The Mate

On the day she arrived, the world was weeping.

Out on the porch, his fingernails scraping on the rough end of a hewn two by four, Henry stared out at the vast expanse of green that surrounded his homestead. Henry detested green, never more so than on mornings like this when the overcast clouds turned the usual vibrancy to a stale, muddy gloom. It was a pale day, with grey, feeble light, and a monotone sky so chalky and still that it seemed almost anemic. Rain pattered down in drizzle and mist, turning the dust in the yard to mud, and as a fog rolled in from the west, he saw the overgrown, weedy trail vanish behind it. It was the only way in or out of his property.

That sight would have made Henry grin—visitors, as everyone knew well, were among Henry's least favourite things—but before he could settle in to the satisfaction of it, he felt a splinter slip beneath the calloused skin of his finger. He cursed at the sudden bite of pain, minute in the grand scheme of things, but sudden and unexpected, and felt his precarious temper flare. He threw the wood away with some force, watching it tumble through the air to land beyond the trees, where he heard the whiz and the thud before the yard was still again and Henry, finger in his mouth, turned away.

Above him, in a shamble of wood and tarps, stood the pergola. He chuckled when the name came to him—it was something of a joke, using such pompous language for his crap—and as the rain trickled down, he watched a small rivulet course through a hole near the middle. The whole thing sagged, dipping like a smile to brush the top of his head, and as he walked across the rotting, squeaking boards beneath his feet, he jabbed the tarp with his fist. The supports on each corner groaned, rocking perilously with the shift in weight before they righted, and instead of drips in a puddle, he was treated to the sound of pattering droplets against plastic. The displaced water ran down the yard in a stream, coursing this way and that until it hit the line of thin, weedy grass before the treeline, and disappeared.

Henry sighed, turning his attention instead to his chores.

The woodpile, out back behind the house beneath another blue tarp, was getting low and damp with moss. His pantry, filled just two weeks ago, needed restocking. His clothes were dirty and his floors needed washing, and Henry, knowing all of this and more, did nothing but stand on his squeaking, rotting porch, staring out at the limpid green trees that he detested. He knew it would not stand—he knew that his animal, if nothing else, would not tolerate disorder—but fortunately for him that animal was not here, and Henry was free to neglect his duties until the spirit moved him or the beast returned.

Something quick and instinctive, buried deep under a fog of resentment and petulant defiance, rose up in him but Henry swallowed it back. The loss of control lasted only a moment—barely long enough to mean anything—but he felt it, and even more importantly, the creature

knew

he felt it. The gloating amusement in his brain was not his own, but nevertheless he felt it like sticky syrup in his head, and it annoyed him.

He felt it again, this time stronger and with more confidence, and with it came an intrusive, booming thought that set his teeth on edge. The creature thought of the mess, and more importantly, the

smell

of the mess, and then put forward one, loud word that made Henry scowl. He fought that word, trying to strongarm it away, but the creature would not be deterred and Henry had no choice but to give in.

"Brothers,"

the creature said.

"Brothers, brothers, brothers."

He knew what the creature wanted, though he had neither the energy nor the motivation to comply. Henry was not a proud man—he did not stand on ceremony, as so many of his kind seemed to do—but he still detested his visits to the Den. The Den, where Henry had spent three long years, was four miles from the house. The Den, where he knew he would be welcomed by his brothers and their mates. The Den, where he could borrow a woman to set his house in order. The Den, where he would find Solomon, the closest thing Henry had to a friend and the only man on earth who had ever succeeded in making Henry do anything he didn't want to.

For Henry, who hated the Den even more than he hated his rotting shack of a house, lived as far from the rest as he could possibly stand to be. It was strange, being part of a pack. He did not

want

to stay—indeed, there was a part of him that wanted to run as far and as hard as he possibly could—but all of that was overridden by the impulse, the

urge

to keep close, just in case he was needed.

But Henry was not often called upon to fulfill his duties.

