Vinegar Bees
flowers & teeth.
By the time they had finished dinner, Maylee was fairly confident she had committed the new names to memory (Allison and Bug were simple enough to remember; Leviathan she engraved into her mind through his ironically diminutive stature; Edwin was a fairly large man, and long, long ago, she had had a neighbor who called himself "Big Ed"), though that was about all of the information she had been able to glean. The rest of the space had been filled with small talk, idle chatter that Maylee found herself woefully incapable of contributing to in any meaningful way. How could any of them manage to swallow their distress and carry on as if everything were normal? Surely they felt the mounting dread as powerfully as she did as the sun dipped lower in the sky, that inimical moon waiting hungrily in the wings. They must have had a far greater fortitude than her, all of them—Maylee felt a little nick of shame at the thought.
When dinner had wrapped up and the group began to make its way to the study, Maylee jumped swiftly up at the opportunity for a change of scenery. By now, she could see the moon leering at her through the pristine windows, and that familiar tightness had migrated to her lungs, taunting her with the possibility of cutting off her airflow at any moment. She was trembling at every extremity, including the ends of her braided pigtails, and even the minuscule amount of tension that leaked from her feet as she followed the group to the study was an immense relief.
Outside, a breeze rippled through the trees, and amid the faint rustling of leaves, Maylee imagined she could hear a low, hoarse whisper:
Something wicked this way comes.
She froze, darting a glance over her shoulder toward the window, as if she expected to see a milky-eyed old man standing there—but it was only her reflection that greeted her.
Except that it wasn't. For a split second, Maylee was staring at a figure that was both her and someone else, one of the uncanny images of herself that she had seen in that haunting dream—all of her features arranged just slightly wrong—and then she blinked, and the image disappeared in the quick snap of darkness. Only a pallid portrait of her own trepidation stared back.
Forget it. You're just stressed, she told herself firmly even as she doubted it, and quickly, Maylee caught up to the others as they descended a stairwell to the study.
Indeed, the study was as lavish as the rest of the house, packed from ceiling to floor with shelves near-to-bursting with books. Mouth hanging slightly ajar in awe, Maylee found herself wondering how long it had taken to amass such a collection, how much money had been invested, whether all of the books had even been read—how many years would one need to read each of these tomes cover-to-cover?
Again, Devlin offered his hospitality, inviting the others to partake in an eclectic collection of spirits sparkling in the firelight. Maylee dug her teeth into her lip, troubled—she couldn't deny the thought of blunting her mind with a few stiff drinks was an appealing one, but now wasn't the time to be getting drunk—she was finally, finally about to get some answers. She needed to focus.
There was a muffled clamoring upstairs as (she assumed) more guests arrived—Devlin had said there would be one more group, right?—and Maylee faintly traced the sound of their footfalls as they walked through the dining room and then began to descend the stairs themselves. She glanced briefly at Devlin to see if he had noticed the newcomers—he could be distracted sometimes, Shia had said—and by the time she again turned around, the new pair of travelers had made it to the bottom of the stairs.
Oh—
Something caught in her chest, a thick net entangling a school of fish.
No, it can't be—surely it's not—
Her mind was reeling at the sight of one of the newcomers, a tall, fair-haired man with a severe manner about him. There were a few heartbeats of desperate denial—the world had no shortage of tall, blonde men—but the longer she held the figure in her view, the more irrefutable it was that it was Papa's old friend, Leif, standing before the group.
A thick, heady nausea pulsed in her stomach. She had joined Papa on many of those visits to his friend, had grown affectionate towards the man the way a child might an uncle. She had missed him, to be sure, and a resurgence of guilt swam through her at her failure to keep in touch over the last three years—but the truth was that Leif was tied too indelibly in her mind to Papa for her to bear. There was an undertow of shame, too—if she hadn't been so weak, perhaps the man she called Papa and Leif called friend would still be here.
Even if Papa wasn't here, though, Leif clearly was, and already the tears were beginning to climb her throat. She was keenly aware of the sheer number of bodies filling the room as she stumbled against gritted teeth (in the rush of feeling, she noticed the sensation of fangs trying to tear their way through her gums) and better judgment toward where Leif was standing.
Not here. Not in front of everyone else.
For a moment, she simply stood stricken in front of Leif, her tongue heavy and dumb in her mouth. A thousand needles pelted her skin as fur tried to worm its way through.
She clenched her jaw so tightly it stung. Not now. Control it. Control it.
"It's... it's you," she said in a hoarse, tremulous voice. "You... look the same."
Deep breaths. Control.
"I... I guess I've gotten taller," she mumbled, and then a sheepish addendum: "...a little."
Breath came shallower now, a riptide of buried emotions threatening to smash through her like a monstrous wave.
Her voice broke: "I—"
A loud thunk sounded from behind her, and Maylee flinched. Her trance broken, she turned around, expecting to see that someone had dropped something in the early stages of intoxication.
Instead, a book lay on the ground, having seemingly toppled from its place on its shelf, but—there was no one standing in the vicinity of the shelf it had apparently thrown itself from.
Maylee blinked at it, her confusion dappled with an uncertain, tentative relief. Whatever had happened, the sudden noise had jolted her out of her emotional head rush. The fur beneath her skin remained buried; her tongue again felt capable of speech.
