Condemned

36 | Jael

I can't hold my breath any longer.

Just as my lungs burst open, beyond my control, there's a specific sort of rumbling that everyone in the world today would immediately recognize.

"It's about damn time," Ivy answers the call, and then listens.

Her feet shuffle a bit. She paces in a new direction as the caller squawks on. Speaker phone isn't required for me to know who it is. She's talking to Prue. The tone of voice is unmistakable. Unfortunately, most of her words are lost.

"No, not yet," Ivy replies and then pauses, as some bad news sinks in. "What do you mean they're leaving?"

Prue goes on to explain. This is conjecture, but it probably goes something like this. . .

The Maleceks could only check their Rolexes and listen to excuses for so long. They've decided that they're unimpressed with the operation the Fowlers are running. They're embarrassed for them and are tired of waiting for them to get their shit together.

While this is all being relayed, Ivy treads toward the barn door. The voices fade, and the footsteps end abruptly. Sam and I are left in silence.

It's not a good idea to move, though. Is Ivy still convinced we're here somewhere? She could come back at any second and conduct a more thorough search. I'm almost positive she caught a glimpse of me outside the barn earlier, but, if she knew exactly where I went, this would be over already.

About ten minutes go by. Ivy doesn't return. Sam capitalizes on the opportunity, flipping back the sleeping bag, so we can at least breathe some fresh air.

I intended to hold out a little longer, breathing in just her and the dirt that surrounds us. I may not be perfectly comfortable—there's too much trash crammed next to my lower half—but I'm clinched in her grip, and I don't mind the scent. Of her, at least. She washed off most of Ishmael in the river. Hopefully, in every way that matters.

I am territorial, but I'm also reasonable and empathetic where it counts, and I'm already over it. I miss all of Sam's perfumy soaps, shampoos, and lotions, but the underlying scent of her skin is the same as it's always been. It's stronger, in fact. I can't seem to fear death when she's firing up every synapse, those hard-wired for creating life.

I've had a mate before, allegedly. At least that's what I was told. But, because of my human mother, I'm not sure that's biologically true. I can't claim I even believe in such a thing anymore. The mate-from-hell smelled adequate—the way a fertile female of my kind ought to—but that's where her appeal ended. Socially and politically, it was a disaster, and let me tell you, it ended worse with her than it did with Ivy, and that's saying something.

I was a loner for a while, avoiding any relationship. Many months went by, and I transitioned into a one-night-stand phase, the majority of which were with regular women. They sized me up by my appearance or what was in my wallet, and that seemed simpler and more successful than some of the supernatural ways I was judged—scent, species, pedigree, hierarchies, and so forth. My human preoccupation was, of course, frowned upon as well, but it got me through a very dark time. I never thought the scent-quality was as lacking as other wolf-shifters seemed to claim and then ignore. I'm certainly not the first to experiment.

Ivy was an anomaly. To some, she was considered a step up, and to others, a dip in the gutter. I'd call dating a witch an "acquired taste," but I got used to it and overindulged for a time, back when she was still trying to make me happy, too. 

Looking back, I didn't know what I really wanted or was meant to have—if anything—but now, as much as I'm capable, I think I do.

Sam's different. Special. She looks right, smells right.