Lemme just eeeeeeeeease back in WITH STORIES - Amongst The Mist
It’s a muggy night two weeks after school has started when Colter slips from his bed-which is Miss Koori’s couch, but still more comfortable and luxurious than anything else he’s ever had before coming to this place. They-well, Koori really-decided that it would not be a good idea to enroll him in the Academy yet, because he still has trouble following all but the most basic of conversations, can barely string two words together correctly, and his control is, at best, kitten-weak and easily fractured. They are all unfailingly kind to him here, though, especially Dane. The omega werecat has hardly let him out of his sight, and has slowly started to feed him foods that are more richly flavored instead of the bland meals he’s been fed since he was taken in by the weapons teacher half-way through summer. The only one who ever cared about him before was Man, and that’s because Colter was more like an impromptu bodyguard with no idea what he was doing, just attacking anyone who came close and showed too much interest.
He may not be able to speak properly yet, but he’s not stupid. He knows he’s being followed as soon as he’s a few yards away from the house. Dane is incredibly silent, even in his bumbling human form, but he is every inch a protector and predator, so his steps are silent and unhurried as he trails after Colter. The boy always knows, though, because when the humidity is as high as it’s been, it’s like the water in the air is attuned right into his nerves. He can taste the salt-sweet sweat of the teenager’s scent through the muggy cloak that blankets the surrounding landscape. He’s content to let his silent shadow think he’s clever, even if a tiny part of him is ridiculously grateful at the thought that someone cares about him enough to make sure he’s safe when he sneaks out. Not that he often does, because for the first week or two one of them was always with him, even if they were hidden in shadows. Benny, he has learned, has no such care for pretending, or playing the fool, because the winged boy simply sits in front of the couch and stares at him when it’s his turn to play sentry.
They don’t talk, really, and part of that is because he knows the Ossukuk-and what a difficult name that is to pronounce, even in the comfort of his own mind-still doesn’t trust him, and hasn’t forgiven him for what he did the day they met, even if Colter has managed to keep enough of a hold on his talents to not physically harm any of them since that day. The pipes in Miss Koori’s house have not fared so well, unfortunately, and she’s been nothing but kind to him, but he can see the tightness in her twitching shoulders and the arch of her eyebrow when she thinks he doesn’t see, and can always, always hear her bitten-off sigh when he gets upset and yet another pipe bursts to spray them down and flood the house. It’s gotten to the point where Benny won’t even be in the same room as him unless he’s on guard duty. Dane just smiles and tells him it will get easier, Teiran deliberately wears swim trunks at all times, and the others just wave away his sorrowful, desolate gazes with kindness and gentle, careful touches that they always make sure he sees long before they land.
He’s distracted by his thoughts, but not enough to lose his sense of his surroundings. When he walks calmly across the surface of the pond, thinking briefly of Man’s awe-filled eyes as he does so and trying to ignore the pang of emotion that stirs up in him, he doesn’t look back. It would ruin the whole game, and Dane would probably try to apologize in that way he has that makes it impossible to be angry at him, even though it’s none of his business knowing what Colter is doing out of his bed at two in the morning, walking into the woods behind Koori’s house. If any of them knew, he thinks they would be angry.
Maybe he should be angry, but the gentle brush of another presence against his mind all day, gentle and warm and coaxing, has gotten unbearable and he can’t help but follow it now. Teiran ambled off to bed an hour ago, and he’d stayed quiet, breathing deeply in pretend-sleep until he was sure no one else was awake. It’s silly to think he could have fooled Dane, though, since from what he knows of the werecat, the white-haired teenager lives in a big house with his werewolf family pack and watches over four six-year-olds when he’s not at Koori’s cooking for all of them and following Aiden around like a lovesick puppy.
The careful touches draw him deeper into the darkness of the woods, following with blind faith, until they suddenly withdraw and he stops. He doesn’t look back, or even glance around, just stares resolutely ahead and waits. To anyone else, he might seem bored, but the gentle tremble of his hands belies that falsehood.
“My, my,” a voice rumbles, rolling to him from out of the surrounding darkness. A ways behind him, he feels the traces of water in the air move as Dane shifts to his feline form. “What’s a young thing like you doing out here in a place like this?” The tone is light and playful, but beneath that are layers of steel and intent. His night-vision is nothing compared to the others who live in the house he has been welcomed into, but even he can see a man-shaped shadow detach from the darker shadows around it and step forward into a pool of moonlight.
The man is tall, though not as tall as Dane’s adopted father, Lark. He’s not as broad, either, but his lithe form and sinewy muscles emit a kind of dangerous aura that screams predator in every sense of the word. It sets off alarms that he deliberately ignores and he cocks his head to the side slightly, like a curious bird, and waits.
