Wolf Song (Wolf Song Trilogy #1)(3)

The old werebear had half-carried, half-dragged him in human form to the deserted cabin and left him there.

“You’ll heal faster if you shift.”

The sack of gauze greeted Gee’s advice with silence. And remained coiled on the floor in human form. As if he hated being a wolf. Hated being alive.

She’d flapped from tree to tree to investigate, drawing as near as she dared. During those first few weeks, he never came out of the cabin, not even on the occasions when the huge ursine creature visited to bring supplies. She’d hopped into a birch whose branches brushed the ground floor windows of the rustic cottage for a better view, fascinated by the wounded creature. A set of carved log stairs led to a loft she couldn’t see. But Gee bustled about below in the galley kitchen that opened into a small living room, stocking shelves, examining the young male’s dressings, cajoling and arguing with him.

After a few weeks, the giant pushed his charge, still in human form, out to the porch and dumped him there.

“Learn from this, boy. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get strong. I’m not going to mollycoddle you anymore. You need to snap out of it.”

But the youth had only lain where Gee had tossed him, not even bothering to drag himself to the rocker or porch swing. Had he been damaged so badly he couldn’t shift? Or…maybe he didn’t want to. As a skinwalker, able to assume different animal forms, she usually sensed the presence of another shifter in her environment. But if she hadn’t overheard Gee’s comments, she didn’t know if she’d have identified Brick as a were.

His listlessness and melancholy tore her heartstrings back then. Physical pain blossomed in her breast, raw and ragged, as if she’d been cut by the jagged edge of a tin can. She wanted to see a smile brighten the dark face, still swollen and discolored. But she dared not show herself.

Instead, she’d searched far and wide for the flotsam and jetsam dropped from pockets, from the wearer’s fingers or neck or tossed from moving vehicles. So much abandoned or discarded bounty. She pecked at half-buried gems and unearthed small pieces of shiny debris: rings, toy soldiers, colored glass, parts of plastic toys and gadgets, broken components off cars and electronics, sparkling gum wrappers. Taking them in her beak, wrapping talons around them, she winged back to the cabin. And then showered her tiny gifts of lost-and-found treasure onto the porch from great heights as she soared by.

Trinkets for her…well, she didn’t know in what esteem she’d held him then. Perhaps he was just a curiosity at first. A hurt and wounded creature in need of healing, in need of cheer. But now….

Now, he’d become something much more to her. Something vital. Something she dared not name. Dared not admit, even to herself.

Back then, he’d finally noticed the collection of silvery bits and other oddities accumulating on the deck of the porch after weeks of inertia—and only when she’d accidentally dropped a chipped and tarnished hood ornament on his chest.

Plunk.

A ram’s head insignia. Shiny. Unlike the cracked blue-and-white BMW medallion already littering his doorstep. But she considered the ram a greater reward. He seemed much more of a truck kind of guy.

He’d sat up and snatched the chunk of metal off his rib cage, stared at it, blinked and then looked around, as if for the first time. Taking in his surroundings, the half-inch of detritus carpeting the planks on which he’d lain. She’d thought he’d sweep the mess away, relegate the whole mass of junk to a garbage can.

But he’d gathered everything together, painstakingly sorted through the lot and made groupings out of the motley hodgepodge, then arranged her offerings in precise lines and rows. Counted them. Began again. If a breeze happened to ripple through the assortment, juggling an item from its place, he’d quickly reformed his collection, aligning the trinkets once more, as if he couldn’t bear the slightest deviation from the rigid order he imposed on the jumble. He appeared obsessed. And his obsession had fascinated her. A male seeking to impose meaning out of meaningless chaos.

She’d started looking for more and more flashy bits of miscellany to add to his cache: crackly red cellophane, the dented pipe from an old wind chime. She could barely carry some things in her beak or talons. But she had to try. For him. Her heart swelled at the thought that he treasured the cast-off items she brought him.

After a few more deliveries, he’d gazed at the large carpenter’s box bristling with tools and stuck in a corner of the porch near the woodpile, eyes thoughtful. Selecting a large ax and a saw, he ventured down the short steps into his yard slowly, his limbs stiff as an old man’s. Cutting down his first tree, he sawed it into rough boards. Sanded the planks smooth. Then, to her amazement, he returned to the porch and started building shelves.

When he removed his shirt the first time, the discolored patchwork of bruises on his chest and back made her gasp. Sorrow and dismay softened her heart. Clearly, he’d been abused. She didn’t know what he’d done to warrant such a battering. But no one deserved to be treated that way.

She’d wanted, needed, to bring him joy. His elusive smile became for her a treasure rarer and dearer than any of the shiny bits she’d dropped on his porch.

So she’d sung for him. Not a raven’s raucous caw. But a clear, sweet melodic sound. Her special gift.

As if her song stunned him, he’d morphed into frozen marble, silent and still. Then, spitting the nails from between his teeth, he’d dropped the hammer and stepped off the porch again. He paced the yard in front of the cabin, scanning the skies, studying each of the trees. Had he found her? She couldn’t be sure.