Durant had retrieved many of Rowan’s belongings from his home. The growing boy kept his true gender to himself. He kept a lot of things to himself as he hid in the room the toad-faced man had provided for him. The man insisted that Rowan call him Don.

Rowan spoke very little those first few weeks.

They resided in a penthouse suite above a tall office building. His clothes were in a closet big enough for him to walk inside. His sheets had been replaced by fresher, newer ones, but he got to keep his large comforter and pillow. He spent the majority of his time wrapped up in it with his face turned into the cushion, hiding and smelling the familiar scents and wishing he’d just wake up back home to his father telling him to come sit with him while he waited for his mother to return from the hunt.

His mother . . . .

Could she have . . . could she have really . . . ?

There was a phrase his mother had shared with him each time he tried to bring home an animal and keep it as a pet. “Wild things should stay wild, honey,” she’d murmur, asking him to show him where he found the creature and take it back to its home.

He thought of the phrase over and over and over as he lie wrapped up in the familiar blanket in the unfamiliar room. His tears stained the pillow and his door stayed shut.

Wild things should stay wild.

Getting up one afternoon, he dared to venture out into Don’s living room and kitchen area. Durant was there, which gave him pause and made him stand still until the peluda looked up and acknowledged him before returning to his slumber. Rowan took that to mean he was allowed out.

Moving over to the gigantic windows that overlooked the city (Jacksonville, they were in Jacksonville he remembered upon travelling back with Don and Durant), he hesitated before pressing his face to the glass and overlooking the city.

He had never seen anything like it . . . .

He didn’t know exactly how long it had been since he’d arrived. He hadn’t bothered counting the meals he had neglected. Or the ones he’d accepted. He hadn’t counted. He had merely lain in bed trying to think of something, anything other than the family he’d lost.

There had been books in his room. He had started off staring at them blankly, not fully comprehending the passages but devouring them all the same because the worlds they shared with him were better than the world he was currently in. He didn’t understand all the words, and so had to keep a dictionary and thesaurus by his side the whole time he tried to read. The words he never found, however, he guessed at. Reading was better than nothing.

Don tried to talk to him. He tried, but it never amounted to much. Asking questions that didn’t get answered, offering hugs that weren’t well-received. Don was never unkind though. He was always quiet, always apologetic, always wishing things hadn’t happened the way they had. He told Rowan about an organization called the Red Cord. When he saw that Rowan was reading, he brought him more books.

And more books.

Rowan had never had so many books. He was sure he was collecting his own library. Most of these books were fiction, but the handful that weren’t were tomes of the Red Cord. They told him the history of the organization, of how humanity had taken the strings of fate from the gods and decided to set their own course. How they used the strings to bind themselves to nonhumans for a chance at a better world, a world safer for everyone in it. He read and read and read about all the feats of the Red Cord, famous members, famous disputes, infamous rivals. He learned as much as he could and then continued to learn more.

When he had finally left his room and pressed his face to the glass, he was struck by the heaviest loneliness and loss since arriving here. He didn’t need to recall the state he had been in previously with his family to know he was farther from anything he had called home than he had ever been. He’d always been surrounded by forest. He’d never felt so far removed from everything he had known.

It was as hard to believe he was in the heart of the organization his mother had feared as it was to believe that she couldn’t be saved.

When Don had found him curled up by the big windows, he sat on the floor with him. Rowan watched him sit for a moment, but then directed his gaze back out the window. He leaned on the glass and did his best to focus on the encroaching nightfall.

His mother would be getting ready for her nightly run by now . . . .

“The Librarian is wondering where all of the books she’s loaning me are being kept. Have you finished reading them?”

Rowan’s eyes went wide and his chest clenched. “Yes.” But . . . librarian? “Are they due late?”

Don smiled softly. His smiles never reached his eyes. “No. The Librarian branch.”

“Oh.” Part of the Red Cord. Not an actual public library. “I’m done with them.” He’d read some books twice by now.

A long pause. Then, as Rowan expected, another apology. “I’m sorry you are having difficulty adjusting. I am glad to see you have left your room at last.” Rowan didn’t respond. He was too busy watching the sky change colors. He thought of how someone had brushed his hair forward at night, and was startled when . . . Don reached up and brushed his fingers through his hair the same way. It was the first time he had done that . . . and it made Rowan close his eyes and lean into the touch. “I believe Kali and the other Masters would enjoy meeting you.”