It was his birthright, he knew, to be a member of the Pack. It was his destiny, his

legacy

in a fucked up world that had led him to the lead life he lived. He had never known his father—not since he'd walked out before Henry was old enough to remember him—but when he'd started showing signs of the change just out of high school, his mother had known well enough what it meant. Henry remembered how she'd cried—how she'd wailed, and screamed, and hit—until she'd driven him from the house in a fit of weeping rage, tossing him a single change of clothes before she'd slammed the door in his face. Henry had railed at her, screaming curses and threats as he pounded on the door, but before he could make it through and before the cops had arrived, Solomon had dragged him off the porch and into the trees.

His first transformation was not one that Henry liked to remember. It was never easy on the young ones, especially not that first time, and the memory of bones cracking, of skin stretching and splitting, was not one on which he liked to dwell. It had been Solomon who had calmed him. Solomon, old even then, who had explained what was happening, and Solomon who had convinced him to stay.

Thoughts of his mother turned Henry's mood even blacker and he went instead to his kitchen, where slammed the door behind him. The window rattled in its frame and the dishes in the sink clattered as a spoon fell to the bottom of the basin. He reached for the coffee mug he'd set on the counter, its contents cold and still, and slammed it back in one gulp, grimacing. He threw the mug into the sink and turned on the tap, watching as a trickle of tepid water began to fill it. He added soap—what little he had left in the bottle—and let the suds begin to rise as he rummaged in the cupboard for a cloth.

The water felt too cool when he plunged his hands in, but he didn't complain as he began to scrub and rinse.

Deep inside, his animal delighted at the smell of the soap. He breathed it in, giving in to the creature's strange, yet somehow intimately familiar joy, and felt the shifting beast just at the edge of his consciousness, at the very edge of transformation. Henry's hands worked without thought, rubbing oil and food from the pile of unwashed plates, and he watched the process as if in a dream, seeing the world through the eyes of his wolf as well as the eyes of a man.

It was this state—this eerie state of in-between—that Henry found so strange. This state, which usually lasted only a second before a transformation, that allowed him to be both versions of himself at once—a man, washing dishes with fleshy hands and opposable thumbs, and a beast, revelling in the scent of cleanliness and order. This ability was, according to Solomon, what made him such a valuable asset to the Pack: the gift of being in two minds at once, and the ability to lend a man's logic to the Pack mind.

It was in this state, while the man washed and the wolf sniffed, that the truck began to rumble. Henry, unexpecting and unconcerned, did not notice it until it was too late. He heard it slowly—first, like a buzz, and then like a roar, until the wolf snapped back with a sudden snarl and he turned, his plate falling to the sink with a splash, to stare through the crack in the kitchen curtains.

Through the fog of mist that had descended on the path, Henry saw the yellowed headlights of an old, green truck. It was noisy—so noisy, in fact, that he cursed himself for not hearing it sooner. The engine was old—he could make out the sounds of strain and a shaky exhaust—and the driver's foot on the gas was erratic. He could not see who that driver was—not through the dark tint on the passenger's side window—but when he reached out with his hearing, his teeth already on edge, he fell absolutely, immovably still.

Through the rain, which still pattered noisily on the tarp, and over the roaring of the engine, Henry's ears pricked and tingled. It was a gift they all had—the ability to hear and see beyond the norm—and he used that gift now, his eyes fixed on the truck. People did not come here—not unless they were sent—and Henry, though his phone hadn't been on in months, did not know anyone who might visit him in a vehicle. His brothers, when they had to, came on paws through the woods. Solomon, now too old to change into the wolf, would often walk the four miles on foot.

So when the driver emerged, her eyes squinting through the rain, it was all he could do to keep himself quiet.

The woman, who he could only just see through the misty rain and dirty windows, had a face as pale as milk and eyes of deep, cornflower blue. Her face was lovely—thin, but pretty, with a small, shapely nose and full lips that rose in the corners for a look of perpetual smiles. Henry watched her through the gap in the curtains—watched how she stared, perplexed, at the small, run-down shack, and when she came to knock at the door, his heart began to race.

"Hello?" called the girl, poking her head through the unlocked door. "Hello? Henry?"

He did not question how the girl knew his name. He did not scowl, as she pushed her way into his home. He did not speak—not even when she caught sight of him by the counter—and could only stare, dumbstruck, as the woman came inside.

