Blood & Wine

35 | Iris

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Changeling die. I coped my keeping myself awake—eating, drinking, talking. I did everything I could to prevent myself from falling asleep. I even asked a witch to help me, but she said that was above the magic she could do. I could set you on fire, she offered, a little drunk. You'll be so hot you won't think about what you saw.

What they saw, too.

For a moment, I was glad Mama Helen had put a magic dampening spell. All of the witches were drunk. All the werewolves were drunk, too. Calla and Jagger were both high on the front porch. They had become really close in the past two months, and yesterday seemed to bring them closer. He was Fynley's Second, and she was Eden's Second. They had worked very closely to plan the funerals.

Fynley would pay for how much it cost to properly bury them if that was what the families wanted—but, usually, they would sign off on a werewolf burial. We would burn their bodies, dressing them in some of their clothes and with an item from their Mate or someone they loved most—legend had it, they went to the Afterworld with those items, and when it was time to be reborn, it guided them back to their loved ones.

Dasher tucked me into his side. His face was drawn, and I had tried to talk to him, but he hadn't wanted to speak to me. He blamed himself for what had happened. If they hadn't have been looking for me, they would've never come here, he had told me. I almost got the Coven killed. I almost got Eden killed. I almost got Calla killed. I could've gotten you killed. Or Irene. The pack is dead because of me.

I tried to tell him differently—but it was, in some ways, true. They wanted him, and they were after him. Did that change anything? No. If they had been after me, after Fynley, after anybody else in the pack, we would not have done anything differently. He was as much a part of this pack as anyone else, even if he hadn't been officially sworn in yet. Nobody held it against him.

Instead, I had shrugged and directed the conversation elsewhere. If they wanted you, why attack the witches first? That's a waste of werewolves, and they would've smelled that you weren't there before they even got close.

We'd find out tonight when it came to torturing them.

Of course, Dasher and I would have to have the information related to us. Only Jagger, Calla, Eden, and Fynley were going to torture them. With Mama Helen there, too.

I had no idea why I was being sidelined. I was sidelined before Eden, too, but I was Fynley's best friend.

I was also drunk right now.

I leaned into Dasher's side. "Do you hear that?" I asked, cocking my ear to the side.

The faint thud of music. Someone yelled, "TOP KNOTCH BITCH ON A LIST DICK, THIS CITY GIRL SHIT CAN'T FLEX LIKE THIS!"

I laughed. "Who...?"

"Sounds like Leigh," Dasher said, a grin spreading across his tired face. "She's the only one I know that likes City Girls that much."

Leigh—she was nineteen, tall and curvy, and she kept her hair dyed crazy colors. As of yesterday, it was dyed bright purple, the curls all over her head. She was kind, and, indeed, I vaguely remembered her wearing a 'City Girls' t-shirt and hearing the music blasting from her earphones while she studied spells. Eden once asked her how she studied like that, and she said, Feeling like a bad bitch makes me perform better. A few days later, I heard Eden listening to City Girls.

"OLD COUNTRY-ASS BITCH CAN'T DRESS LIKE THIS," someone added, and I recognized this voice—Jagger.

I blinked. Jagger listened to City Girls? The only music I had heard him listening to was classic rock—then again, his Mate, Sarah, who was one of my good friends, loved Megan Thee Stallion and the City Girls. I hadn't seen Sarah in months; she was the only one who wasn't a werewolf that I did like.