I open the window on the off chance that he will hear the heartbeat of birds, or the scent of the wind will make him feel like he’s part of something bigger and make it all seem worthwhile. Then I settle back onto Tristan’s rolling chair, my hand perched on Magnus’s foreleg, moving in time with the labored rise and exhausted collapse of this wolf’s chest.
There is a “B” tile on the floor. Two points.
Benison. Blessing. Benediction.
“You will thank me, Constantine of the Evil Look. In time, you will see it as a blessing.” August might be right, but not in the way he thought. If it weren’t for his broken promise, I wouldn’t have hesitated to kill Varya. I would not have warned the Great North. I would not have brought Magnus here. “In time,” I will discover whether this was a blessing or if I’ve simply condemned Magnus to die harder.
As soon as the sun goes down, the Alpha howls, like she does every evening. I’ve never seen her do it, but I’ve heard it. The low resonance that just as it starts to rise is joined by other wolves right across Homelands. It rolls down the mountains and settles into the valleys, pulling the howls of wolves with it.
Constantine.
I play it over and over in my mind, the way it sounded on her lips, the way it lay down a path through the maze of guilt and anger. The way it shimmered like a silver string.
The way it led me out.
Magnus whines, stretching his nose toward the open window. His breathing seems a little stronger, and with each rise of his lungs, a claw scrapes against the plastic-covered mattress. This is not where he should be, not surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and the touch of plastic and the sound of metal and cement.
“I’ll be right back.” Taking two of the doctor’s blue paper towels, I fold them up, using one to prop open the door to Medical, the other to hold the screen door leading outside. For a moment, I stand in the cool air, my face up.
He is too easy to lift. I felt it before when I picked him up so the sheet could be changed. I move carefully so that I don’t jostle his carved-up paws or anything else. With a quick kick to the screen door, I dislodge the makeshift wedge and it closes behind us with a thunk. I left my boots, but at least I can feel the dips and hollows of the ground, the dampness and dryness, the changing density of the ground cover as I move deeper into the trees until I find a little space in front of a big trunk and slowly lower myself and Magnus to the ground. There’s a star-filled hole up above and a smattering of sucklings down below.
Magnus pats at my hand with his front paw, leaving blood on the cuff of my sweatshirt.
Once when he was very young, I told him to wait in the car while I ran an errand. Then we’d go to White Castle. I will never forget Magnus’s eyes when he stared at the cuff of my shirt, which had gotten not so much bloodstained as blood-soaked. There was no more talk of White Castle.
I was always careful after that to clean up, no matter what. Showered, clean clothes, because I needed to be sure that I’d gotten rid of every trace. But this is his blood, and I lay my hand on his thin shoulder and sit with him. Soon when the wind blows over his fur, it releases a raw fragrance that is both green and bitter.
He sleeps again.
I’m sorry, Magnus, for that. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry we sliced into your fingers and toes to make way for claws. I’m sorry we pulled your teeth out of your skull to make way for fangs. Most of all, I’m sorry for telling you that what was best for you, what you needed, was to be human.
Magnus’s eyes are closed but his ears start moving: one way during an outburst of song (whip, whip, whip, whippp), another way as bats flit across the oculus onto the stars, this way again toward the distant wheezing of frogs.
The next time they rotate, he lifts his head, staring expectantly over his shoulder until a burly gray-and-beige wolf emerges from the woods.