Page 77 of Bewitching the Wolf

I need to tell Mom I’m dating a wolf, that it’s serious and that means—eek—that the vixen-shifter community might have to put up with a male visiting from time to time.

And… who knows, in the not-too-distant future, a hybrid youngling with wolf blood running in their veins might be Mom’s first grandchild.

“I think I’ll go see Mom and my siblings,” I say.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Tippy-Anna.” Aunt Felicia hugs me. “Have a lovely morning. Give them my love. And don’t worry about your young man. He’ll be back in the blink of an eye.”

I like the way she calls him my young man.

And I sure hope her intuition is right about him being back in the blink of an eye.

I get on my scooter and ride through the quiet early morning streets. A handful of monsters are heading out for their early shifts, ambling to the elevators that will take them to the lower levels, which are dedicated to mining and industry, and the manufacturing of luxury goods.

And, more sinister, the munitions factory on level six. The bombs and missiles, the jeeps and armored cars, all being sent up and stockpiled in the Periphery.

For gods knows what evil purpose.

I shudder and put the thought from my head, focusing on the feel of the light breeze that blows through the tunnels as I ride.

When I arrive at the vixens’ lair on the other side of town, I leave my scooter outside and let myself in through the tall metal gate. The posts are all yarn-bombed with different-colored wools. Vixen shifters love to knit. And crochet. They make jumpers for the miners, darn socks, repair torn outfits, and crochet beanies for monster babies, all with different-shaped holes for ears and horns. They cook meals for aging monsters in the care homes and deliver them each day.

Vixen shifters are good women. Strong, and giving, and supportive of all species here.

Except fox shifters.

Nope. They don’t have much time for the fathers of their cubs.

I wonder if sometimes, it’s unfair, denying dads the right to watch their kids grow up. Even the boys are sent off to boarding school, and then, in early adulthood, to work, in the hope they’ll see the error of their ways. Become good fathers. Good husbands.

Few return, except during the annual rutting season. But they soon leave again. Maybe they just can’t live up to the high expectations of us females.

Maybe we’ve been too harsh. A tad misguided. Prejudiced, even.

Just like we’ve been toward wolves.

My stomach tightens as I walk along the pristine gravel path toward the main lair. Shit, how am I going to fess up to Mom?

No chickening out, Tippy Honeywell.

You are mated to a wolf and Mom and the whole lair are just going to have to suck that up.

I find Mom in the communal kitchen. A group of kids with bright faces, their hair all shades of red, from strawberry blonde to burgundy, are eating breakfast before school.

“Tippy-Anna!” Mom’s eyes pop. “What are you doing here so early?”

She hobbles toward me to give me a hug.

I frown. “Is your leg playing up?”

“Shocking arthritis in my knee, bone on bone apparently.” Mom grimaces. “They want to give me an injection of something, but I’m putting it off.”

“Oh Mom, I’m sorry to hear that.”

My four sisters, Lou, Meg, Millie, and Talia spot me, and they squeal and run over to greet me. They range from eight years old into their mid-teens, and their eyes are bright and full of curiosity. I am the only wixen of our generation, so my freedom is something they are fascinated by.

I’m soon smothered in a group hug. “Sorry I haven’t been to see you recently,” I murmur into their hair, which smells of apple shampoo and home. “I promise to come back more often.”

They nod and chat for a few minutes about what they’ve been up to. Then they skip away to get their school bags and head over to the schoolroom on the other side of Vixenville.