With a deep breath, she turned back around to face Leif, steadily meeting his eyes. In a voice that belonged to someone softer and younger, she said: "I'm happy you're alive."
When dinner had wrapped up and the group began to make its way to the study, Maylee jumped swiftly up at the opportunity for a change of scenery. By now, she could see the moon leering at her through the pristine windows, and that familiar tightness had migrated to her lungs, taunting her with the possibility of cutting off her airflow at any moment. She was trembling at every extremity, including the ends of her braided pigtails, and even the minuscule amount of tension that leaked from her feet as she followed the group to the study was an immense relief.
Outside, a breeze rippled through the trees, and amid the faint rustling of leaves, Maylee imagined she could hear a low, hoarse whisper:
Something wicked this way comes.
She froze, darting a glance over her shoulder toward the window, as if she expected to see a milky-eyed old man standing there—but it was only her reflection that greeted her.
Except that it wasn't. For a split second, Maylee was staring at a figure that was both her and someone else, one of the uncanny images of herself that she had seen in that haunting dream—all of her features arranged just slightly wrong—and then she blinked, and the image disappeared in the quick snap of darkness. Only a pallid portrait of her own trepidation stared back.
Forget it. You're just stressed, she told herself firmly even as she doubted it, and quickly, Maylee caught up to the others as they descended a stairwell to the study.
Indeed, the study was as lavish as the rest of the house, packed from ceiling to floor with shelves near-to-bursting with books. Mouth hanging slightly ajar in awe, Maylee found herself wondering how long it had taken to amass such a collection, how much money had been invested, whether all of the books had even been read—how many years would one need to read each of these tomes cover-to-cover?
Again, Devlin offered his hospitality, inviting the others to partake in an eclectic collection of spirits sparkling in the firelight. Maylee dug her teeth into her lip, troubled—she couldn't deny the thought of blunting her mind with a few stiff drinks was an appealing one, but now wasn't the time to be getting drunk—she was finally, finally about to get some answers. She needed to focus.
There was a muffled clamoring upstairs as (she assumed) more guests arrived—Devlin had said there would be one more group, right?—and Maylee faintly traced the sound of their footfalls as they walked through the dining room and then began to descend the stairs themselves. She glanced briefly at Devlin to see if he had noticed the newcomers—he could be distracted sometimes, Shia had said—and by the time she again turned around, the new pair of travelers had made it to the bottom of the stairs.
Oh—
Something caught in her chest, a thick net entangling a school of fish.
No, it can't be—surely it's not—
Her mind was reeling at the sight of one of the newcomers, a tall, fair-haired man with a severe manner about him. There were a few heartbeats of desperate denial—the world had no shortage of tall, blonde men—but the longer she held the figure in her view, the more irrefutable it was that it was Papa's old friend, Leif, standing before the group.
A thick, heady nausea pulsed in her stomach. She had joined Papa on many of those visits to his friend, had grown affectionate towards the man the way a child might an uncle. She had missed him, to be sure, and a resurgence of guilt swam through her at her failure to keep in touch over the last three years—but the truth was that Leif was tied too indelibly in her mind to Papa for her to bear. There was an undertow of shame, too—if she hadn't been so weak, perhaps the man she called Papa and Leif called friend would still be here.
Even if Papa wasn't here, though, Leif clearly was, and already the tears were beginning to climb her throat. She was keenly aware of the sheer number of bodies filling the room as she stumbled against gritted teeth (in the rush of feeling, she noticed the sensation of fangs trying to tear their way through her gums) and better judgment toward where Leif was standing.
Not here. Not in front of everyone else.
For a moment, she simply stood stricken in front of Leif, her tongue heavy and dumb in her mouth. A thousand needles pelted her skin as fur tried to worm its way through.
She clenched her jaw so tightly it stung. Not now. Control it. Control it.
"It's... it's you," she said in a hoarse, tremulous voice. "You... look the same."
Deep breaths. Control.
"I... I guess I've gotten taller," she mumbled, and then a sheepish addendum: "...a little."
Breath came shallower now, a riptide of buried emotions threatening to smash through her like a monstrous wave.
Her voice broke: "I—"
A loud thunk sounded from behind her, and Maylee flinched. Her trance broken, she turned around, expecting to see that someone had dropped something in the early stages of intoxication.
Instead, a book lay on the ground, having seemingly toppled from its place on its shelf, but—there was no one standing in the vicinity of the shelf it had apparently thrown itself from.
Maylee blinked at it, her confusion dappled with an uncertain, tentative relief. Whatever had happened, the sudden noise had jolted her out of her emotional head rush. The fur beneath her skin remained buried; her tongue again felt capable of speech.
With a deep breath, she turned back around to face Leif, steadily meeting his eyes. In a voice that belonged to someone softer and younger, she said: "I'm happy you're alive."
( Tags:
Out Of Words
|
KodakWolf
|
bread-and-butterflies
|
Maeteris
|
Thropian
)
Out Of Words
|
KodakWolf
|
bread-and-butterflies
|
Maeteris
|
Thropian
)maylee song.
hunter | werewolf
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