War and wildfire are the same, in the heat of the moment; forces too big to comprehend, impossible to control. It doesn’t matter. The only thing he needs to control is himself.
When knowledge and reason fail, sense and instinct are there to take over. That old, primal part of himself, that smells the wind and knows when danger is close. The part that snarls defiance at the world, that will fight tooth and claw to protect his own.
The burn of smoke in his throat. He leads the pack. He gets the job done.
And again, that blurring of meaning, thought translating imperfectly into words:I/you/we have always been us/you/here.
Buck breathed out, smoke on his tongue. Warm dampness curled over the back of his neck. He couldn’t tell if it was another breath, hot and panting, or just steam.
“Maybe,” he admitted.
You/we listened to me/us, then.
“Because I could trust it was me! My own goddamn mind. Not some motherfucking supernatural parasite.”
Was that the warmth of the wall at his back, or the body heat of a vast predator?
I/We am/are you/us. We have always been us. You/we are just more aware of us/yourself.
Buck clenched his fists, as though he could physically cling to identity through sheer cussedness. “I never asked for this.”
The cool, pitiless stare of a predator.That does not matter.
“I don’t want it.”
That does not matter either.
“What does fucking matter, then?”
You know what matters. We know what matters.
He did. It was stamped into every cell of his being, as undeniable as the monster.
“Honey,” he said softly.
Her name echoed through his blood. It was there in the animal’s answering growl; in the rustle of its wings.
Honey.
Still, he held on, unwilling to surrender. “So, what, that’s it? I’m just supposed to roll over and surrender the last shreds of control, because I want her and that’s the only way I can have her?”
No.
He actually twisted round to look over his own shoulder, as though the beast was indeed sitting behind him like a fucking golden retriever. “What?”
There was nothing there, of course. It looked at him anyway.
Stop thinking about what you want. Think abouther.
Honey.
Honey naked, coming undone around him. Her teasing smile, her goddamn glorious eyes. Honey catching his eye over the breakfast table, lips pressed tight to hold in laughter at some accidentally ridiculous thing a kid had just said.
Honey in the summer sunlight, splashing through the lake, surrounded by rainbow droplets. Her head against his shoulder, looking up at the stars. Her genuine, open delight whenever one of campers finally mastered the climbing wall, or threw a pot just right, or brought her a handful of carefully gathered treasures.
Honey, arms full of unexpected bear, face alight with wonder. Her gaze tracking Rufus and Beth across the sky, wonder in her face; wonder, and something else, too. She was good at hiding her feelings, too good, but he knew her now. With the clarity of memory, he saw the shadow across her eyes; the buried longing.
Honey, her voice shaking as she told him she had to leave. The bleakness behind those words:I love this place too much.
