Greykin Mountain

| 25 | Trapped

⥐ ⋞ ☽ ⋟ ⥐

A scream pierced through the dark.

          It was happening again. That dream.

          Gunshots, yelling voices, and this time, Jackson heard a guttural snarl from the other side of the door.

          He lay there, staring at the flashes of both silver and crimson light glowing through the door's gaps. He didn't feel anything but curiosity despite the fact it sounded like a war was happening out in the hall.

          When his mother rushed into the room and slammed the door shut, however, Jackson felt happiness. He held out his hands—hands which belonged to an infant—and cooed when his panicked mother scooped him out of his cot.

          "It's okay, Jackson," his mother whispered, carrying him over to the window. "Your daddy will protect us."

          But it wasn't his father who burst through the nursery door. A man in black and purple vestments; the rosary around his neck was as silver as the crossbow in his hands, and every man behind him looked the same. The masks beneath their hoods possessed eyes purple and cat-like, and their glow sent shivers of fear through Jackson's small body.

          His mother wailed, the men moved nearer, and when the seamless white curtains flowed past his line of sight, with a flurry of yells and guttural growls, everything went black and silent.

          Jackson opened his eyes with a quiet, sharp breath. For a moment, he stared up at the stone ceiling of the room he lay in, the howling wind echoing outside its walls.

          This was the second time he'd had that dream in the past two days, and just earlier today he'd recalled a memory from his childhood. Why? He felt he understood the flashback—Damon's words had triggered his trauma, but he had no idea why he was seeing himself as an infant. Who were those robed men? Why did they look like priests and why were they carrying crossbows? What were all those lights? What did any of it mean?

          He huffed in frustration, dragging his hand over his sweaty face—he grimaced in revolt at its dampness and wiped his palm on his shirt. Then, he rolled onto his side and tried to doze off.

          But the indistinct conversation outside made it hard for him to settle. His curiosity wouldn't leave off, and he couldn't help but try to work out who was talking and what they were saying. He couldn't decipher a single word, though.

          However, that was when he heard Damon's voice. He couldn't make out his words, but the Alpha sounded irritated, and the voices Jackson had heard beforehand adopted meek tones. Then, the sound of shuffling, paws against stone, and crunching snow.

          Someone approached from outside.

          Jackson tensed as he sat up, staring at the door. He watched a tall shadow move around on the other side, and when the door slowly creaked open, he wasn't sure whether he should get up or ask who was there. Before he could decide, though, Damon slipped into the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

          Unsure whether he should act on his curiosity or anxiety, Jackson sat in silence and watched the Alpha make his way across the small, empty room and then slowly sit on the end of his bed—well, it was as good of a bed as he could make using what had been left in the ruins the pack were now resting in. He'd been lucky to find an old straw mattress, which he'd laid atop a few crates, and his blanket was a rather large red tapestry he'd pulled from the wall.