Heart's Desire

Chapter 15 - Monty

The second Jake Nash dropped the name 'Mortaine' I saw we had trouble. Kit jumped like somebody had set off firecrackers under his feet, and the next thing I knew, a little white fox darted from his pile of empty clothes and shot away towards the woods like the hounds of hell were on its tail.

I didn't bother calling after him. In that state, he wouldn't stop 'til he ran out of steam. Under normal circumstances, I'd have let him go—let him run it out of his system, calm down naturally, and come back in his own time—but these circumstances weren't normal.

Somebody burned my parents' house to the ground, and—Mortaines or not—they could still be out here.

So I hadn't thought twice about Shifting and going after him. I'd stripped off my own clothes as I started to run; Kit might be able to shed his with ease, but mine would tear apart at the seams—or worse, get stuck on me. Nothing dumber than a werewolf strangled by his own shirt.

As I shed my last garment and took full form, Dane called after me.

"Monty, careful! Chase instinct!"

I barked in reply. Dane didn't have to tell me to be careful; I'd been careful my whole damned life. Ever since I accidentally broke Travis's arm while play wrestling when I was six.

I'd felt like such a monster. I'd run away and hid in the woods for two days, living off creek water and berries (it was fortunately summer at the time), until my dad finally tracked me down.

First, he'd cried and hugged me til I couldn't breathe (I hadn't considered that a six-year-old boy disappearing for two days would worry anyone) and then he'd sat me down and explained.

He told me that what had happened to Travis wasn't my fault, and that it wasn't my fault I was big and strong. But if I kept up that way, he'd said, I'd grow to be bigger and stronger than most anyone, most likely.

And that meant I had to be careful, especially as a Wolf. He told me my strength and size were like superpowers, and it was up to me to choose how I'd use them.

I'd chosen to use them sparingly. From then on, I was as gentle and as careful as I could be. The memory of poor Travis's four-year-old baby face scrunching up with unexpected pain, and then with fear, as he clutched his limp little arm to his chest still haunted me, even now, as I chase Kit through the tangled brush and densely packed trees.

In a little clearing where a seasonal creek runs—dry now, so late in the summertime—he tires and misses a step on the uneven ground. He stumbles, and I lunge for the 'kill.' Dane's right—my instincts are still there, still ready to rise with the heat of the chase—but they don't control me. They serve me.

I take Kit down in a gentle tumble, then hold him beneath my paws. I can feel his heart racing full tilt in his little fox chest, and his pink tongue lolls in his open mouth between sharp teeth as he pants for breath. For a while, he just stares, his black eyes wide and glassy as a creature accepting its fate. Then, gradually, he quiets, and his eyes slide shut behind white-furred lids.

When I'm sure he's safe and calm, I stand, releasing him and giving him some space to recover. My own heart still thuds fast and strong in my breast, and the muscles in my legs tremble a bit. It's been a while since I ran so hard and fast.

There's a big old pine nearby, with a thick carpet of soft needles under it, and I lay down against its wide, rough bole.

I rest my head on my front paws and watch Kit. After a minute or so, he gets to his feet and looks my way, his large ears laid flat and his long tail (just one, at the moment) tucked between his legs.