I grabbed my jacket from the backof the chair.
Fritz sighed as he looked at me, then at Hastings, who was staring at the empty chair where Presley had sat. "Have we picked an omega?"
Hastings stood up slowly. He looked out at the London skyline, then back at the desk. Finally, he looked at us and said, “Tell the pilot to prepare the helicopter. We're going to Yorkshire."
7
Presley
The pansies looked astragic as I felt. The Yorkshire drizzle and temperatures that made my breath visible inside the caravan would depress anyone.
"You'll perk up." It was a big fat lie, I failed them.
I watered them anyway, tilting the chipped mug over each bean tin like I was performing their last rites. The purple one had given up entirely. The petals curled inward, and the stem drooped toward the windowsill like it couldn't bear to look at me anymore. Fair enough. I was a lousy omega. I couldn’t even keep flowers alive, how would I nurture a baby living inside me.
No wonder the pack didn’t want me.
The yellow pansy's single remaining bloom wobbled in the draft seeping through the window frame. I'd stuffed newspaper in the gaps yesterday, but the cold found its way through regardless.
I was wearing three jumpers. Wool on wool on wool, like a human lasagne, probably less appetizing. The outermost one was cable-knit and belonged to my dad. It wasunraveling at one cuff, and still smelled faintly of him, or maybe I just wanted it to.
A knock rattled the caravan door.
I set down the mug and picked my way across the narrow floor, stepping over the bucket I'd positioned under the ceiling leak. The water inside had a thin skin of ice.
Lovely.
I unwound the length of wool I kept wrapped around the door handle. It wasn’t only a lock but was the only thing preventing the door from clattering like a skeleton's teeth every time the wind picked up.
I cracked the door open.
Maeve stood on the concrete step, cheeks pink from cold, dark hair escaping from under a knitted hat. She was wearing her café apron already, which meant something was wrong.
"Before you say no," she started.
"No."
"Presley."
"Whatever it is, no. I'm having a rest day." I gestured at my jumper cocoon. "Can't you tell? This is my loungewear."
Maeve's mouth twitched, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. She was pale underneath her wind whipped cheeks. Tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
"I need you to cover my shift."
I leaned against the doorframe, studying her face. "You're already wearing the apron."
"I thought I could manage." She pressed the heel of her hand against her sternum, grimacing. "Turns out I can't. Something I ate, maybe. My stomach's doing backflips."
She didn't look like food poisoning. She looked like she'd seen a ghost. The kind that follows you, the kind you can't escape by moving to a caravan park in the arse end of North Yorkshire.
I should have pushed, but I didn't. That was our unspoken agreement. She didn't ask why I talked to dead flowers, and I didn't ask why she checked the exits of every room she entered or why her hands sometimes shook when a car backfired in the village.
"Give me five minutes to find my boots." I stepped back to let her in, but she stayed on the step, arms wrapped around herself. "Or wait outside in the hypothermic weather. Your choice."
"I'll walk with you. The fresh air helps."
I found one boot wedged under the fold-out bed, the other was beside the door where I left it. After I pulled on my coat over the jumper situation, I grabbed my keys. The caravan groaned as I locked up, hinges protesting like an elderly person’s joints.
