Summer was a hazy, golden time, and it passed fast. More often than not Calden was busy on the ranch: breeding, calving, rearing. What free time he had was spent on the phone with Avery, or perhaps meeting her at his townhouse, or perhaps spending a night by the fire with her at his ranchhouse. There was a wedding to plan, after all, a tasteful and lovely affair -- six or so elegant hours in all from ceremony to reception that took an unimaginable amount of time and effort to plan. He had no idea there were so many details to determine, from the broadest strokes of venue, date, and guestlist to the maddening minutiae of which silverware set, what font for the invitations, what color, what hue, who sits beside whom.
There was an argument or two. One was rather bad, ended in an abrupt hanging-up. Two hours later he showed up on her doorstep, though, apologetic and unhappy. It turned out she was tense, too. Had been all day: they'd just lost the Sept.
--
He married her at the height of summer. They honeymooned abroad: somewhere sundrenched and warm, though not too hot. They learned to scuba, swam with brilliantly colored fish. Came back tanned and relaxed. He asked her if she wanted to move in. He wouldn't mind if she kept her townhouse, of course. He might even keep his.
The seasons turned, the weather began to cool. Autumn is somehow even busier than summer; a time of descent and waning. A time to cull the herd, and a time to harvest the hay, secure the fencing, batten down for winter. The days are still long and work makes them longer. Weeks flash by. They see each other less than they would like.
Soon enough, Thanksgiving. A small family affair: the two of them, their fathers, his cousins, her brother, perhaps one of his brothers visiting from one of the coasts.
Soon enough, December. Soon enough, the Christmas holiday.
--
They fly business class. First seems ostentatious and unnecessary; the trip isn't that long. He reads on the plane: a book about math and mathematicians. Their hands link frequently. He asks her about her family: who are they going to visit? What are the relationships? He tells her a little about the family he has in the area -- plenty up in Massachusetts, that old bastion of Irish-Americans; a few spilled over into Rhode Island. One of his brothers recently moved to New York. No one in Connecticut, as far as he knew.
--
Descending into Hartford, they have a ways yet to go. Calden unloads their carry-ons from the luggage compartment, hands Avery's to her. Their larger bags are returned to them at baggage claim. They have a rental car reserved.
And yet someone is waiting for them. A young man whose blood whispers faintly of Falcon, tall and neatly groomed. He holds a sign:
MS AVERY CHASE
Avery WhitechaseThey have too many houses, and they have perhaps reflected on this and discussed it. But the truth is: they have not gotten rid of any of them. Her penthouse remains, as does his townhouse. There is also his ranch and the house there, and the suite in her father's mansion that has been redecorated and expanded somewhat to suit both she and her new husband. Avery always says they have too many houses, especially as they were building her a little retreat on his land, hidden away so she could have a secret place to go to instead of sleeping under trees or out in the open, curled up in lupus. A secret place where he could come to her, if he needed to. If she needed him to.
They have too many houses, and all of those houses are homes, and they don't get rid of any of them. How could they? All of their homes are important.
--
Summer came on rather mildly; the weather was lovely and warm and sunny and green. And the arguments they'd avoided in the spring came rearing back. The really bad one, where they argued in person politely and then, the next day, less so on the phone, was about some of the details about the reception itself. Avery had no interest, at all, in the sort of bonfire party with whooping and dancing and jug bands and whatever other Fianna bullshit that Calden seemed to have in mind, and he was not at all interested in the sort of fish-or-chicken catered sit-down-on-the-stick-up-your-ass Silver Fang bullshit that she seemed to have in mind. And they said things they should not have said about each other, and about each other's tribal stereotypes, and just... things they should not have said. It ended with the unsatisfying pressing of an End Call button, which is not nearly as cathartic as slamming a receiver down on the base of a jangling phone.
That evening, Avery cried. And cried. And cried. She'd never fought with Calden like that before. They don't fight much at all. It terrified her, in a way. So when he arrived at her penthouse, asking for entry instead of using his key, because he is a gentleman and a true lover, she welcomed him in and clung to him, and he'd never seen her like that before. It took her a long time to get words out that night: it wasn't just the stupid party. She was sorry for what she said, and she was ashamed, and she loved him more than she could bear sometimes, and she'd never expected to be so overwhelmed by all of this.
