“What is it?” he asked, letting Usher hold on to him as he led the way to the door.
There was a tall but thin cloth bag against the doorway. As soon as Usher approached, he pushed the cloth aside to reveal Dnaran crutches. Made of steel or metal, they shone with silver brilliance and hope. Usher removed one from the bag to slip under Milo’s left arm, where a padded top nestled comfortably under his armpit, and another waited for him to rest his elbow or forearm on. He’d never seen how they were meant to be used, but that ledge made a perfect support for his arms, when they tired of gripping the crutches. It even had a rubbery handle that meant his fingers were less likely to slip free, as they had during this incident.
“They’re wonderful,” he gushed, stunned he’d gone to the effort of finding them.
Glancing away as if embarrassed by the gratitude, Usher replied, “You can’t keep hobbling around on shitty sticks your whole life. If I’m to be Alpha one day, I need you to be Beta. For that to happen, you need to remind Father you have some use to him.” He thrust the other crutch at Milo and left.
The words were a harsh, but true, reminder of all they faced. The reality of who their father was, what he expected of them, and how inept they were to survive in the world Thatcher wished to paint around them. No matter what anyone thought, they were painfully aware of their place in the pack, and in Thatcher’s plans.
Milo adjusted the crutches and carefully made his way to the armchair, thinking about how close they were to losing everything that made them a family.
They hadn’t been Thatcher’s children in a long time. From the moment Usher showed his strength and willingness to be shaped into whoever pleased Thatcher, he was designated as the ideal son to be trained with the hope of becoming Alpha after Thatcher’s death. When Milo excelled at organising and logical thinking, he’d been earmarked for a place as Usher’s Beta. Despite their many illegitimate or unclaimed siblings, by various mothers, they were the two who had proven most worthy. Until recently.
Now, Milo’s only bargaining chip was something he’d been born with. An ability passed through his mother’s line, that he prayed his younger sister hadn’t inherited. Not because she would threaten his usefulness to Thatcher, but because Haley was too impressed with the title of Alpha’s daughter to recognise the risks of giving him what he wanted.
Lifting the medical book from the table, Milo removed the notebook from beneath, where he kept notations on his condition, treatments and exercises. At the back, he’d begun doodling various images.
For generations, since the first heecha?the spirit people of Vihaan?took a m’weko mate, the ability to foresee the future had been passed onto the children of their line. Sometimes skipping a generation or flitting between siblings, it had fallen into misuse and neglect. Milo’s mother was the most recent, with her passing on the gift to him, but not to Haley. Though it was a power Thatcher coveted, but could never hope to control, Milo thought it a curse rather than a gift.
The images he saw were indistinct. They had no meaning until the event had happened, or long years after many images made sense of a single event. Sometimes the visions weren’t even for his timeline, and he could never hope to solve the puzzle of their meaning. In his mother’s time with the gift, she had resolved a mystery ten years older than herself, and Milo feared the same fate would befall him.
Turning the pages of the drawings he’d created, Milo pondered his future. The original journal, passed down through the generations, had gone missing a year ago. Well, not quite missing. Milo knew the story of its disappearance.
Alpha Simeon had attacked their pack in the dead of night, and discovered how important the journal was to Thatcher. Milo had been terrified he would try to use the information it contained to cause war or chaos, but his fears had never come to fruition. When Thatcher found Simeon in Milo’s room, with the journal in hand, Milo had known what would follow. One or both would use the journal as a lure to gain an alliance, fighting warriors, and an ally to gain strength in numbers for an unrealistic bid for power.
Terrified of the consequences, Milo took the journal while the two Alphas argued, gave it to a guard he trusted and demanded he take it to safety. Not knowing what might happen, during the raid by Simeon’s pack, getting the journal as far from anyone who would misuse it was his first priority. The guard had promised to deliver the journal to the Meskli, but Milo knew when he never returned he’d probably never made it.
Which left the journal hidden somewhere between Milo’s and Simeon’s pack lands, the location lost. Milo could only pray it remained lost or was found by someone with more honour than Thatcher. If he ever got his hands on it, Milo wouldn’t be able to control the havoc he wreaked upon the m’weko of Vihaan.
The drawings were a temporary replacement. A note of the vision he’d experienced two nights ago. Two m’weko fought on a raised platform, an audience screaming for blood. One was familiar, with dark brown fur and copper eyes like Usher; the other a stranger, with broad shoulders and shaggy brown fur.
Milo didn’t know what it meant or when it might happen. The next image could be connected or separate, a flash of lightning foreboding a terrible storm. The final image wasn’t clear, sound rather than vision, but Milo would never forget the haunting voice whispering, “Mikha,” in his ear.
The old Vihaan language had died out decades ago, though some phrases lingered in the older generations. This was one word Milo knew, and it sent shivers down his spine to think someone?in the future of his own life?would use the endearment meaning ‘my home’ for him.
Despite his father banning any mating with a male, and scaring away Milo’s fates-given mate, a brute Milo could never love, it seemed there was hope.
Fingers caressing the image of the word ‘mikha’ in a fog, Milo smiled a secret smile, eager to meet this man from his future.
*
Keon
The Park
West Side of Campus, Dnara
“YOU CAN’T COME.” His heart hurt, but Keon wouldn’t cave, eyes full of tears, realising this was goodbye.
Drew’s bottom lip quivered, heart breaking beside Keon’s. “Why not?”
Keon grasped the strap of Drew’s backpack to ease it from his shoulder, tears welling in Drew’s blue eyes. He didn’t look at Rylee as he took the bag from Keon, nodding thanks. Drew had always been stubborn, but this was one time it wouldn’t pay off. “It’s not safe. You need to stay here.”
Vihaan wasn’t safe for humans. People who didn’t understand the unspoken rules didn’t realise every creature posed a danger. No one knew if Drew would survive the trip with his lynx intact. The cats of Vihaan?kalou to a native?occupied half of Vihaan; he couldn’t be responsible for destroying one.
He’d never forgive himself if Drew was lost to his animal side or returned home without his lynx, Kerr. Drew had only recently recovered from Aniel’s sentencing and the nightmares of the last beating. Keon couldn’t risk Vihaan sparking unpleasant memories or robbing him of Rylee, his port in the storm.
A single tear fell as Drew avoided his gaze. He hugged Keon tight, whispering, “I won’t lose you.”
