“Not much.”
Either he’s disappointed with his time on the lunar plane or he seriously doesn’t want to talk about it.
We walk for another fifteen minutes or so in silence until I can’t bear it anymore.
“So, uh, it looks like you’ve found a really great home at the Sanc.”
“Definitely. The Sanc really saved my ass. I owe Yoki and Mal and everyone there a lot. You wouldn’t believe how hard it can be out there as a rogue. You’d think packs these days would be more progressive, more welcoming. But they’d sooner spit on you and turn you away than consider letting you hang for one night.” He glances at me quickly. “For the most part.”
“I’m glad you found somewhere,” I say earnestly.
We walk a little farther. Up ahead I can just about make out some rocks and I wonder if that’s where we’re heading.
“And uh…have you met any nice wolves since you got here?”
Omar eyes me sideways once more, only this time he’s smirking.
“You have?!”
He shakes his head and is he…blushing?
“Okay, spill. Who’s the lucky wolf?”
“Nah, cuz, it’s not like that. I haven’t…” He trails off, staring into the distance. “Let’s just say I’ve got my eye on someone but that whole situation has about as much chance as growing moss in the desert.”
“Come on, you’re, like, totally smoldering—any wolf would be lucky to have you.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
Without warning he picks up his pace and we don’t talk about much else until we finally arrive at the rock circle. Unlike the circle at the Rocky Pack, this one is much bigger, the stones are large and smooth, rounded by millennia of abrasive dust and wind. They encircle a bowl-like crater in the desert, at the center of which Yoki is sitting next to a small fire, cross-legged in a meditative state, surrounded by all manner of trippy accoutrements—bronze bowls, large crystals, a set of bongo drums, a flute made from bamboo, and a metal platter strewn with what look like old wolves’ teeth.
We trudge slowly down the short incline until we’re standing on the flat circle in the center of the basin. Yoki doesn’t open their eyes, but their mouth tilts up in a corner.
“You’ve made it,” they say. “Ready to walk with the moon gods, Blood Wolf?”
“Here, drink this,” Yoki instructs, holding out a small stone cup.
They’re sitting in front of me, the fire crackling between us. Omar is to my right. Above the ridge of the basin, the sun is setting, the sky between the rocks is all pastel, burning orange and violet and pink. Behind me the deep navy of night is creeping in. Somewhere the moon is about to rise.
I reach out and take the cup. In it is some new herbal tea.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It will help you access the lunar plane. Drink.” Yoki nods and I glance at Omar for reassurance. He nods as well.
“Bottoms up,” I say, then pour the tincture down my throat. It’s sweeter than I imagined, almost like chamomile, but with the spice of cinnamon, and the herby-ness of nettles and basil. “Not bad. Does it come as a Frappuccino?”
“Now close your eyes,” Yoki says.
I take in our surroundings one more time: a thin ripple of clouds is hovering overhead, a sprinkle of stars are shining beyond, the sunset is warm but the desert cools as the light diminishes, the boulders rise around me like teeth and I’m in the jaws of some massive beast, about to be swallowed whole.
I know that sounds dramatic, but that tea must already be going to work because my head feels lighter and the sandy banks rising on all sides are quivering, like a gazillion snakes are slithering under the surface.
One more deep breath and then I do as I’m told.
“Concentrate,” Yoki says, exhaling as I close my eyes.
I breathe in through my nose and try to practice everything I’ve learned. I let my breath move slowly, filling my chest and expanding my stomach, although my lungs feel bottomless, like I could inhale forever and never stop, never stop needing more air. I try to tune my ears into the hum of nature—the wind, the dust, the faint chirp of crickets—and somehow everything is amplified. A mile away I can make out the scurrying feet of a desert mouse darting between yucca trees; under a rock another mile to the south a rattlesnake is contorting into a new twisted configuration. Somewhere a drop of water falls from the flower of a cactus and hits the earth, evaporating the second it touches the scorching soil.