“No words for me, weanling?” That low, rich voice rumbles with amusement as much as it does with warning, but he doesn’t shy away when fingers bandaged in white cloth lift to press against his cheek, just below his right eye. “I remember that our last meeting did not go so well. And yet here you are. A brazen little thing that pretends to not feel fear.”
He cannot see the man’s face, because it is covered by a dark mask, but he sees those slate-gray eyes flash with delight as he arches one slender eyebrow and adopts a look of boredom, as if he’s asking why should I. He knows the answer to his unasked question, though. He’s not a fool. The trembling in his hands increases slightly as the other hand comes up and slides against the side of his throat, back around to cup the nape of his neck and bring him into a hug. Letting himself be pulled, he goes, while not entirely willingly, still without actively fighting.
“I’m glad to see you’re looking better.” The covered fingers behind his head slide up into his hair, petting gently. “They cut it for you.” He sounds almost disappointed. “I see they found you some clothes that fit, too. Well, mostly. I imagine the pups are bigger than you, despite the fact that you’re all the same age.” Muscles rippling smoothly beneath denim and cloth, his companion crouches down until they’re more-or-less eye level.
Reaching out slowly, as if he’s afraid any sudden movement will cause an unwanted reaction, Colter sees his fingers trembling gently before they touch against the other man’s masked cheek and move down to his jaw. His eyes ask a question that he cannot really voice, but the intent is clear all the same.
Can I see?
Those wicked eyes darken with something he doesn’t know how to name and the hand in his hair slides down, palm warm and heavy as it strokes down his spine. It’s an innocent action-well, as innocent as someone as dangerous as this man can be-and he finds that he’s not afraid. He should be, he should be running as far and fast as he can, back to the safety of Miss Koori’s house to hide under his blankets, because with a house full of trained and untrained supernatural creatures, he at least knows he stands a chance. Then again, if he really thought he was in any danger, the water all around them would come to his aid without him even needing to think about it. It’s something that he knows fascinates the others, especially Teiran, but none of them are any closer to explaining it than he is. To be honest, he stopped wondering a long time ago, because if it didn’t react the way it does then he would be dead many times over.
It’s because of the water that he knows when Dane moves, just as that hand settles against his lower back. It’s snatched away in an instant, the werecat’s fingers curling tightly around the man’s bandaged wrist at the same time a sharped, curving blade presses into the tender skin of the omega’s throat. It happens in a split second, so fast he doesn’t even see either of them move even though the water tells him they do, and he’s a bit surprised and disoriented to find himself staring at the masked man’s back and watching the moonlight shine over the glinting metal of the blade. It’s a dappled pattern, made so by the wind rustling through the leaves overhead. He’s transfixed, his eyes watching a single drop of blood well up against that perfectly-maintained steel. Dane bares his teeth, snarling viciously, and he gathers the water around himself unconsciously in response to that alarming sound.
“He’s a child,” the teenager spits; furious and not seeming to notice the weapon that is so close to his jugular vein. Another drop of blood wells up, almost black in the darkness of the night, and Colter watches as it slowly rolls down his throat. He’s naked after his shift, but doesn’t seem to care. His pale blue eyes blaze with challenge.
“Very good, cub,” the man replies, sounding bored, but there’s a tiny waver of anger in his low voice that makes the boy press up closer against him, peering around his side to look up at Dane. The teenager doesn’t look at him until a heavy hand settles in his dark, messy hair and deliberately ruffles it. Snarling again, the student presses closer, then, his free hand snatching at the man’s and shoving it away.
“Get behind me, Colter,” he rumbles, his icy voice brooking no argument. That angers Colter, because he might be a child, but he’s not an idiot, and he’s learned enough to not go flirting with danger if he’s worried about possibly ending up dead. None of them seem to realize that, though, so he calls forth the water from the humid air, forming it into something real and tangible, and pushes it between the two men; shoves them apart deliberately and does not move from behind the body protecting him.
Dane stumbles back, surprise flashing across his face, and on the heels of that is so much hurt that it immediately makes Colter repentant. The older boy is just trying to look out for him, and protect him, and he’s not sure what happened between Benny, Koori, and the masked man in front of him, but it’s given them all a deep sense of distrust. Vaguely, he remembers a prick of pain in his neck before darkness had overcome him, and then coming to laying in the mud with Miss Koori and Benny watching him. Ever since then he’s been subjected to little brushes of almost-thoughts and more solid guiding, the voice impressions mostly unfamiliar but the strong hands reminding him of Man, even though he knew they were not Man’s hands.