"Oh!" Her voice was shocked, as if she hadn't expected anyone to be home. "I'm sorry..."

Henry only stared.

"I..."

The woman bit her lip.

"I've come..."

Henry held his breath.

"I've come to... clean," she said awkwardly, taking a quick inventory of the kitchen. "Solomon asked me to. He said you might... need it."

A rush of embarrassment—and an incriminating I-told-you-so from his wolf—made him finally look away.

"Solomon," he repeated, his tongue thick and stupid. "I see..."

The woman stepped nearer and Henry, his whole body tightening, could only think of one word.

Little.

This girl—this

woman—

was positively, absolutely

tiny.

Thin as a rail, and a good foot and a half shorter than him... he would be shocked if she hit five feet.

"Who...?" The question came in pieces, but the woman seemed to understand. "Who are you?"

"Ruby," she responded. "Ruby Matheson. My father is Simon."

Henry blinked in surprise.

Deep in his chest, where his heart should be, Henry felt the stirrings of the wolf that lingered just below the surface of the man. He had seen this woman before—though she'd been just a girl, then—on his last visit to the Den. She had been even smaller then—a short, flat little thing with hair like flax and her mother's wide eyes. Simon Matheson was Solomon's right hand man—second in command and the only other pack member above Henry in the hierarchy, and only because Henry was more of a fighter than a diplomat. Simon had found his mate quite young—a sensation among his peers who, for various reasons, felt that little Simon Matheson could not be worthy. Henry himself had watched Ayla—that tiny creature with hair like lemons who had looked so opposite to Simon that even she had laughed over it. Simon was large, as all their kind were, with hair so dark it was almost black and a complexion that had seen too much sun. He had a rough look—not ugly, but rather workworn—and a face so serious that Henry had often wondered whether the man had ever laughed.

Ayla, by contrast, seemed to be made of nothing but laughter, and as he watched the girl in his kitchen, scrubbing plates and drying forks, it made absolute sense to think that she had come from such a mother. Ayla had become the very soul of the Den—especially after the loss of Solomon's mate Emma—and she had borne Simon three healthy sons.

Those sons were younger than Henry, though not by much. This girl—their fourth and final child—would be even younger still.

"How old are you?" he asked abruptly and Ruby turned, surprised.

"Twenty two," she replied. "Back home for the summer."

Somewhere deep in his memory, Henry knew that Simon's daughter had gone to college—the only one of the Pack, so far, to have done it. Boys transformed too early—as soon as they hit adulthood, they would feel the burning crack of bones and the rough melding of man and beast. Daughters were so rare—those that

were

born stayed in the Den, and those that stayed in the Den would inevitably find a mate.

The word made his whole body shudder. He knew exactly what it meant—there was no point in denying it—and the sudden rush of pure lust made him shiver as he turned. At the sink he saw Ruby falter, her fingers fumbling over a spoon. Her hands, trembling, lost their hold on the cloth, letting it fall back into the water.

When she turned, he saw the truth of it on her own face.

"I..."

Henry shook his head.

"You know what it means," said Henry gently. "You, of all people. You know what it means."

At once, her eyes filled with tears.

"Yes," she agreed. "Yes, I

do

know. And I can't tell you how glad I am."

It was Henry's turn to be surprised.

"Glad?" he queried, his voice going rough. "You don't even know me."

She swallowed, looking away.

"I know enough," she replied. "I know what you do, and why you live here."

"Do you, now?"

"Solomon told me," she said, and with the pure, almost arrogant surety of youth, he saw her conviction, her sincerity. "Solomon told me you live alone."

"Did he tell you that I enjoy it?" asked Henry. "Did he tell you that I will

not

live in the Den?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes. And I don't care."

Henry laughed and he saw the hurt cross her face.

"You would, if you knew what it meant."

"I

don't."

Henry said nothing.

"It's been four years," she said, and this time, there was a note of tears in her voice. "Four years. Papa thought I'd have to leave."

Henry only stared.

"Four hundred males, and not one of them mine," she went on. She began to move, walking closer. "Four hundred males, Henry. Four

hundred.

It took my mother only two."

"Your mother was lucky..."

"I

know."

