Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply(4)

“Nightmares still bothering you?” Ax asked quietly.

The question ended our moment of levity. I could hardly begrudge him, though. Real worry weighted his tone. “Nah,” I said. “The corporate pill mills also make excellent sleeping drugs, which are far better than therapy.”

Ax had been there the day I’d lost my mind. I don’t remember much about it, other than rage, the utter, blinding rage. Years later, when I could at least talk about that part of it, Grandfather told me that Ax was the one who got to me before—well, anyway. He got me, and in some ways he’d never really let go. And that was also why he felt it was perfectly acceptable to harangue me about psychiatric treatments.

“You’re one of the most fearless people I’ve ever met,” said Ax. He looked up and caught my gaze. “Except when you gotta look backward into your own life. Your mother—”

“Is dead. And so is this conversation,” I said, getting up. “See you in the a.m.”

He sighed, then shook his head. His disappointment in me stung. I was thirty-four years old, damn it. Argh! How annoying that someone still existed on the planet capable of making me feel like an errant child. I put my hands on my hips. “I hear you, okay?” I sucked in a steadying breath and held up my hand with palm out as a proper vow-making gesture. “I hereby swear that I won’t go crazy again.” I swiped a finger over my heart in a cross. “Promise.”

“What do you mean again? You never stopped being cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.” He smiled at me, and I could see the shadows in his gaze. After all this time, I knew that he wondered if it would happen again. I did, too. Making a promise to keep my marbles intact wasn’t exactly one I could keep. But so far, my sanity was intact. Mostly.

Ax patted my arm. “I’ll make the java.”

I grimaced. Ax could cook like Martha Stewart, but his coffee had driven otherwise hardened souls to attempt suicide. “Don’t you dare, you miscreant. Your sludge tastes like ass-flavored gelatin.”

He grinned, and the wicked gleam in his eye forced a laugh out of me. He knew I wouldn’t let him make the damned coffee. “G’night, Moira.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I waved at him.

Dove was already tucked into her cot, snoring away. Ah, the sweet sleep of ornery bitches.

Exhaustion weighed on me like the Great Pyramid.

I considered the rucksack sitting like an accusation next to my cot. Within its leathery confines were prescription bottles, including one with the magic pills that kept nightmares from manifesting. But I was exhausted, and also feeling stubborn. I didn’t want to rely on a pill. I couldn’t really choose not to take the others. Me without meds was like the Hulk without Bruce Banner.

I sat on the cot, my shoulders sagging. I put my hand on the rucksack’s clasp, and hesitated. I blamed Ax for this sudden need to delve into dreamland unencumbered. Ax loved me, which was why he still prodded me about going to therapy and dealing with my shit. Maybe one day I would. Probably the same day I discovered Egyptian vampires . . . on the twelfth of never.

I let go of the bag, went vertical on the cot, and pulled up the scratchy blanket. I fell asleep before the discomfort of my crappy sleeping arrangements had the chance to annoy me.





Chapter 2


Dove

I’m lying in the dark, listening to Moira move restlessly in her sleep. I don’t sleep well, either, but her nightmares are far worse than mine. I watched her wrestle with the decision not to take the sleeping pill, and when she didn’t, I didn’t feel particularly relieved. I know Ax stays on her ass about therapy, but what does he know? We live in an era where people can be saved by medicine.

If they have the money.

I was not always an orphan.

But I always felt alone. This fact I will never admit to a living soul because: A. It is lame. B. It is no one’s business. C. Moira would Mother Earth me to death.

I do not think Moira realizes she is a born caretaker. But I have never met a lonelier soul . . . and I have been very lonely. Lest you think I pity myself, let me say this: I shall indulge in self-pity if I like. So fuck off.

In any case, I was talking about Moira. She takes care of people. And things. And situations. And matters. If you enter her orbit, and she deems you worthy, then you belong to her. This is my observation. Despite the heinous attitudes of the college administration—all of whom need those sticks surgically removed from their asses—Moira takes care of everyone at the school, from the landscapers to the president. She doesn’t allow bad attitudes, or ungratefulness, to get in the way of her caretaking. She is quite admirable.

Not many people are.