It was April. Her tension had been growing steadily for some time, and that was when it snapped a little bit. He stayed with her that night, and they ate, and they laid together in the library, looking up at the sky through the glass roof, his body behind her, his arms around her, and they sorted out one of the biggest arguments they'd been having (well: avoiding, and then finally having) about how to throw their after-wedding party. Or, as it turned out, parties. The reception in town, not far from the wedding venue itself, with things like champagne toasts and wedding cake and all the trimmings and trappings that made her so happy. The reception to follow, upon their return from their honeymoon, a wild and all-night party on his ranch, with music and bonfires and dancing and fireworks and so much alcohol and more wolves than could attend the ceremony itself. A reception to their wedding; a reception to their marriage.
They are wealthy. They can get away with things.
--
Avery did move in, more or less. They redecorated a little bit at the ranch, to make it more for the two of them. She changed her official address to his house, rather than the mansion. But she sometimes goes days without being there. Sometimes she's up there thinking she can spend a whole week with her husband and then she runs off to her retreat for three of those nights. And while vague allusions were made to getting rid of either of their city dwellings, neither of them does. Avery does not want to sell his townhouse, nor see it redecorated to make it more hers. Nor has she relinquished her penthouse, or redecorated it to make it more Calden's.
Mid and late summer were difficult. Unspeakably so, and so we will not speak of it. But that argument about the reception was not the last time this year that Calden saw Avery weep so profoundly that she could barely contain herself, keep herself together. Well into the start of the autumn, it goes on, the pain stretched out, unfairly.
Thanksgiving comforted her. Small. Family only. She spent more time at the ranch. She slept a lot. She tried to help cook, and managed to make a rather passable apple pie. She sat by the fire while all these ridiculous men around her talked to each other, and after a while she left, and when she came back she was in lupus, and then laid down again in front of the hearth, her blue eyes closed, her ears cocked to their voices.
Lifted her head, perked with interest, when one of Calden's brothers or cousins mentioned a girlfriend. Or someone who might become a girlfriend. Maybe even a serious one. Calden, and perhaps her father, were the ones who noticed it the most. Perhaps even noticed, and had noticed, the total dearth of female companionship available to Avery, even with her family gathered.
Not that she spoke of it. Not perhaps til later, alone with Calden upstairs and in her birth form again. And only then if he happened to ask. And then hedging: I adore your family, darling, and of course my own.
But yes, she would eventually admit: sometimes she did wish for another woman or two in the family. Just to chat with. Just to encourage, she teased, the boys from wallowing in their stink all the time.
--
They've been trying to figure out what to do about Christmas since before Halloween, but it took Avery time to know whether she could leave, or whether she wanted to. It was Calden, really, who wanted to go back east and see the extended family he'd only been whirlwind introduced to at the wedding itself. So they made plans in mid-November, right as they were making plans for Thanksgiving as well.
Avery gets headaches if she reads on planes and in cars, she says. She doesn't like watching television or movies in flight either. She's very still on the plane, looking out the window, sipping a cocktail, more meditative than anything else. She keeps herself very calm, and Calden holds her hand a lot, and very few people feel her rage pressing in on them like walls closing in. She doesn't have much left to tell him, having told him about where and who and what not to bring up as they were packing. She helped him pair ties and shirts, not because he cannot dress himself, but because it gives her so much pleasure to do so.
His wardrobe has doubled since she married him, because she constantly shops for him. He is aware, now that his house receives all her purchases from the internet, of how twitchy Avery's "Add to Cart" finger is. He can, with a word, get her to limit her spending to smaller items that don't take up as much space, but this is usually accomplished via telling her how he's thinking of getting a new tie, rather than please don't buy another sofa without talking to me, dear one, we don't have anywhere to put it.
--
Avery slips her bag over her shoulder, having checked everything else. Her suitcases -- yes, plural, and quite large -- match that handbag, but not the other handbags that she packed. They get a cart, even though the suitcases she owns have perfectly servicable wheels, but she's not about to go tromping through dragging them both like an ox, she says, putting on a pair of supple dove-grey gloves as they head for the counter to get their car.
She sees the man. Because she sees all Kin they pass. She doesn't stop because she recognizes him. She stops because of the breeding, and the sign. Likely, Calden stops beside her.
Her head tips, slowly. Avery changes course, walking over to the young man with the sign. Comes to stand a couple of feet in front of him, uncomfortably but not strictly impolitely so.