Rowan opened his eyes slightly. “Why?”

“Some knew of your mother. They were sad to hear of her passing. I think it would give them peace of mind to see that not all was lost.”

Rowan felt his throat tighten at the mention of his mother, but the questions burned. This man seemed to know so much more than Rowan ever did about his family. How else had he known to warn Rowan, to help Rowan? He was already here . . . he may as well ask, “How well did you know her?”

Don’s smile, small as it was, grew smaller yet. “She was my very dearest friend.” There were pauses, thoughtful breaks in his words as he continued. “She had been hurt before, by another human. I saved her. Such an amazing fighter and creature she was . . . one should never have to hurt the way she was made to hurt.” He ran a hand over his thinly haired head. “I couldn’t stand it.” A sigh. “She and I were so close. For so long. She was my partner.” He held up a hand showed him a series of barbed wire shaped scars around his palm and wrist. They were faded scars, red and rough against Don’s skin. Scorch Marks, Rowan thought. He had read of the bonding process amongst members of the Red Cord, or Knots. “She was with me when I became Moderator. I was with her as her people slowly dwindled and started to disappear. We were there for each other.”

The hollowness in Don’s voice alerted him to what he thought to be remorse in the man. The look askance seemed only to enforce that thought. Rowan looked back out the window before asking, “What happened?”

A long silence. Then Don answered, “She met your father.” Rowan felt a dread creep inside his stomach and settle there. “She ran away. Went rogue. I never saw her again.” Another long pause. “Until you.” Rowan felt the sickness growing. “You must understand my boy, I wanted nothing but the most normal of lives for you when I met you.” Tears were beginning to prick Rowan’s eyes. “But . . . with a mother like her . . . and a father like him . . . .”

“What was so wrong with them?” Rowan forced out before his throat closed entirely and the tears took over.

“She was a skinwalker, Rowan. They can lose their temper. She could lose her temper, and she could take lives when she did it. If she ever took your father’s life, or yours . . . she would have fallen victim to the Witchery Way.” Rowan looked back up at Don as the saltwater streamed down his cheeks, and didn’t need to ask what the Witchery Way was. Don was already explaining, “She would have become a dark sorceress, feral and cruel.” Rowan closed his eyes and covered his face. “She was bred to fight. Your father was a veteran, a trained soldier. He suffered from the things he saw. They were a terrible match, my boy. It was inevitable they would harm one another.” Rowan was starting to sob. It was too much. This was too much. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save him also, Rowan. She tried so hard to protect you both.” A hand clasped the back of Rowan’s neck. “She neglected to see she was the real danger.”

Don pulled Rowan close, and this time Rowan didn’t pull away. He allowed himself to be held by the man. His mother’s former partner. The Moderator of the Red Cord.

The man who had saved him.

Rowan unloaded the tears he had long withheld upon the chest of Don Idlewood. A chest he either thought completely empty, or his own heartbeat drowned out the man’s.

--

Rowan Alder Sverre continued to receive books from the Librarian, taking up the status of Loose String and beginning his training in the negotiation portion of the Red Cord. He was not only already exceeding reading levels, but speech levels as well. He received the highest education available and within a year, he would begin more stringent physical training.

The Vanguard himself had come along and sat his partner down with Rowan. Grane and Don watched as Bruna stretched and readied for a mile run alongside Rowan. The boy, as predicted, was thrilled to meet a Mara, a werewolf of Scandinavian origin. They were so taken with each other they didn’t listen to the men talk.

“He would benefit from a thirty day training course with the other Loose Strings,” Grane determined.

“He is younger than most,” was Don’s rebuttal. “I do not like the idea of someone harming him, even if accidentally.”

“Perhaps you would prefer a personal trainer?” Don didn’t respond. “One you can oversee?”

A long pause. “I will consider it.”

There was a silence as Bruna barked, “Go!” and the two were running. Well, Rowan was running. Bruna was hardly sprinting and managing to stay ahead of him on lupine feet.

Grane watched his partner in admiration. His Viking patterned Scorch Marks wrapped around his elbow, similar Scorch Marks wrapped around Bruna’s where they had linked arms. He eyed the long faded Scorch Marks on Don’s hand. “You were right.” Don didn’t respond. That was typical. Don always knew he was right. “He does have her eyes.”

Don Idlewood was not the only one who missed Leah Creek. At least the Red Cord got to keep some piece of her safe.