Dust

IV

         

My morning is far from peaceful, considering that, rather than the usual shrilling of my alarm, screams wake me up.

    I sit upright in my bed, flustered, throwing the sheets away from me as the screams continue. At first, I'm terrified, until the perpetual screaming ceases for a moment and I can make out hoarse words: "Get out of my house!"

    "Gael," I mutter under my breath, throwing a robe on over my pajamas and practically flying out of my bedroom.

    I enter the kitchen, where my mother is threatening Gael with a steak knife. He stands on the other side of the breakfast bar, his hands held out with caution towards my mother, who is thrusting her knife at him and yelling. There's a flicker of relief in his eyes when he spots me over Mother's shoulder.

    "Mother!" I shout, drawing my robe closer about myself as she turns to me. She blows a strand of silver hair from her face and grins at me.

    "Morning, darling," she says, not disarming herself but dropping her knife lower. She gestures with it at Gael, who whines in discomfort. "Mind telling me why this person is in my house? Sleeping on my couch?"

    "Mother, I can explain—"

    "I am all ears, Gemma."

    "Yes, but would you mind putting the steak knife down? I'm afraid you're scaring him, Mother..."

    She scoffs, but drops it on the counter, nevertheless. Her eyes on Gael's, she says, "It isn't silver, boy, but that doesn't mean it won't hurt—"

    Gael looks confused; I sigh and pull my mother from the room, shutting us both in her bedroom.

    Her dark eyes are wide as she huffs and seats herself on her four-poster, folding her arms. The sun streaks through the windows behind her bed, lighting the black and silver hairs escaping her ponytail like ribbons. As her eyebrows furrow, small folds of mocha skin form between them. My mother is a willowy woman, with thin bones and little muscle, but that does not mean she cannot be terrifying at times. "Mother," I say, "he is not...Gael is not a werewolf."

    Mother blinks at me. "He seemed so afraid of the blade—"

    "Yes, but don't you think you would be a little freaked out if a stranger threatened you with a knife, regardless of species? And anyway, his eyes are nowhere near yellow."

    Mother unfolds her arms and rubs her temples, sighing. "You're right. Sorry."

    I, too, exhale, leaning my back against the wall of Mother's bedroom. It is painted a dull beige, but beige is for some reason my mother's favorite color. She would not repaint it, no matter how much my father used to beg her.

    "I am still waiting for that explanation, honey."

    Mother speaks without looking at me, and even though I know this will be the end of me, I tell her. "I went out to the forest last night," I confess, and hear my mother gasp.

    "Gemma—"

    "Mother, if you want the whole story, you can yell at me later," I say, and Mother just shakes her head at me, but nonetheless lets me keep talking. "It was a patrol Damien and I agreed to do for the Bureau—yes, we could have given it to someone else, but we thought we could handle it. It is not like we couldn't, it's just that...while we were there, I found him."

    Mother's expression has turned to a frown. "The boy on the couch."

    "Gael," I correct. "Yes. Him. He ran into me, stating he had to get away from, I don't know, something. Sooner or later, Damien and I figured out that he...well, Mother, he is not a werewolf. Gael is not anything."