Glancing between them, he pulls the water to himself, letting it run over his skin like a gentle hug as he creeps toward Dane in little halting, start-and-stop steps. A big, warm hand runs through his hair again, the cloth wrapping feeling odd but familiar and welcoming against his scalp. He turns to look over his shoulder, pauses when he meets those dark, unreadable eyes, and bites his lip indecisively.
“Go, Colter,” he murmurs, urging him forward with a gentle push. “Dane is right. It was… inappropriate of me to call you out here at such an hour. I was not sure of my welcome, though.” That penetrating gaze darts up to meet Dane’s narrowed blue eyes, and from the way the cloth shifts against his jaw, the small dip where his lips are widening, the boy knows he’s baring his teeth. “From now on,” he continues, patting the curve of his skull before his hand falls away, “I will make sure that our meetings happen in broad daylight, so that your guard dogs do not need to worry about you stumbling around blindly in the dark.”
His voice is so cold, so cutting, that it makes Colter shiver. He wants to reach for that hand as it falls back to hang by the man’s side, grab it in his thin, tiny fingers and hold on, but Dane is already pulling him back with a hand on his narrow little shoulder. The touch is warm through his shirt, and comforting, but it’s not the same. At the moment, he’s too hurt himself to try and puzzle out why.
“You are not welcome here, and you know it,” his friend says, calm laying thinly over his rolling fury. His fingers clench down slightly, digging in, before they relax again as a tendril of water curls warningly around his forearm. He looks down as Colter looks up. Something on his face makes Dane, faltering for a moment, and then it’s gone and he’s glaring at the uninvited guest again. “Koori warned you.”
“She did nothing of the sort,” he hears, the anger from before tampered, but not gone. Instead, the masked man sounds cheerful now, as if he’s gloating over something. “I was instructed to leave my theatrics behind, but not forbidden from showing up. She already knows I plan on being in touch. I just never said I would go through one of you to gauge how he is progressing.”
“You would do well to do that from now on.” He’s behind Dane now, protected and feeling rebellious because of it. Haven’t they realized by now that he’s perfectly capable of protecting himself, even if he doesn’t do it consciously? “Koori may not see herself as such, but she is the alpha of this territory. Any further meetings will be done through her, and with her prior knowledge. As I am sure you are aware, this meeting will be brought to her attention.”
Dane turns away, steering Colter in front of him, and begins to march him out of the woods and back toward the house. Anger roars through him, hot and potent and familiar, and he wrenches himself from the werecat’s firm hold and runs back to launch himself into the masked man’s arms. He’s caught easily and held, cradled almost, against the bigger, stronger body. It curls around him, protective in a way that doesn’t make him want to bite, and he buries his face into the strong stomach in front of him and huffs unhappily.
“Go now, Colter,” he hears, and the voice is quiet and strangely tender. He’s moved away gently, the actions careful and precise in a way that tells him he’s not being rejected, and he reluctantly backs away until Dane’s warm hand touches his shoulder again. He stares, their gazes meeting unwaveringly, and he knows there’s a world of questions in his young, wide, fragile eyes. He can’t see it because of the mask, but he thinks the man smiles.
“Mist,” he replies quietly, nodding once. “See you soon, Colter.” And then he’s gone without a sound, as if he was simply never there to begin with. Turning, he lowers his head and follows after Dane, knowing he’s going to have to apologize for his actions but feeling too upset and worn-down to do so right now. He doesn’t make a sound until he’s back on his bed, the couch, and curled up under the thick blanket. It may be humid outside, the land still firmly caught in summer’s heated grasp, but he feels unusually cold.
Dane runs a hand through his hair gently, kind but not the same, and then turns to leave. Reaching out quickly, he grabs the werecat by his wrist and looks up at him. He can’t sign anything without having both hands so he just stares, his chin trembling, and Dane stares back. For a moment his eyes are guarded and unreadable, but then the tension bleeds from him and he’s back to being the kind, sweet young man who tends to everyone and cares for all of them, but none more than the cubs in his life.
“I know, Colter,” he whispers, a benediction, and then he steps away and moves to sit in the big, squishy recliner nearby and curls his legs up beneath him as he settles in. They both know that Colter isn’t going to be leaving again, and maybe he should be angry that the werecat thinks he needs to be babysat until he falls asleep, but he’s so profoundly grateful that he just lays his head down and closes his eyes, Dane’s soft humming lulling him into dreams as gently as water lapping unhurried at the banks of a pond.
Mist is a good name.