“You are all corrupted, and no amount of barriers or wards will prevent the inevitable.” He ran his fingers over Austin’s leg. “This one is lucky, but you all have heard the voices. The coven knows when they see weakness, and they will come for you again. You will endure the ritual. Whether you fail or succeed, time will tell.”
“What happens if it fails?”
“Then each of your memories will be sealed, and your pack will remain with us.”
A feral sitting quietly out of sight padded over and handed the elder a smoking pipe. The giant werewolf drew in deep andexhaled a puff of pastels that sparked like a damaged electric wire.
“I do not know what past has been locked away in your friend’s mind, but whatever is there, you must help him heal. You are the leader of your pack, and your strength is their strength. If they fail, you fail.”
“Wait a minute—”
With a deep draw, he exhaled into my face. The last thing I remembered were two silver irises turning a deep shade of red.
If they fail, you fail. Your fate is their fate.
The muggy, stale air wrapped around my body like a still damp blanket that had been in the dryer, my bedsheets drenched in sweat. I examined my surroundings. Sluggish mosquitos made their way in and out of the screenless window of a run-down bedroom. A tan teenaged boy in faded overalls stood in front of a dusty dresser mirror, brushing the knots out of his unruly brown hair. He looked to be about fifteen and was a few inches shorter than me.
He stopped brushing and examined his chin, picking at the darker bits of facial hair that stood out among the peach fuzz. The most striking things about him were his eyes. One was hazel, the other a golden amber color. His appearance must have been unusual to him as well considering how long he stared at himself.
“Yer gonna be late,” came a female voice from down the hall.
“Why do I gotta go to school, Ma?” the boy asked, dropping the brush onto the scratched-up wood of the dresser as he walked out of the bedroom.
Confused, I jumped from the bed and made my way through the old, wooden house until I was in a small kitchen with a rusty, cast-iron wood-burning stove. The boy sat at a crooked table, and a young woman with long, red hair and fair skin walked over to him while holding a plate. It held a single hoe cake with a tiny dab of butter.
“Hello?” I asked, trying to get their attention, but neither seemed aware of my presence. I walked up to the woman and waved a hand in front of her face, but she walked through me as though I were made of mist before setting the plate in front of the boy.
“You should be lucky,” she said, turning back to the stove. “Your pa left us just enough to get by, and you should finish yer education.”
“Ain’t no point. You can be an educated war hero in this country and still die not havin’ enough food.”
The woman dropped a bowl in a wooden tub filled with dingy water. “We may be hungry, but we ain’t starvin’. Yer pa’s parents came to this country from real poverty, and even the worst times here don’t compare to other places. We’re free here.”
“Free to starve.” The boy quickly devoured the fried dough and stood from his chair. “If this is the best there is, then I don’t want to be a part of it no more.”
“Roscoe!” the woman shouted as the boy darted from the house, letting the door slam behind him. Even though I’d heardRoscoe, she’d uttered something else. Roscoe wasn’t his real name, but I couldn’t understand what it was.
He was so different, not just physically, but in the way he spoke. There was this anger as well as hopelessness. It was as though I could feel his every emotion. The room faded and I followed the boy along a dirt road with a dried-up cornfield on one side and dying rows of sorghum on the other.
The sun blazed overhead. Roscoe wandered off the path toward the shade of a huge oak, the Spanish moss hanging from each branch like graying wizard beards. There was no wind and hardly any clouds to provide relief from the sweltering heat.
The boy’s stomach rumbled as he sat on a knobby root and folded his arms over his knees, laying his head against them. It was odd to see Roscoe so thin—way too thin. I could feel his hunger as a dull but persistent pain.
I sat next to him as he softly cried, and gently placed a hand on his back. This time, I was able to touch him. He was so emaciated that I could feel the bumps along his spine. The overwhelming misery coupled with the hunger and heat made me want to do anything to put an end to it. This memory faded as though I were in a play, and I was once again in Roscoe’s bedroom.
He stood in front of the mirror, a little older but just as lanky, his darker and thicker facial hair taking over the prepubescent lighter hair from before. Both eyes were now a deep gold, and he brushed the frizzy knots from his longer brown hair.
There were no sounds from the kitchen or any other part of the old house, only the incessant buzzing of cicadas from outside. Roscoe laid the brush on the dresser and slowly walked into the kitchen, me following close behind. The wood stove looked like it hadn’t been used in a while, and the young man leaned over the wooden tub. He stared out the kitchen window to a clearing in the yard at two piles of stones. As if following a path of habit, he sat at the table with an empty plate, pretending to eat.
“I ain’t goin’ to school no more, Ma.” Roscoe pushed the plate away and looked up at no one. “I don’t look right, do I?”
As I went to say something, he spoke again.
“This don’t feel like home no more. I always get this feelin’ like maybe I ain’t supposed to be here. I know you didn’t mean toleave me, Mama. You didn’t wanna leave me.” Tears fell from his face, pattering against the rough wood of the small table. “I sure miss you.”
My eyes watered as I approached him.
“Roscoe,” I whispered, placing my hand on his head. “Can you hear me?”
