Mona: I'm in the village. Some party a friend from work is throwing. Why, everything okay? How are you?
I tell her everything's fine, just checking in to say Happy New Year and to have a good time. She doesn't reply after that. I don't have an address, but I don't need one. With a general vicinity, my wolf will track her down. I may not be able to shift, but I'm an alpha. The geas binding me to Deidre doesn't take away my natural senses. I'm stronger than most, and even without a general location, I'd be able to find her. This is just faster.
I drop the phone on the table. Now, what to do with Paulie? Deidre didn't say what she wanted me to do with him, didn't seem to care. It's the girl she wants.
"Please, just let me live. You can take the girl! Just let me li—"
Gripping his head with one palm, I slice my blade across his neck. His protests die swiftly. I wipe my blade on his sleeve and tuck it back into my ankle holster. A gust of wind from the open window blows the calendar on the wall, crinkling the pages.
I leave, stepping out onto the busy streets, my wolf chuffing at all the sounds and smells of New York City. We hate it here. It's not a natural place for wolves.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, dig up a map of the city, then begin the hunt.
Chapter 2: Mona
Iknew I shouldn't have come out tonight. Everything reeks of beer and cigarettes, and the disco lights Amy installed for the party are giving me a headache. I was mostly done with the night before it even began. But Amy asked me to come, and I feel like such a bad friend, always saying no when she invites me places.
"So anyway, I was telling him, if you don't get a vasectomy, I'm not sleeping with you. I amdonewith birth control, and I hate condoms. And do you know what he said?" Amy turns to look at me, incredulous. Her eyes get really big and she smiles wide, with all her teeth, then leans closer—she's already really close—and I can feel the heat of her breath and spit land on my cheek as she shouts, "He saidyes! Can you believe that? Halle-fucking-lujah!"
Amy squeals and claps right in my ear, and I wince against the sharp sound. I've always hated parties. The music is too loud. But the shouting makes it worse. She's standing right next to me but yelling like we're sitting across from each other in a crowded subway.
It's not that I don't like to socialize. I do. I just really don't like loud noises and bright lights. It's a physical thing, like a jarringpinginside my brain that zaps with every high note. But with every invitation I turn down, fewer come, and I'm sick of watching my social life circle the drain. So here I am, at one of the loudest parties of the year, pretending this is exactly where I want to be.
"That's actually pretty amazing," I tell her in a quieter voice, though she leans closer and shoves her ear in front of my mouth, and yells back, "What's that, hun?"
"A man doing the bare minimum. It's amazing, is all."
Amy cackles and playfully slaps my shoulder, which actually kind of hurts. I rub it while she continues telling me about her relationship with Eric, the tall, lanky dude who just left to get more ice. He does seem like a good guy. Vasectomies and ice. What more could a girl ask for?
That's not jealousy pinching my heart. Nope. Not even close.
And when she tells me about breakfast in bed on her birthday, I offer my congratulations on finding a unicorn, and she laughs like I'm joking.
My life is good. I'm alive. I've got a lot to be thankful for, and it's okay I haven't found love, or even like. I've got friends. I've got a job and a roof over my head. That's a lot. That's more than a lot of people have. I should be grateful.
Iamgrateful. But maybe a tiny bit jealous, too.
I'm feeling better than usual today, but I've never felt well enough to have marathon sex like Amy does, let alone maintain a boyfriend for longer than a month without him losing interest. Definitely not well enough to inspire said hot boyfriend to get a vasectomy so I don't have to take birth control, so I can't really blame myself for being a little jealous.
It's hard when you're exhausted every single day, no matter how much sleep you get or how many doctors you see. I've beentested for everything under the sun, and no one knows what's wrong with me. I'm sensitive in a lot of ways—sound, for one thing, is too sharp, especially in crowds like this. I have this ridiculous need to be cuddled in blankets. I love soft, small spaces, so I hate leaving the comfort of my apartment. I'm constantly tired, my limbs feel like heavy rocks. And I like sex, but the energy it takes to please a partner, embarrassingly, is not something I'm great at, so I live vicariously through people like Amy, who don't know the meaning of TMI.
She starts talking to someone on the other side of her as we lean against the kitchen counter. The tiny apartment is packed, but she lucked out living here. The building is full of mostly twenty-somethings, so every apartment has its door open and it's one big rager. Amy, all her friends, her neighbors, their friends, along with random people who pass the crowd spilling onto the streets and sneak in for free booze, have taken over the place. It's fun.
I'm standing here, smiling awkwardly, pretending this is my idea of a good time. Totally fun.
If I could turn the music down and replace all the alcohol with something less pungent, maybe ask everyone to shower off their body spray and dim the lights, all my senses could relax and then I'd really have a good time.
I snort to myself, then look around. I can do this. Iwantto be here.
I'm so tired of being alone.
Not just alone, butlonely.
Fortunately, I don't know a lot of these people, which means they don't know me. They don't know that while I might be out partying tonight—drinking soda and snacking on bonbons—I could be in bed for days to make up for it. That I skip bars, dinners and shows so I can lay on my couch and watch TV because I can barely move. They see a twenty-five-year-old inher prime, who's friends with someone like Amy, the life of the party, and that I must be the same.
They don't know that in the last couple of years, my exhaustion has only gotten worse.
They see a waifish woman with vibrant red hair, freckles, high cheekbones and a pretty face, and assume I'm the one everyone wants to hang out with.
