey bricks and only then registered where he was and what had happened.
Cory was still in Joy’s old cottage on the far left edge of the Lightpaw pack lands; he had simply had a nightmare that had somehow morphed into a memory from years ago. He sighed and rubbed his hands down his face; there was a light clinking sound to his left and he glanced in that direction. There was a plastic tube taped to the top of his hand with surgical tape that led up into an IV bag of fluid hanging from a thin pole.
“You are dehydrated. I will return shortly with an intravenous drip to rehydrate you” Ambrose said.
“Oh, that’s right,” Cory muttered as he remembered Ambrose’s words.
Cory could feel as well as smell how sweaty and grimy he was – he grimaced at the unpleasantness of his state. He slowly sat up, resting his back against the rickety wooden headboard.
The door opened and the scarlet-haired mixed-blood glanced at Ambrose calmly walking into the building toward the kitchen on the far left on the small cottage, “You are awake. How are you feeling?” He asked emotionlessly, not bothering to even look at Cory.
“Fine,” Cory responded coldly and curtly.
“I am glad to hear that.”
“Are you really?” Cory adopted the same formal language and cadence that both Joy and Ambrose spoke with.
“What exactly are you asking?” Ambrose now turned to look at Cory – still wearing a porcelain mask that seemed to act as his true face; never showing any expressions.
“I am asking if you are actually glad that I am feeling fine, to reiterate, do you even care?” Cory asked tonelessly – keeping the dead eye contact with the pack sorcerer.
“No, I do not care.”
“Then stop saying hollow phrases which are tantamount to lying,” the mixed-blood replied dispassionately.
“I have already informed you that I only take orders from pack members, your opinions are of no significance,” the sorcerer shot back impassively.
“I remember that clearly. If my opinions do not matter, then why bother lying to appear polite to me?” Cory countered stoically.
Ambrose stared numbly at Cory, who reciprocated the look. Cory knew he had won the cold competition and he could see that Ambrose had come to the same conclusion. A crack, an almost imperceptible grin was lightly sketched onto Ambrose’s lips for a microsecond before he erased it instantly. However, Cory had noticed it.
“You slept for an entire day. I will remove your IV momentarily. Typically it is not kept in for such a long period of time; however your body seemed to be an exception. You should be able to move around now without fainting,” Ambrose spoke while walking over to Cory and removing the IV from his hand.
“That is good to know,” Cory whispered, “Very good to know…”
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