An ache starts in my chest, but I do my best to ignore it. One look at Burke as he fawns all over the Spirit Weaver is enough to remind me that I don’t really have a choice. This is about survival, and if my wolf doesn’t get that, how compatible would we have been in the first place?
Weaver Yaromir unrolls his leather pack to reveal tufts of fur, oils, and all sorts of other things he’ll need for tonight’s ceremony. Then he walks over to the large bonfire, stopping just in front of it, and sets down his sacred haul. Meticulously, he spreads out several small pots filled with dried herbs, powders, and other mysterious things that those with magic know about, while those that don’t never question.
As quick as a stalked hare, the Weaver pulls an arm-length log from the burning fire, not even flinching as it sparks and sputters in protest. A hush further blankets the pack as he lowers the burning wood to the things he gathered and sets the contents of the pots aflame. Immediately, large plumes of white musky smoke pour out from the bowls, and the Weaver hands the torch off to Seamus.
I watch the beta, wondering if he’s had a chance to tattle on me yet. When I look away from him, my gaze accidentally lands on Burke, but to my dismay, he’s already watching me. I try to read what’s swimming in those inky, conniving depths, but it’s impossible to know the inner workings of such a tainted mind. If he knows what I was saying about him, he doesn’t let on, and even though I know I should drop my gaze and not provoke him, something in me refuses to do it.
Just this once, I don’t want to feign submission. I stare at him for what I hope is the last time. Soon, I’ll no longer be forced to cater to his ego for the sake of flying under the radar. For whatever reason, tonight, I want him to feel the weight of my judgment and scorn, to know that I don’t bow down to him and never will. I want him to see the girl I’ve been forced to hide, the one I decided deserves to be free.
Our eyes stay locked on each other for a long moment. I can tell he’s waiting for me to avert my gaze like I always do, but it’s not going to happen this time. Whether I make it out of this pack alive or dead, I’m done pretending to have any respect for this wolf and the wolves that follow him.
Weaver Yaromir starts to chant the magical words of the wolf spirits, and Burke is forced to break my gaze when he’s handed something. I quickly get to my feet while his back is turned and slip amidst the group of people who have already gotten up from their tables to gather around. As soon as his attention comes back, he’ll be searching me out instead of paying attention to the ceremony. Good. Maybe then the Spirit Weaver will start to see the cracks in the perfect alpha facade.
Several older members of the pack start to hum in harmony, lending their voices to the steady chant spilling from Yaromir’s mouth. The eerie wolfish music mixes with the magic smoke that carries the smell of bay leaves, angelica, and calendula. The Weaver picks up an apparatus that looks very similar to a priest’s aspergillum, but instead of sprinkling holy water, he whirls it around his head, spilling blessed and secretly curated oil out in arced circles around him. Then he raises a small ball and chain and whips it expertly around his head, creating an unearthly whistle to aid the call of the spirits. If I listen closely, it’s almost as though I can hear the lonely note of a single wolf calling to the moon.
The melodic words of shifter magic take on a more urgent note, and chills crawl up my arms as a wind whips around the pack playfully, like the spirits are here to cavort. People hoot and children laugh while they start to chase the unseen and howl into the darkening night, dreaming of the day it will be their turn.
Excitement ripples through the crowd in a wave, and awe fills the faces of so many in the pack as Weaver Yaromir’s piercing voice starts to call out the invitation to the spirits that belong to those of us participating tonight.
He’s speaking in a language I don’t know, one I’m not even sure is really used anymore other than for the spirits. But regardless of my inability to understand what’s being said word for word, it’s impossible not to see the beauty and raw power in what’s happening. The Spirit Weaver then starts to do exactly what his title suggests and lifts his hands as he begins to weave two planes together for the night. His fingers move like he’s plaiting invisible strands together that represent our world and the world of the spirit wolves we’re meant to harbor and protect.
I can’t say that I feel any different right now than from previous Fluxes during the spirit calling, but I have a deeper appreciation for the Totemic shifter culture and the beliefs of my people tonight, because it was supposed to be my night. The night I finally inherited my wolf.
I close my eyes and sway to the gentle beat of the Weaver’s feet as they start to dance across the hard-packed dirt. I invite his song to move through me and tilt my head back, feeling the blessing of the rising moon. Everyone else sways with the chanting and the rhythm of heavy footfall, bodies moving with the wind.
I rock back and forth in place, wishing that my mom were here and that everything hadn’t gone to shit. I feel the loss of her so deeply in this moment that it tightens my lungs and makes it hard to breathe. She always loved nights like this. The magic always renewed her in a way that nothing else could. Right now, she should be dancing alongside me in the moonlight, beautiful and strong, everything I’ve always wanted to be.
I think of my dad, of my parents slow dancing in the kitchen late at night and sneaking kisses and winks whenever they got the chance. I think of his hugs and the way he always saw me, all of me, all the parts I tried to tuck deep and hide. He always understood and nurtured those bits, and I was lucky for that. This place holds so many beautiful memories and yet so much tragedy all at the same time. I can feel the love here, but I can also smell the blood. Too much blood. It’s old and stale and stains the grounds of this pack like a warning.
I tear my eyes open, ripping myself from the moment. The Weaver is calling to the sky, arms outstretched, and a stream of omega females file past the congregation in a line. They’re wearing revealing dresses as a mark of their fertility, and a line of blood is drawn down their foreheads. They all carry heavy platters of food together, at least two omegas per tray. The kappas were obviously hard at work this year, because the offering is impressive. Fresh kills still bloody from the woods have been prepared in true Twin Rivers custom, the scent of the slain prey permeating the air.
There are skinned rabbits and muskrats delicately arranged on a platter topped with fresh sage. Then a deer, its removed antlers set above its butchered meat like a cake topper. But then more omega females stream past with the meat of an entire elk. All of it is placed around the bonfire in a perfect circle, arranged accordingly, the raw meat an offering to the wolf spirits.
With their hands now free, the omegas start to dance. Sheer dresses sway with their movements, their bodies undulating in a practiced performance of sensual virility. While they twirl around the bonfire, the Weaver sprinkles some sort of powder over the food, grunting and growling and chanting too low beneath his breath for me to hear.
Pack members begin to line up, eager to lay the gifts they’ve brought at the base of the spirits’ feast. I can almost smell the competition in the air as wrapped packages are set down, the givers wearing smug looks as they go, certain that they’ve brought the best prize. I try not to roll my eyes at the display. As if this crap will make the spirits look more favorably down on this pack. Not with an alpha like Burke, he just claims every single present for himself.