His answer is a couple of heavy pants.
Maybe I spoke too soon about how well I’m doing because the moment I stand, pain shoots up and down my left side. Lifting my shirt, I find the same pale not-quite-skin covering Madeline cast over my wound last night. The witch said her Band-Aid would keep me together, stop the blood loss for now, but it was fragile and temporary. If I don’t find the original weapon or another fix, then the witch bandage will dissolve and need to be recast.
She warned that each new seal will last for a shorter length of time.
“How am I going to fix this?” I pose the question to Shrimp, but he only stretches in response, used to being my silent sounding board.
Outside of the bedroom, we step into a spacious, brightly lit sunroom I vaguely remember passing through the night before. I was in a zombielike state, relying on Shrimp to pull me after Griffith.
The wolf is letting me crash in his house.
Not something I ever would have expected the guy to do. As Carl’s best friend, Griffith was witness to much of my teenage fuckery, and even back then, I could tell how much he despised me.
Hells, I despise that version of me.
I know this offer of accommodation is only because of my brother. That I’m on a thin ice of generosity. If Griffith wants to kick me out on a whim, he can. But if he does, that’ll fracture his relationship with Carl. And as much as the wolf aggravates me, I don’t want to be the reason Carl is fighting with his best friend.
“We’ve got to be on good behavior,” I tell Shrimp as I let him out a glass door into an expansive backyard that eventually buttsup with the dense forest surrounding Folk Haven. “From here on out, we need to be perfect houseguests.”
My dog’s response to my declaration is to take a massive dump in the middle of the lawn.
“Note to self: find a poop bag,” I mutter, hoping I have a roll in my car somewhere.
Normally, I’m always ready to clean up after my dog, but we left in such a rush that I might have missed a few essentials. Hopefully, I can grab a plastic bag and sneak back out here before Griffith notices the mountain of feces Shrimp just expelled.
Proud of how well he did his business, Shrimp kicks up a few giant clumps of grass, as if wiping his feet, then lumbers back to me, tongue lolling.
Since the day I went to the animal shelter in Nashville and found him sitting in a kennel, smelling like sewage and recovering from an ear infection, I fell in love. The adoration is mutual, and now—despite Griffith’s complaints—Shrimp smells as clean as a normal dog can, has a spotless bill of health, and sticks to me like glue. Whenever I put a leash on him, it’s only for show. Shrimp heels like it’s his job, never reacts to anyone more than a curious sniff, and is gentle to a fault.
My dog is a good boy, and I’ll defend him with my life.
When we reenter the house, he stays at my side as I head in the direction I think I recall seeing the kitchen. Belatedly, I realize there are voices emanating from the doorway. I pause before crossing the threshold, not sure what I’m about to walk into and trying to discern if I’m ready for it.
The answer is probablyno, seeing as how I only feel equipped for returning to bed and sleeping another twenty-four hours.
But Shrimp needs to eat, and I don’t remember if Carl grabbed his food out of the trunk when he gathered my things last night.
“Come on, Clementine,” Griffith calls out to me a room away. “I’ve got breakfast for you and the beast.”
Did he read my mind?
As if his statement summoned the sensation, I suddenly realize how hungry I am, and for some reason I find the idea of entering the unknown less intimidating now that I’m sure Griffith is there.
Probably a sign that I’m still lightheaded from blood loss.
I shuffle forward, my fingers digging into the fur of Shrimp’s neck so I have support if I lose my balance.
What I find surprises me.
At a large wooden family-style table sits a group of people who look like they were in the middle of a discussion. Now they’re all turned to face me. But I lose sight of the eclectic bunch when Griffith comes to stand in my eyeline, his brow furrowed as he studies me.
“You look wrecked,” he says, the charmer.
And oddly enough, instead of bristling at his observation, I snort. “Glad the outside matches the inside.”
He frowns.
I try to pull in a deep, bracing breath, enjoying the fresh-cut pine scent that emanates off of him, only to wince when my expanding rib cage tugs on the barely patched wound.