This time, when she reached out, Ruby was close enough to touch him, and she did. Henry felt the jolt of it like lightning—the pure, unadulterated thrill of recognition between his man, his wolf, and his

mate—

and he returned the touch with the pad of his finger on her collarbone.

"Solomon sent me, wondering if it would be right," she breathed. She smelled like flowers—her shampoo, or perhaps her soap, making his beast go wild. The animal loved order—he loved clean smells, and soft skin, and warmth—and when she brought herself even closer, pressing her small body against his, he felt the wolf purr.

He felt the change in his eyes, first—his usual, mild brown shifting to wicked, wild orange in an instant. He closed them—he did not want to frighten her—but she seemed to know anyways. He did not let the fangs descend—he did not want to send her screaming—and so when she kissed him, he pulled away, surprised.

He felt her terror as if it were his own—a fear of rejection so powerful that it almost made her weep. A self-loathing and doubt so strong that it could have brought him to his knees. The feeling made him growl, his eyes flashing dangerously as she swallowed back her tears, and then he kissed her back, feeling her gasp against his lips.

"Don't," he growled. "Don't you

dare."

She returned the kiss—slowly at first, and then all at once. Her lips were sweet, like honey, and he tasted them over and over until she finally let him in. Something in the back of his mind protested—he barely knew this girl, she was too young, he was too old, too poor, too lonely... but none of it stuck when she brought her arms around his neck, pulling herself up as high as she could reach.

When Henry broke away her face was buffed from his stubble, and he smoothed a finger over the redness to soothe it.

"Your father might not approve," he warned, and this time, she laughed.

"My father begged Solomon to send me," she returned. "He wants to see me happy."

"And you think that I will make you happy?"

She squeezed him around the middle, almost like a child, and he let her. The feel of her body against him, even through their layers of clothing, was enough to send his wolf into a frenzy. The creature was frothing, overjoyed at the scent and taste of

mate

, and it urged Henry to taste her again, or better yet, to mate her. The urge made him uncomfortable, the tightening in his jeans increasing as she pressed every inch she could against him, but Henry knew the consequences of the joining, even if she didn't.

"You ought to be sure," he said, and his orange eyes flashed with sudden irritation. The wolf's urges were powerful—more powerful than Henry had anticipated—and if he was not careful, the creature would gladly take over. This girl was young—a daughter of the Pack's Second—and he would not let her first time be sullied by an overzealous, overeager brute.

The wolf resented this interference but did not push back, instead backing off just enough to let the man take charge.

"I

am

sure," Ruby said, and her hands began to roam. First his chest, above his shirt, and then below, when he did not pull back. Her little hands were cold—colder, even, than the rain outside—and he covered them at once with his own to warm them. She didn't seem to mind—indeed, she guided his hands lower and lower until she reached the waistband of his pants, before she dipped her own hand below the belt and touched him, her fingers as light as feathers.

Henry shuddered, his body bending at the waist as she wrapped her hand around him, and began to stroke, ever so gently.

"Ruby..."

She only stared at him, her pretty face downcast.

"Don't turn me down," she pleaded, and he felt her sadness like an anvil. "Don't make me leave, please..."

"You don't know what you're doing."

"I

do

know," she countered. "I

do,

Henry. I

do."

When she pulled at him, her little hand sliding over his swollen, sensitive tip, he gave up all pretense of doubt and stilled her, his hand tight over hers. She watched him with rapt attention, mapping the way his face moved and twitched, and when he brought her hand back to the base of him, and then all the way down to the end, he felt how her fingers squeezed a little tighter, and moved a little faster.

"Oh shit..."

Ruby giggled.

"Just like that, then?" she asked in a whisper. "Am I doing it right?"

Her little fingers tickled, and then tapped at him and he grabbed her, pulling her hands free. He would not shame himself by coming in his pants, and he certainly wouldn't do it without putting his hands on

her

.

His wolf growled with delight at the very prospect.

"You know what you're doing?" he asked, running his hands down her sides. She nodded, letting him trail over her hips, her waist. "You know what you're asking?"

"I'm asking for

you."

"And you know," he said, this time with kisses on her neck. "You know that once we are joined, we cannot be un-joined?"