Wolf Song (Wolf Singer Prophecies Book 1)

Got it?"
The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Everyone calls you Soli?"
I blinked at the shift of his mood. This one was lighter, less intense, and he did it with such ease. I nodded. "Yup."
"Then I will call you Soleil."
A riot of pinpricks scoured down my skin at the sound of my given name in his voice. I cleared my throat. "Well. Good. Awesome. Let's get going then."
I descended the ladder and hoped that I hadn't just invited trouble into my home.

I had to adjust to the fact that there was this other presence in my house. A presence that wasn't my dad.
My mother had a glowy persona about her. Her presence was like the after burn of an image—the kind you got if you stared at something bright too long and then blinked.
My dad...he was like a fragrance that lingered, like the scent of banked ashes in the fireplace, where the embers are still a little warm.
This one? This Creed? He was something else.
He liked to stay slightly out of reach and just outside my periphery. I was cool with that. I didn't need him crowding me.
He ranged into the kitchen after we had descended the stairs. He’d insisted on going down first. I just gestured to him to go right ahead. He had already told me that my dad's wards were safe and secure. But this way I could keep an eye on him.
I was also able to see that just above his collar, where his neck met his shoulders, was that tattoo. I tried to read it, but Creed turned his head slightly.
"Those outside are just my men." He said it as if he answered a question I’d asked.
Or was that his way of asking them to be invited? "Okay?" I said hesitantly. I wasn't about to add an invitation when there wasn't one. I didn't play those games and he was a grown man. He could ask when and if he wanted to.
He didn't pursue the line of thought though, quietly moving from window to window in the small kitchen.
There were the remains of my dinner on the stove, as well as the stew that I'd cooked for the town. I felt kind of guilty. In a day and age like this, food was hard to come by, I imagined, especially if they lived in the forest.
"Were you hungry? I just packed some of this stew up for the town and to save for later. But it would be easy enough to heat up."
He blinked as if he didn't understand my words. "Thank you," he said gravely, as if I'd given him something valuable like a firstborn child or something. "I won't eat unless the rest are fed."
I shrugged. "Well, it's there whenever. I'll be heating up my tea, then."
I didn't need it to wake me up. He was more than enough for that. But this way I was closer to the knives. It was always better to be close to a weapon and my rifle wouldn't be good at close range.
I kept it slung on my shoulder. I usually kept it in the attic so I could grab it easily as I went to the rooftop for sniping, but it had felt right to hold on to it. Plus, this was the first time I had let someone in, so carrying a weapon seemed appropriate.
So I made the tea as he wandered from window to window. I made up a tray so that I could get back to the dining table and the words.
I placed the tray on a sideboard, away from the table. The tea was too hot to hold anyway.
Creed walked over and circled the table as he had the kitchen. It was in ever tightening circles until he was able to get close enough. He looked like he wanted to ask me a question. When he did, it was not what I expected.
"How long ago did your mother die?"
It was a question that sliced straight into my heart. "I think the deal was that you would tell me information, not the other way around."
I was happy to note that I had kept the emotion from overtaking my voice and that I had delivered the response without wavering.
He seemed chastised. "I didn't mean anything by it, ramina, I swear. I was just curious."
"Annnd, you're calling me that again, so you're batting zero for now, buddy."
He snorted. "A momentary lapse, to be sure." And then something wicked gleamed in his eyes. "Also, I'm not your buddy."
I raised my eyebrow at that, but didn't pursue that line though it was there dangling like bait. "My mother walked out into darkness about two years ago. I haven't seen her since."
To his credit, he nodded but made no other comment.
I gestured to the table. "Well, here are my parents' books. This is my dad's scriptures. Handed down to him from generation to generation, as he liked to say. I believe he came from a long line of preachers the way he talks about them, though he doesn't really talk much about his past. Just the present. Makes a habit of it. Ma was the same way. Only ever talked about the now. She was an herb witch and this here's her book, mainly. Though my dad also took to drawing in it after Ma walked."
I touched it and turned to a page my dad had drawn in, versus the herbs that my mom drew. Then I flipped to the page that had been torn. "This here was a fresh tear, and I hadn't noticed it until the other day. Then my dad finally showed back up yesterday, and if the townsfolk were to be believed, it was like he was running one moment and then bam, stopped suddenly as if he'd been struck. From dead run to dead stop." The look on his face before Ms. Zorah put her hand upon it bloomed fresh in my mind. I shook it from my memory.
"So," I