"Young man," she addresses him, "may I inquire who sent you?"
Calden WhitechaseThe young man, too, is looking at her as she approaches. He is not a wolf, but he has long been in their company. More importantly, he has long been in the employ of the Fangs, and he has come to recognize their look -- for there is a certain look. Wealth and status, fair skin, eyes and hair more often than not -- but not always, and it is not that which gives it away. It is something else, a certain bearing, a certain carriage, a certain manner. He is quite certain he sees it in the tall blonde meandering through the terminal, and is not at all surprised when she spots him and approaches.
She stops a little closer than one might expect. He is deferential, his eyes dropping.
"Madam," he replies, "I come on behalf of Mr. Andrew Huxley, who was your Ritesmate many years ago when you passed together into Cliath-hood, and who is now of the Sept of the Twin Pines. Your presence is requested and your aid as Half-Moon is sought. Will you permit me to drive you?"
Calden, who has stopped beside and half a step behind her, leans on the pushbar of their luggage cart. It is early evening on the east coast; her relatives expect her soon. He does not remind her of any of this, though. Simply watches, curious and congenial.
Avery WhitechaseAvery blinks to hear the name. Her dark brows furrow together slightly. "Huxley?" she repeats, quiet, and it isn't a question. He was younger than she was. All the wolves around her at that time were. She remembers him, and not with dismay or disgust. But confusion, which breeds wariness:
"Why me, and no other?" she asks. "Why did he not reach out to me himself?"
Calden WhitechaseShe remembers him: Andrew Huxley, who was the better part of a decade younger than herself when they trained together, tested together, passed their Rite together. A good enough lad, all things considered. Very much the image of a New England Silver Fang: wealthy, born into high status, fair skinned and fair eyed and fair haired -- though one could say the same of Avery. However, Huxley was the only child of his parents, and the only Garou of his entire generation in that family. There was a certain unconscious and unintentional pride about him; an entitlement that, to his credit, he tried hard to quash whenever it was pointed out to him. In the end, he turned into quite a serviceable Galliard, idealistic and courageous and, for the most part, not too insufferable. He was given a pleasant enough name, longwinded as most Silver Fangs names were; most addressed him by the shortened version, Morning's Herald.
He had, she will remember, come from a fair distance away. Once upon a time each Sept had enough cubs that most Ritemates were also Septmates and, eventually, packmates. The herd has thinned, though, particularly amongst the Fangs, and these days Rites were often cobbled together with cubs from far-flung Caerns, brought together to train and challenge, then scattered back to the four winds. Avery last saw Andrew Huxley a few weeks after their Rite. He was returning to his home Sept. Perhaps, like so many temporary friends, they promised to stay in touch, but never did.
She can be quite sure that Sept's name was not Twin Pines, though. In fact, she has not heard that name before.
"Mr. Huxley sends his apologies for not being able to welcome you himself," the young man answers. "He is ... quite busy. Please, Ms. Chase, I am not at liberty to say more. You may direct your questions to Mr. Huxley, if you will come."
Avery WhitechaseAvery feels doubt, stirring in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't know anything about some place called Twin Pines. Sounds North American, most likely United States, but she knows all the Silver Fang-centric septs in North America. Memorizes them. Keeps up with news, which ones fall, which ones are born and properly ruled.
"That is a shame," she says softly to the messenger, who by virtue of the role he has taken is to be treated delicately, to be treated with respect and care and never harmed lest one call down the wrath of every god of every wind, every spirit-whisper.
But she is looking at him so keenly, so thoughtfully, that it feels like a slow hand wrapping tighter around his throat.
"What is your name?" she asks.
Calden WhitechaseThat throat bobs as the young man swallows.
"Steven, madam," he replies -- and then a great deal more. Perhaps Avery has been so long in a mixed Sept that this behavior seems odd now: this instinctive recitation of one's genealogy and the equally instinctive yoking of one's self-esteem to it. "Steven Alport. My great-grand-uncle was Richard Daniel Alport, the Flame of the North. I am afraid there are no other names of note in my family."
Avery WhitechaseIt does not seem odd. Still, to this day, the one-name answers from some wolves an kin strike her as terribly strange, even a bit terse. She always has to remind herself: everyone is different. Everyone else, at least.
