Slate Gray

Chapter 7: Reed Slate

The first year we were married, Veronica brought home six cats, ten kittens, two birds, three squirrels and five dogs. Every time she walked through that door with another stray, I had the same reaction: pride laced with indigestion.

Her huge heart was the reason I fell in love with her and her drive to help animals was to be applauded. But God damn, the cat hair alone was enough to kill a man.

Her strays were ultimately adopted out or returned to the wild, but then, a week or two later, she would reappear before me with the same telltale expression. Brown eyes wide and beseeching, hands clasped in front of her and a little pop to her hip.

"Don't be mad, but..." is how she always started.

"Canine, feline, rodent or fowl?" I would ask.

Then she'd fist pump and introduce me to the latest acquisition. Who, more often than not, proceeded to pee somewhere on my person.

Strays were a rotating part of our lives then, our little way of repaying the community since we had pulled back on slaying. Once you have a kid, it's harder to charge headfirst into a demon's den without fully considering the consequences. And community was important to us. Living solidly in the real world was what kept us from floating away on a hot air balloon of Hell fiends and long nights fighting Lows.

Plus, younger me was much more philanthropic, a champion of the good fight. He probably would have accepted Terry Han's offer of help in a heartbeat. Would've been suckered in by his earnestness, seeing a bit of himself in it.

But that version of me was much more naïve with much more hair. That lucky bastard hadn't yet wept over the broken body of his murdered son. Hadn't had to bury his wife less than a decade later. Now, I'm of the opinion that it's better to kick the strays to keep them safe rather than take them in and watch 'em die.

Digging my fingers between the console and seat of my truck, the current version of me fishes out my emergency stash of cigarettes, frowning when the count is off.

Damn it, Perrin. Looks like I need to find a sneakier hiding place.

Your kids are brats, Ronnie, I project into the void, part of the ongoing, internal conversation I've been having since I lost my best friend. How could you leave me alone with them?

The snow has ceased for now so I lower the tailgate with a creak and hop up on it to smoke, my not so secret, stress induced ritual. It's a recent one, as far as rituals go, but sometimes it's the only thing keeping my string of doubts from strangling me.

The white cylinder trembles slightly as I put it to my lips, calloused thumb sliding uselessly over the Bic lighter.

Ace thinks she's so clever. 'Nicotine flavored air', my ass.

Shaking it near my head for the telltale the swish of liquid, I try again and succeed in igniting the tip.

And don't even get me started on the other one.

The first drag calms me, smoke drifting peacefully into the frosty night, steadying my hand and I can almost hear my wife's response. They're your kids too, Reed. Unless you're trying to accuse me of immaculate conception.

Maybe in regards to Ace. Except for my eyes, she's Veronica's clone. But I suppose Perrin looks too much like me to deny her paternity.

Michael looked like Ronnie too. My first born. I thought I knew what love was before I met him. Convinced my heart had already reached capacity with what I felt for his mother. But when I held his dark, tiny head, his literal life in my hands, I knew the truth of love's infinite wisdom.