❝ Sheep abide by the herd complex; safety in numbers. When all are the same, no one can be singled out.
A fox among sheep is able to infiltrate the herd only a handful of ways: under the veil of dusk, or by clothing itself as the prey, shedding i...
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"I KNOWABOUT your family, and I know about Matthieu."
She stared at Jonah blankly— indecipherable— giving him nothing to work with. She wore the same mask when Celine's grandmother had confronted them, except this time, it was as if there was no face lying behind the cover. The girl perched on the edge of his bed was a stranger— unrecognisable. She held more resemblance to the notion that her entire personality had been plunged into the depths of a black hole. However, he did feel the mutual ardour they had once shared disperse, only the cold staying to offer its embrace. The longer his words lingered, the cooler the draft beneath his window seemed to get, bringing texture to his forearms.
"What are you talking about?" The previous life and character in her voice had all but vanished, along with her relaxed posture, which had earlier been slanted against his pillows. Her back straightened into a board.
Matter cannot be created nor destroyed; that was a law Jonah learned in one of his earliest chemistry lessons— so why did he feel like he was watching the trust Opal had for him disintegrate before his very eyes? The switch in her demeanour reminded him of a frightened animal backed into a corner, unsure as to whether fight or flight would best secure its survival. He'd soon find out which one she'll settle for.
"I know what he's been doing; killing people. After what happened at the lake, I knew there was something off when he turned up to school with a gunshot wound. And then I heard the story of La Bête du Gévaudan." Jonah searched her for anything— any sort of reaction to the revelation, no matter how slight. Only when he'd given up, readying himself to elaborate further, did she finally respond.
She laughed. She laughed at him as if he shared with her the most hilarious joke, but her eyes said different, faltering to be uplifted with the rest of her face; they had lost their vibrancy.
He noticed the plum bruise expanding on her jawline when she spoke. "Jonah, I don't know who you've been talking to, or what's led you to this conclusion, but I can assure you my brother is not a murderer." The plaited bracelet which she had been stretching, knitted into loops around her fingers, snapped, sagging limp in her palm.
Opal pushed herself off from his bed, leaving Jonah to feel the bounce of her departure in the mattress. What he says next is crucial. If he truly is dangling the truth over her head, it's only a matter of time before she bites down. "You don't have to lie; I've known the truth for a while now. And I know this isn't the first time attacks like this have taken place; they've been going on for centuries. The first recorded cases go as far back as the 1700s," he rambled, the desperation for acknowledgement gnawed at him far worse than the bloodlust running in Opal's lineage.
"The reason why there's been so many killings," she clarified, as if communicating with a child. "Is because, historically, Bêtemont used to be home to a large population of wolves. What happened to Alain and Shazia was because of a wolf. And at the lake— a wolf, which has since been shot, and funnily enough, nobody else has been harmed."
