Carpentry. Instead, I run, chased by a ravenous black cloud that cuts away skin and teethes on blood. Every morning, Inga waits by the door, ready for the last of the echelon to run in. By the time Sten shouts “Door!” Inga has already slammed the bolt into place against wolves from other echelons who pound on the stout door. Through the window, I see blood streaming down their pleading faces.
“Sten!” they scream, leaving scarlet handprints on the glass.
Sten walks slowly toward the door, picking at his teeth with a splinter, and pulls down the sun-bleached green shade.
Blackfly season is here.
No amount of blood or screaming convinces Sten, but a few days later, Sten himself runs to the front, flicking the thick plank to the floor like a twig. He stands looking eagerly through the trees, one foot tapping excitedly on the floor. I crane my neck, seeing her moving fast and unhurried like a hand through water.
“Shifter?” Järv says, waiting for me to pull at the bucksaw that had defeated me when I first came to Homelands. Now, I work at holding my back so my spine doesn’t seize up. I know how to pull and stretch out, taking from Järv on the other side and relaxing when he takes from me.
The Alpha steps in, peels off the deep hoodie, and shakes out her hair. She motions Ziggy and Sten to the side, whispering something to them. Ziggy answers, looking at me. Then Sten tilts his head to the side, a wide-eyed, expectant look on his face. The Alpha lightly taps the mallet he holds in front of him. Sten puts it down quickly and bends low toward his Alpha. He shivers, but when the Alpha leans in, her hand to his skull, and rubs her cheek gently against one side then the other, Sten—gruff, monosyllabic, hammer-smiting Sten—sighs contentedly. The Alpha lets him stay, snuggling and snuffling into her touch, until he is done and heads back to his table. He does it with a smile, his mallet swinging jauntily at his side.
Taking the stretch of elastic wrapped twice around her wrist, the Alpha smooths back her hair, first one side, then the other, securing it with the band so that it spreads out like a halo around her face.
The fucking blackfly got her. They’re not bloodsuckers like mosquitos; they are flesh tearers, opening up the skin to get at the blood underneath. Blood runs down from the side of her forehead to her jaw.
She stands behind Järv, who relinquishes his spot, his eyes lowered. Taking a deep breath, the Alpha rolls out her shoulders, stretches her neck, curls her hands securely around the wooden grip, and lifts her eyebrows toward me.
Are you ready?
My fingers loosen and curl tighter around the smooth wooden handle. I pull.
She pulls back hard. I don’t know why she is here and no one else is asking. Maybe she does this sometimes, takes a little break to be just one of the Pack. After a few more furious drags, I wonder if it’s something else. Some visceral need to do something physical. To pull and tear and smell the scent of sawdust warmed by the friction.
Wordlessly, Järv slides wood into place for us. Equally wordlessly, Ziggy picks up the pieces as they fall.
As we pull at each other, it’s like a conversation without words. Are you strong enough? Yes. Yes I am. I don’t know for what. But yes.
She pulls and I give. She gives and I pull. A slight cramping builds along the inside of my shoulder blade. I drag her arms toward me, she drags my arms back. I watch her body move, coiling and uncoiling, muscle and sinew tracing graceful arabesques along her arm and her shoulder.
Wood drops to the floor with a hollow thunk until the slight cramping is a solid agony, but I refuse to stop. If what she needs is to take her anger and turn it into work, I will keep going until something burns.
Yes, I am strong enough for anything.
A gilding of sawdust picks out the damp between her breasts and mingles with the blood that drains along her jawbone and down the side of her neck to her collarbone. Black scars peek out from the narrow strap at her shoulder.
I’ve seen other bite marks on other wolves in the Bathhouse. I’ve seen males bend over females in the woods. Her scars are old, given to her by John when he was a man. Each tug