Blood of the Covenant (bxb)

Chapter Thirteen: The Boy in the Forest

Tyler's POV

Darla leads me up an ornate, carpeted staircase and down a long hall. This place reminds me irresistibly of a hotel because it's eerily silent, completely muffled, despite all of its inhabitants. Do werewolves have better senses? Is that why everything is so soundproof?

Darla knocks on a door. Ethan opens it. He is upset again. I think he was just arguing with someone. But a spark of hope alights in his eyes when he looks at me.

I feel a sort of strange, alien curiosity at this. With him. What is he like, truly? What is it like to touch him, to kiss him?

I cringe inwardly, used to not letting myself think such thoughts. I'm used to shoving them away from my psyche with both hands, focusing on something else, moving on quickly so I don't make myself miserable. Or worse, out myself.

But this is a new situation. One where I can embrace these ideas. I don't know if I'll ever relax enough to be normal about them, though.

"I think you two should focus on getting to know each other," Darla says with a small smile. "Ethan, if you need help with anything else, please come to April or myself directly. Nothing good comes from putting a bunch of pups in charge of a bad situation."

Ethan manages a small chuckle. "Yes, Darla. Thank you." He looks up at me. "Want to come in?"

I can't speak. I just nod once, hoping it's not too obvious that I've been crying.

Ethan leads me into a small but cozy apartment. Something good is cooking in the kitchen. There are a few prints of artworks I don't recognize on the wall just inside the door. The display stretches from floor to ceiling, detailing a myriad of pictures in all ranges of color, detailing all sorts of subjects. They puzzle me as I try to figure them out. The pieces are busy, with plenty of elements capturing attention in both the foreground and the background, but the human figures are portrayed with clear Asian stylization, their bodies slender, their features wan and pale. But most of the Asian artwork I've seen has lacked these elements of background. The Asian artwork pictured in school textbooks usually only focused on a single subject.

"Vietnamese traditionalism," a low, quiet voice says from beside me. I look over to see a man I take to be Ethan's father, Minh. The elder Pham man does not possess the same gleeful, shining smile as the younger. He seems much calmer, more certain in himself. And so... paternal. Despite this pure insanity, despite the fact I know he hates me, I feel safe. It's something in his dark brown eyes, something in the way he carries himself. I find his presence soothing after so much chaos.

"The backgrounds..." I trail off, feeling dumb. I don't have a way to ask about it without generalizing all Asian art when I barely know the first thing about it.

Yet, somehow, despite my inability to communicate why I find this collection of pieces so fascinating, Minh nods. "When most Americans think of Asian art, they imagine ancient scrolls and vases. We painted, too. And I might be biased, but I think the Vietnamese did it best."

I smile at his prideful words. My eyes drift to two flags on the upper corners of this wall. They are small, maybe a foot in length, and are of a design I don't recognize. They are bright yellow, with three red, horizontal stripes across the center.

"Freedom and heritage," Minh explains, catching my eye. "The national flag of Vietnam is red with a yellow star in the center. But this..." He points to the flag nearest to him. "Is the Flag of Freedom and Heritage. The flag of the south. The flag of freedom and democracy."

I don't know what to say to this. I don't know that I could say anything that would pay adequate respect to his words, or to this flag.

I try to do the math in my head. Could Minh have been born in Vietnam? No, he is too young. Unless his parents left years after the war ended. Were people still allowed to emigrate from Vietnam after the war?