His recitation makes her smile at him. Warmly. A little gently. But it does not stop her from saying: "Steven. Please understand that what I am about to do is not intended as disrespect. You know how we can be about our mates."
This is when the invisible hand on his neck, her rage, may begin to feel
rather
snug.
Avery summons her gift as she speaks, filling her eyes with a crystalline clarity, touching her voice with tones of precision, neatness, perfection. Truth. "I must ask: to the best of your knowledge, should my beloved attend with me, will he be interfered with in any fashion?"
Avery Whitechase[Truth of Gaia: Int + Emp]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 2, 4, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )
Calden WhitechaseThe young man -- who in all this time has not set down that silly printout sign -- seems genuinely taken aback. "I -- pardon? -- no. No, madam, I don't believe so. I -- Ms. Chase." He collects himself. "Although I understand this situation is both unexpected and unusual, I can assure you it is not ... not sinister."
Avery WhitechaseShe smiles again. More. It doesn't feel comforting.
"Of course. As I said... you understand how we can be when it comes to the safety of our most loved ones."
Avery pauses. She turns, and steps back over to the luggage cart. She faces Calden. Speaks quietly.
"There's no such sept as Twin Pines," she whispers. "Not that I know of. And I don't know why Huxley would go to anyplace but his childhood sept. I'm wary."
Calden WhitechaseAll this while, Calden has stood by, silent, listening. There must be something at least a little comforting about that: his presence beside her, warm and watchful, solid and strong. Yet at the same time, he knows his presence makes her worry. Makes her warier than she would have been already.
When she turns to him, lowers her voice, he bows his head to listen. Glances past her at Steven Alport for a moment. "We could rent a car and follow," he suggests quietly. "Or ask to meet somewhere else. Or simply refuse."
Avery WhitechaseHis presence, she would insist, does not make her worry or fuss.
His presence, anyone can see from that little exchange with poor Steven Alport, makes her exceedingly more dangerous.
She smiles at him. "Of course, darling," she says, because these are obvious choices. "But I want to know what you think. And what you would like me to do." Because she knows, and hopes he knows, that this desire of hers does not come with an inherent promise to do as he likes her do. He knows she can't always.
Calden WhitechaseHe doesn't hesitate; not for a moment. "You should follow your instinct," he says, "and your conscience. I want you to act exactly as your honor demands."
Avery WhitechaseAt that, his dear wife thwaps him lightly across his heavy shoulder. If her gloves were off, she would have used them instead. "Well, you are no help at all," she tells him, scolding and fond.
She wants to kiss him very badly right then, too. Like she's missed him. She wants to lay her palm on his jaw and lean into him and kiss him like she did last night in his townhouse in the city, arching her back under his sheets to tell him, show him that she wasn't ready to go to sleep just yet. That she knew they had to get their rest but she couldn't help herself. She wants to kiss him just like that, even with so many warm layers between their bodies, even in the middle of a crowded airport, with some poor chaffeur watching.
Instead, Avery touches his cheek. Lays her palm along his jaw, looking at him.
"I adore you," she whispers. Then her hand falls away. "We'll follow him in the rental. I'll call my family if you'll drive. Yes?"
Calden WhitechaseShe is his darling wife now. It has been nearly half a year, and the thought still tickles him. He still likes the look of the ring on his finger, a classic and understated gold band that yields the slightest hint of texture when the light hits it right. He still likes seeing the names on the mail that comes now to the ranch:
Mr. and Mrs. Whitechase.
They do not kiss in the crowded airport, with some poor chauffeur watching. She touches him, though. And he leans into that touch, kissing the heel of her hand. He smiles as she whispers. And then he straightens, glancing at Steven, nodding.
"I'll go get our rental while you let him know," he says. "Meet me at the Hertz counter."
Avery WhitechaseSome people send mail, automatically, to Mr. & Mrs. Calden White, and Avery refuses to acknowledge it. It is rude of her, but she doesn't care. Some of her irritation and wariness of this Steven boy is that he has the wrong name, which means whomever hired him has the wrong name, which means they don't know her at all.
She turns to Steven, walking back over in a few easy strides. She informs him that they will be following in a rental car. She and Steven trade information about cars, about where to meet to drive off together. She clasps Steven's shoulder as well, tells him she looks forward to learning what all of this is about.
When she smiles this time, it's less unintentionally threatening.
It is still not tame.
No comments:
Post a Comment