The Hidden (Shadowed Wings #1)(2)
The peeling wallpaper and obnoxious floral bedspread of the motel room are suddenly all I can see, and I try not to cringe. I was fine to get my orgasm on in here, but now the thought of staying in this place for the night makes my skin crawl. I grab my jacket off the back of the chair that’s tucked into a small desk with a cracked top. The leather and the quilt stitching of my jacket hug me tightly, like the old friends they are, as I shove one arm into a sleeve, then the other, and zip it up. I grab my pack and helmet and head out.
“Well, Gran, it looks like it’s just me and you again,” I announce, as I strap my helmet on and make my way back to my bike. I power up my GPS as I straddle my motorcycle, and my thighs and lower back give a twinge of protest. Gran, of course, doesn’t answer since she’s in an urn in my backpack, but just like touching my mother’s ring soothes me, talking to Gran while I take this trip helps me feel a hell of a lot better about it. The engine of my bike roars to life under me, and I pat the pack on my back reassuringly.
Gran always hated that I loved vehicles of the two-wheeled variety as opposed to the four-wheeled options, but something about the wind as it rushes past me sends my soul flying. I’ve been hooked on bikes since shop class when we were tasked with building one my sophomore year of high school. Even though Gran put up a fuss about it, I could always see a gleam of longing in her eyes when I talked about my love of speed and what it felt like to cut through the wind on one. She grumbled, but she never did stop me from saving up my money and buying my first bike.
I take off out of the parking lot, careful not to eat it on the gravel, and head back out toward the highway. I have about four hours of easy road ahead of me before I reach the final destination of this four-day road trip. I was hoping for a solid distraction so I could put things off a little longer, but the hard cock between my thighs I was hoping for clearly didn’t work out. I merge on the highway and pick up speed as I get lost in my thoughts.
“Miss Umbra—”
“Falon, just call me Falon,” I correct as I stare absently at the large cherrywood table I’m sitting at.
“Falon, did your grandmother ever discuss with you her preferences when it came to her remains?” the suited and booted lawyer asks me, his voice soft and bleeding sympathy.
“No,” I answer hollowly and try to fight the melancholy sitting on my chest like a rock. I can’t believe she’s gone. I mean Gran was old. She had a full and, as far as I can tell, relatively happy life, but I just never really pictured myself without her. Without a tether.
“Your grandmother asked that her ashes be spread in Pinion, Alberta. It’s a small town just over the Canadian–United States border. She has an address listed here,” he tells me and slides a piece of paper across the table.
He starts talking about my gran’s house and her assets, but I tune him out to stare at the stark white paper with the black typed address. I’ve never heard of Pinion, Alberta, let alone heard Gran ever talk about it or whatever exists at the numbers sitting on the paper in front of me. I didn’t think she was from a place like the small mountain town in Colorado where I grew up; I always got the impression Gran was city forged. My parents died when I was five, and ever since then, it’s been Gran and me against the world. Now it’s just me.
I shake away the sad memories and focus on the road in front of me. Miles blur by, and the next thing I know, the smooth female voice of my GPS tells me I’m only twenty miles away from my destination. I’m on a winding mountain road that seems to be nothing but switchbacks, and I’m having fun leaning into each turn and pushing my bike and myself to see just how much speed we can take. But with each mile I fly through, the more it feels like a boulder is resting on my sternum. Trees flash past me, and I can’t help but dip back into all the curiosity I have about this place.
Gran didn’t like talking about where she came from. That subject, and my dad, were pretty off limits, but the closer I get to the address that Gran left, the more I wonder if this is where her home pack lived. Gran wasn’t latent like I am. She’d talk about shifting with longing and fondness, but whenever I’d ask her to shift, she’d become morose; she’d wave it away and say those days were behind her. She seemed almost relieved when my wolf couldn’t complete the transformation.
I sniff at the air as much as I can with my helmet on, but I don’t smell wolves or any other shifters for that matter. The crisp mountain air is cool and laced with moisture. I can smell snow on the breeze, and I really hope wherever I’m going has a place to crash for the night, or it could be a cold drive back to the last town I passed. I turn down a small road I would have never noticed on my own; thank fuck for Google Maps. I drive slowly and cautiously down the hard packed dirt path until the posh feminine voice announces, “You have arrived.”
I pull into a clearing that has a small stone cabin sitting in the center. The road I’m on ends abruptly, and I stop and step off my bike. I stretch my back and legs out and wait to see if anyone is going to come out and greet me from the small little house. No one does, and after staring at the house and surrounding unkempt grass for a couple minutes, I conclude that it’s empty. My gaze travels around, taking in the trees and the patches of tall grass and weeds. I’m not sure what to think about this place, but it’s clearly not home to Gran’s pack—or anything else, it seems.
I pull my backpack off, and my heart drops as I unzip it and pull out the urn holding Gran’s ashes.