The trickster swallowed and then slowly freed the top button of the lucky one’s shirt. The fabric sighed and whispered as a slit of skin was revealed.
It was soft, satin-smooth, and tasted like a warm peach left out in the sun. The trickster trailed his finger along the horseshoe-shaped divot at the base of her neck and then leaned forward to dip his tongue into the depression.
The lucky one dug her hands into the trickster’s hair and kept him against her while he freed another button. A sliver of skin, the top of her breastbone, a peek of lace. The trickster’s lips feathered over the flushed heat of her skin.
A soft, shuddering sigh, like the wind gliding over a falling flower petal, left the lucky one’s lips. At the noise, the trickster glanced up, his eyelids heavy, his gaze sunstroke-hot.
“Luvic.”
After that, the wind knew there wouldn’t be any words for a long time. Only “I love you” or “I need you” or “don’t ever let me go.”
The trickster focused on the lucky one with a desperation and an intensity that swept the wind along like a summer monsoon. He rained over her, pouring himself onto her, like water drenching parched desert soil. In the desert, when the rains finally came, the sand sighed and moaned and soaked up as much water as it could. And then, when it couldn’t contain anymore, a flash flood swept through, obliterating everything in its path.
The trickster was a summer storm, a flash flood, and the lucky one was his riverbed.
The wind hummed, vibrating, ravaged by the storm.
And then, finally, the monsoon calmed, the flood washed away, and the trickster lay with the lucky one on a long velvet couch. His chin rested on the lucky one’s head. She was tucked on top of him. He stroked her hair and ran his hand over her naked back. The trickster’s pulse had slowed. Their heartbeats thudded in tandem.
The lucky one ran a finger over the trickster’s scarred, mottled gray forearm. The gray had spread further than the last time the wind saw it. Now, it reached past the bend of his elbow.
“Tell me,” she said.
He sighed. “It’s nothing.”
“I can feel the wrongness of it. Tell me.”
The wind whistled at the harshness in her voice, then it trailed down the couch to explore the contents of the apartment.
The trickster let out another long breath and asked, “You know the jackaltooth?”
“Nasty beasts. They killed Mari.”
The trickster made an affirming noise, so the lucky one continued.
“The Bards created them to guard their home. They’re made of a host of creatures. Jackal, wolf, lion?—”
“Human,” the trickster said.
The lucky one went to push herself off his chest, but the trickster tightened his arm around her and held her close. “I can’t tell you if you look at me.”
“All right.”
He closed his eyes. The wind didn’t look either. Instead, it trailed over a pile of the lucky one’s clothes and a bag of makeup. It sniffed a bottle of perfume—lemon verbena, grass cuttings, and wet gravel. It sneezed.
“Saying the jackaltooth are a hybrid of animals is just a story. The first jackaltooth were actually . . .” His hand paused on the lucky one’s back. Then, after a moment, he started stroking her again as if reassuring himself. “Trillipton Bard’s children.”
The lucky one stiffened, but the trickster kept on.
“He had eight children. He was a tyrant. They plotted to overthrow him—as you do—and he found out. Because he had a sick sense of humor, he decided to give them a choice. They could die, or they could serve him. Two chose death. Six chose to serve him. He didn’t tell them the caveat. They wouldn’t stay human if they served him. He used all his power, every last bit of it, to turn those six remaining children into monsters. His hounds, he called them. They were loyal to him like dogs are loyal to their master. When he died, his cousin became the new Bard and inherited his hounds. Jackaltooth, he called them. He conjured more—ones from illusion—and bred them with the original six. After that, every few generations, the jackaltooth weakened so much that a Bard had to become a jackaltooth again so the stock could remain strong. Sometimes, it was a punishment. A death sentence. Other times, it was seen as the noble sacrifice of a hero protecting the family. No matter why it happened, the result was always the same. A Bard who was infected with the original hound’s fur would become a jackaltooth within a few years. They’d lose themselves and become a hound. Loyal to the Bard. An animal. A beast. Meant to protect. To keep the line of monsters strong. That’s . . .” He shuddered, his skin cold and clammy. “That’s one of the Bards’ secrets. That our monsters are actually us.”
The lucky one pushed herself up so she could look down at the trickster, and this time, he didn’t stop her. He watched her as if this might be the last time he saw her. The wind knew the look of a man who thought he was about to face rejection from someone he loved. The boy wore it sometimes, although he hid it better than the trickster.
“Once you become a jackaltooth, you won’t be able to conjure? You won’t be human anymore?”
“No. I’ll be a jackaltooth until I die. A hundred, a hundred and fifty years later.”
Her skin bleached to the color of chalk. “Will you know? Will you remember yourself?”
