Brothersong (Green Creek #4) - T.J. Klune Page 0,188
disintegrated, the motes of dust caught in a soft breeze. They swirled up into the air and were gone.
So many doors.
So many voices.
They called to us.
They said, “Candy canes and pinecones. Epic and awesome.”
They said, “I popped your coming-out cherry. That didn’t sound any better.”
They said, “Choose me, Mark. Pick me. Love me.”
They said, “Jessie, this is Dominique. She’s going to be staying with us for a while.”
They said, “You got weird white-boy arms? My dad says that you must have weird white-boy arms. That’s why you wear sweatshirts all the time.”
They said, “Hey, Tanner? Okay, stick with me here. This is going to sound ridiculous. But what if we…. I love you, you know? You’re my best friend. What if we did what the others have done? We could just… you know. Bite each other. Mates. You don’t have to say yes. But there’s no one else I trust more.”
They said, “Lizzie? What’s wrong? Is Carter kicking again? Here, let me rub your back.”
We wanted to see what was inside almost more than anything.
But we always had someone there to pull us back. To keep us from getting lost.
“Ox,” Joe muttered, looking stricken as the voice of our father called to him from a red door, telling him that he was going to be the Alpha. “We have to find Ox.”
“Yes,” my mother said dreamily. She shook her head. “We must hurry.”
We pushed on.
Each door we passed slammed shut.
We held on to each other. Gavin was at my side, and when he heard me from inside a door, telling him he was too fucking big to get on the bed, to get off, he turned his head toward me. “You love me.”
“Yes.”
“Ghosts.”
“Yes.”
The door closed.
The clearing was bigger than it was in real life. It felt like we traveled miles. Hours passed. Each door was a little piece of memory, a map of the road taken. Dad was there. Grandad was there. Elijah was there. Richard Collins was there. Osmond growled, and Pappas said he could feel his tether shredding into pieces. David King said, “Not yet,” and a witch who lived in a house by the sea overturned his cup, bones spilling out and rattling on the table. “Fairbanks,” he said. “What you seek is in Fairbanks.”
When we reached the other side of the clearing, we were all shattered. I could barely breathe, but Chris was there, his hand on my shoulder. Tanner tapped my hip with his fingers. Rico linked his arm through Bambi’s, and she held hands with Dominique. Jessie was pale, but my mother whispered in her ear, telling her that she was loved, that she was packpackpack, even as a younger version of Jessie demanded to know why she wasn’t good enough for Ox, why he couldn’t see what Joe wanted from him.
Kelly said, “It hurts. All of this.”
Mom said, “I know.”
And Joe shouted, “Ox? Ox!”
His voice echoed around us.
I held my breath.
Then, in the distance, Oxnard Matheson said, “Here. I’m here.”
Joe ran.
We followed.
The doors thundered as they closed around us, their frames rattling as the voices began to shriek. They screamed why and please and sing you need to sing the song of wolves.
Joe howled as he ran.
We joined in.
It was a wolfsong.
A ravensong.
A lovesong.
A heartsong.
A feralsong.
A brothersong.
In the trees along the edges of the clearing, wolves howled in response. Their songs bowled over us, and the ground below shook, the moon above pulsing brightly.
We reached the edge of the clearing.
There, sitting in front of a small door, was a man.
His hands were on his knees.
He was nude, and his skin was unmarked.
He turned his head.
And he smiled when he saw us.
Ox said, “There you are. My loves. My pack. I was looking for you. I was lost. But see what I’ve found.”
He laughed when Joe crashed into him, knocking him over. The laughter faded when he saw that Joe was sobbing. “Hey. Hey, Joe. It’s okay. I promise.” He held him close, running his hands over his back. “I’m here.”
We crowded around him, each of us reaching out to touch some part of him, as if we couldn’t believe he was real. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
He said, “Listen.”
He said, “Listen well.”
He said, “Our pack is howling us home.”
The door before us was blue. The paint was chipped, the frame cracked, but it looked strong, the wood old.