Epilogue 3.01

242 33 8
                                    


---Taryn---


     Anybody who thinks werewolves are sexy has clearly never met one. For starters, they're always shedding fur all over the place, even when they aren't wolfing out. Then there's the fact that their breath smells like blood and raw meat the morning after they return from a hunt. And they're always—how should I put this?—marking their territory. And you wonder why I'm not a werewolf fangirl.

     "Are you about done?" I ask, retreating into my windbreaker like a snail into its shell. This place really has no business being cold; there hasn't been so much as a breeze since we ripped through to wherever this is. Just miles and miles of forest, if you can even call it that.

     Aiden audibly zips up and then emerges from behind one of the, uh... "trees" would be the closest approximation. I lean against the jet black substance that's too spongey to be tree bark. It radiates enough warmth to offset the cold, at least for now.

     "Mission accomplished." Aiden gives me his trademark lopsided smirk.

     "You're disgusting," I say, accidentally pricking myself on one of the low hanging stalactite-like formations that sprout from the branches instead of leaves.

     "Oh, please." Aiden's shoes squeak against the ruby-coloured shellac that paves the forest ground. Pair that with the crimson-coloured stalactites, and my entire field of vision is tainted red. Which is an appropriate metaphor for having to be around Aiden 24-7. "I don't give you a hard time about the whole blood-sucking thing."

     "I. Don't. Suck. Blood." How many times do I have to tell him before he gets it through that thick, hollow skull of his?

     Aiden shrugs it off, running a hand through his auburn hair. "Then you're a pretty crappy vampire."

     "Dhampir."

     "Same difference."

     To be fair, I am somewhat to blame for Aiden's misconceptions about dhampir-kind. We dhampir do have some blood-related business to take care of every now and then, but it's not exactly the kind of thing I'm eager to open up about.

     "You better watch yourself, Matthews. Else I've got a healthy heaping of silver with your name on it." I stuff my hands into my pockets for warmth, my arm accidentally brushing against one of the tree's fruits. The fruit dangles from a spider web–like substance that the stalactites secrete. I pluck it off of the stringy goop. A perfect sphere, the size of a tennis ball. Black as coal and hard as an 8-ball. "Catch."

     Aiden catches the fruit and examines it up close. "Is this even edible?"

     "Reply hazy. Try again."

     "Ha ha." Aiden tosses the fruit. His breath materializes in front of him. He gets that constipated look all bad boys get when they put their brains to the strange and unusual task of thinking.

     "What's the matter? Did you forget your name again? I'll give you a hint: it starts with a Jack and ends with a—"

     "It's the Q-blip." Aiden pulls the touch-screen device out of his pocket.

     "Detecting a rip?" I ask, reaching for the clockwork compass that hangs from a chain around my neck. The Q-blip can be used for trans-dimensional mapping, but the diagrams it generates are meaningless unless you use the two devices in tandem.

     Aiden shakes his head. "Interference. Within a two mile radius."

     I hold my breath. Our eyes meet; we're both thinking the exact same thing.

EpilogueWhere stories live. Discover now