I answer him by wrapping my arms and legs more firmly around him. “I like it here.”
In response, he presses his cheek to my face again, the corner of his lips brushing the corner of mine for the briefest moment, before he gives a grunt, repositions his hands, and pushes himself to his feet while I cling to him.
“Then you can stay here,” he says, ambling toward the bedroom.
He carries me through the door and into the large dressing room next to the bedroom, keeping me close as he approaches the floor-to-ceiling mirror that sits against the wall at the end of it.
From the corner of my eye, I make out the treasures I left on one of the nearby shelves: a row of makeshift blindfolds from various sources, including my mother’s old shirt; the two feathers my father tore from my wings; and the jewelry box in which I deposited the page fromThe Book of Dark Magicthat my mother left for me.
I wonder if the page has become blank or if, somehow, it survived the death I wreaked on the rest of the book.
I’m not sure it would be wise to check.
I slide my feet to the floor as the keeper turns me to face the mirror.
Now that he’s standing behind me, I’m struck by how tall and muscular his new form is. More imposing than any other persona he has taken on before.
It’s astonishing to me that I don’t feel any sort of uncertainty or worry around him.
“Do you remember the first time you saw yourself?” he asks.
How could I forget?
“I thought I was looking at a stranger,” I say. “No, actually, I thought my reflection was an attacker.”
It was nearly impossible to recognize myself. Not only because I’d never seen my full body in a mirror before then, but because it didn’t match the way I’d pictured myself.
My legs were longer than I’d thought they were in proportion to my torso, and my body was skinnier at the waist and curvier at the bust. At the time, I wasn’t wearing much more than a ragged bra and underpants. Along with the black sash I took on impulsefrom the angels’ stronghold and now sits on the shelf next to the jewelry box.
“You were fierce then,” he says as he meets my eyes in the mirror. “Now you are even more so.”
“I feel more broken,” I say. “There are pieces I don’t know how to pull together. Family, that isn’t what I thought it would be. Adversaries, I didn’t think I’d face.”
“A pack who loves you,” he murmurs. “A life to make your own.” And then, he adds, “There is value in broken things.”
Like the weapon in the longhouse.
“Except a broken heart,” I say. “There is only devastation in that.”
“Maybe.” He tips his head. “Or maybe it can lead to new things. A new life.”
I squeeze my eyes closed. “How long do you have? Before I have to choose?”
“I can hold on for another day. Maybe a little more.”
I turn to face him, no longer able to contemplate that too soon, he won’t be able to stand beside me in a mirror anymore. Not if I don’t do something about it.
“How bad are your wounds now?” I ask. “The ones you aren’t showing me.”
He doesn’t evade. “Not good.”
“Then you need to rest.”
I wrap my hand around his and tug him toward the bedroom. Those too-soft pillows and blankets aren’t so repulsive to me anymore. Especially when I catch the way he stumbles just slightly as he follows me, along with the little hitch in his breathing.
Damn. I’m not sure how he’s functioning at all.
With a jolt of fear, I remember the way my mother woke up before she died. That last burst of strength.
