Keon
AS TIME CRAWLEDby, rain soaked his hair and trickled over his nose, neck, and the back of his jumper.
The creaking latch proved to be a side shutter on his house. The window remained closed and weathertight, but the wooden board offered protection from damage to the glass, an expensive commodity. Trying to explain to a human why they needed to drag a pane of glass into the bushes to cross through the doorway wasn’t in his plans for the future.
Home secure, Keon retraced his route from that morning.
After half an hour, Keon was flagging. Constantly pushing against the wind sucked at his energy, and visibility was low, the wind whipping dust and debris from the forest. Thunder rumbled overhead, replacing the lightning.
Keon had secured shutters and doors banging in the breeze. He’d helped an older man fight the wind to secure his home for the remainder of the storm by hammering in nails to the two doors that refused to shut. As he walked to the last secure hiding spot of the bunker, crossing into the west of the village, a scream joined the latest rumble of thunder.
Raised voices gave direction, though it was difficult to remain upright. He’d been hunched over, in the hopes of buffering the blast of cold wind. Thank the Mother he hadn’t risked venturing out as his m’weko. As big as the beast was, he was lithe and made a smaller target, easily overwhelmed.
Keon followed the shouting to Eliseo’s home, where he’d lived alone after his parents died years ago. Putting his shoulder to the door barricaded against the wind, Keon forced his way inside and shoved a bookcase against the door to shut it. Inside, he scowled at a group of five teenagers making use of Eliseo’s absence. The various glasses, bottles of wine, and the familiar smell of weed from Simeon’s wilder days assaulted him.
“Not a word,” he warned, raising a finger to stave off excuses. Two girls occupied the sofa, and three stoned boys stood at a window broken by a fallen tree branch. He pointed to the girls. “Use a sheet to protect your hands and collect the broken glass.” Keon walked to the branch currently invading Eliseo’s house. It was impossible to secure the house with half a tree sticking through the window, but a familiar leather guard, wrapped around a ceremonial sword, made his breath hitch.
Simeon’s sword.
Cursing and thanking Eliseo for keeping the weapon, no doubt for sentimental reasons, Keon hefted it from the corner by the sofa and unsheathed it. Still sharp. Good. He weighed it, wiping his wet palms on his trousers. With one test of its weight, he swung it into the branch, splintering the wood. He had a damn hard time dragging the sword out the groove, but the third strike cracked it, and the branch fell to the floor.
“Oi!” he shouted over the muttering and the wind, pointing to the boys. “Board this hole and put the other bookcase in front to keep out the wind, the cold, and secure the window. It can be fixed when the storm is over.”
The boys exchanged uncertain glances, barely comprehending his orders, then snapped to it. Keon shook his head, replaced the ceremonial sword, and swung the strap over his head. He didn’t trust it here, with these degenerates.
Staying to oversee the job, he waited until it was completed and grabbed the stash of weed lying on the floor, ‘accidentally’ stepped on the wine bottles, intending to replace Eliseo’s carpet, and headed for the door. “Behave yourselves and don’t break anything. You can explain to Eliseo what happened, and work off the cost of damages. You idiots ignored the warnings about the storm, and now you’re stuck.”
Leaving them in a safer environment than they deserved, Keon hoped the rest of the village had been smarter. The weight of Simeon’s sword made him nostalgic. He never thought he’d miss his big brother, but he’d loved to have seen him knock their heads if he’d walked into Eliseo’s home?or his marital home?to find them loitering. Knowing Simeon, he’d be more likely to have a smoke and join in.
Yet, the sword proved he’d had honour. Someone had loved him enough to reclaim it and keep it safe. A memory to be cherished and remind Eliseo of his true mate. A legacy Simeon hadn’t deserved but confused and warmed Keon’s heart.
*
AS HE OPENEDthe door to the bunker beneath the podium, the smell hit him. Male pheromones. A stranger. Hopefully the missing boy, Milo.
Shutting the door, Keon descended the steps and filled his lungs with the strange but soothing scent of clover and honeysuckle. With every step, the smell grew stronger and the darkness gave way to flickering light. Whoever was here had the presence of mind to light candles, and the underlying hint of beef jerky suggested they’d eaten. One smart m’weko.
Keon emerged into the open room, fascinated. A m’weko,tightly curled in on itself, lay beneath the bottom shelf of the bookcase by the wall, shivering in the cold, yet buried beneath a woollen blanket. Intrigued, he took another step, and two eyes popped open.
He’d never seen a green so startling. Like the ocean caught in a perfect storm; sea green with a brown lace overlay, swirling pools of mystery and magic. They stood out in startling relief to the unusual white of the m’weko’s coat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a white m’weko—snow white, pure and unmarked by a single blemish.
“Hello, beautiful,” Keon said, tugging the thighs of his jeans to let him crouch in the wet fabric. He cocked his head to catch green eyes and extended his hand. “It’s safe, little m’weko. You can come with me, and I’ll take you to safety.”
The m’weko shuffled backward, tucking itself further beneath the shelf, frightened eyes trained on him as if afraid of an attack.
He looked and smelled terrible, but he knew one way to soothe a m’weko cub when words didn’t work. Keon stood and stripped off his wet clothes, laying Simeon’s sword by the stairs. Setting his clothes over an upturned crate, where they’d drip dry, he checked the pocketknife and handcuffs, which remained safely trapped in his pocket by the wet fabric and unseen by Milo, who might misinterpret them.
Stripped naked, though bloody freezing, Keon let the shift happen. From human to m’weko, he probably went from intimidating to terrifying. One step in his m’weko body brought an unexpected reaction. A bark erupted from the huddled cub, a warning not to get closer.
Keon kept his gaze trained on the cub and used the only communication device he had: his voice. He chuffed and took a step, refusing to stop when the m’weko barked another fearful warning. Emerald-green eyes gazed from the darkness under the shelf as he moved closer and the m’weko retreated.
If this was the runaway, Milo probably feared being scolded by Thatcher. If he’d escaped kidnappers, he wouldn’t know whether to trust Keon. Either way, he had limited space to escape and fewer choices. Eventually, he would face Keon’s greater strength and speed.
With sure, unfaltering steps, Keon advanced, shoved his nose beneath the shelf, and briefly made contact with fur, but the m’weko curled tighter, quivering. Using human logic and m’weko strength to figure this out was frustrating. He couldn’t fit beneath the shelf, and Milo could last the duration of the storm, having recently eaten.
Don’t hurt me.
*
