Unshift

237 Ava: Wrung Dry

By the time we exit the training room, Vanessa and Marcus have to hold me up to walk in a straight line.

It isn’t the type of exhaustion where my muscles are sore and stretched and tired after running or doing a thousand squats. It’s more like the energy in my body has bled away, leaving me so weak that my muscles can no longer function properly.

When exercising, you can kind of feel good about your exertion. The pain and exhaustion comes with a sense of accomplishment.

This?

It just feels like I’m a wet dish rag wrung out one too many times.

The water’s gone, and now I’m going to float away on the next strong breeze.

Ava! Where did you go?

Selene’s panic is so explosive in my head that my legs buckle, even with the support of two shifters.

Long story. Training room. Magic place. My body’s

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dead. Training sucks.

Even in my head, I can only speak in short sentences. It feels fuzzy and also like something’s slamming into it with a sledgehammer, fueled by the rage of a thousand flying monkeys. Content (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

(2)

Not sure where the flying monkeys came from, but I’m just going to go with it.

Are you okay? she asks, and the warmth and care from her side of the bond also seems to infuse me with a

little bit of extra energy.

1

Her concern also makes me feel a little better. Like having a parent who’s panicked after they wake up in the middle of the night to see their child gone;

someone who cares about me. I need food. And sleep, I tell her. Maybe not in that order.

“I see you’ve re–established contact,” Magister Orion says, peering at my face. “Does it hurt to speak with your wolf?”

My head jerks up. “What? No. Why do you ask?”

“Ah, I’m sorry. You just looked so pained…”

“She always looks like that,” Vanessa says, sounding

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amused.

Marcus nods, despite his silence.

“Sorry for not having years of experience,” I mutter, wishing I had the strength to shove the both of them off me.

Guards, my ass. They’re way too comfortable making fun of me for such a lowly title.

“Hm, yes. This bond you have with your wolves is unique, indeed. If I had the time, I’d love to pick it apart. Especially you, Ava Grey, to have a wolf outside of your body, like the Lycans of old. And yet she’s a

mere dog. How interesting.”

I feel like he’s going to slice me open and look at me under a microscope, Selene says, and I can feel her internal shudder from my end of the bond.

Vanessa must feel uncomfortable with his line of

interest, because she interrupts him to ask, “Why do you call her by her full name? You almost always call her ‘Ava Grey‘, not ‘Ava.“”

“Oh?” Magister Orion ushers us to the dining room as we talk. “It is a bit of a custom among the Fae. We don’t have a first and last name as vou humans do. Vou

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see. We do have a family name, but it isn’t a part of our identity.”

“If it’s a family name, wouldn’t it be a part of your identity?” I ask with a frown, as Vanessa and Marcus help settle me into a chair. With a wave of his hand, Magister Orion manifests into creation several plates of steaming hot food.

Soup, salad, and a lot of different cuts of meat. I’ve learned since coming here that Fae food doesn’t always have a particular corresponding animal to the ones we are used to in our world; for example, their steaks might be from a giant carnivorous beast that they hunt, or an herbivore similar to a cow. Some of them are even from aquatic mammals.

They’re all delicious and–most importantly–have no magic in them whatsoever.

Magister Orion seemed horrified at the possibility when I brought it up, but I haven’t told him the entire

story of Sister Miriam and the Fae food. I’m still not certain on the allegiances of people in this city, and I’m hesitant to get Sister Miriam in trouble for possibly going outside of some sort of law against tampering with Fae food.

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Vanessa fills my plate with food without being asked, and I give her a smile when she catches my eye. Everything on the table is food I’ve had before and enjoyed; I’m not blind to the kindne… that Magister Orion is showing me.

He realizes how exhausted I am.

As she slides several meat slices and various

vegetables onto my plate, Magister Orion finally responds to my question. “Your identity is not defined by your family. Even when one is disowned, they remain true to their own sense of self, do they not?”

A stab of pain shoots through my heart, interrupting its normal rhythm for a moment. There’s no way he’s talking about my family dynamics, but I still feel like I’ve been put on display for a moment, a spotlight aimed right at all my pain and trauma.2

But his question makes sense.

“Our sense of self is not tied to our family,” I murmur, feeling my heart clench a little.

The memory of my mother as I last saw her flashes through my mind, reminding me that there’s a lot in

my head and heart waiting to be processed. I shove it

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back, far back, and lock that door tightly closed.

I’m not ready for that. Not sure if I ever will be.

“Even serial killers have families,” Vanessa points out, sitting next to me with a lot less food on her plate than on mine. Probably about a quarter of what I’m eating. The healer isn’t even a slim eater; she has a hearty appetite, just like anyone else. It’s a testament to how much energy my body’s begging to be replenished. “Imagine being their child. Do their sins become yours, or is your life separate from them?”

It isn’t hard to imagine. My father’s committed plenty

of atrocities as Renard’s beta.

But until recently, I never considered my life to be separate from that of my family. It’s the opposite of what we learn growing as pack. The pack is us; we are the pack.

Our identities are forever entwined.

Or maybe that’s only what Blackwood teaches their

pups.

Westwood, and even Clayton’s Aspen, are much more progressive packs.

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The meat has my stomach growling, savory aromas teasing me with their existence. But I stab into the vegetables first, shoveling them to my mouth with little grace. Vitamins first, and then I’ll fill my belly with what I really want.

But said belly protests, wanting a huge, juicy chunk of

medium–rare steak.

“While we are always bound to family by blood, a Fae lives for a very long time. We accomplish many things in our lifetime. Family raises us when we are young, but that is a mere twenty years, when we can live for

hundreds. Even thousands, in some cases.”

Shaking his head, Magister Orion concludes, “While family is important, the authority of our parents fade quickly. There are some domains where Fae families are strongly bonded and remain together, but

multigenerational homes tend to collapse under sheer numbers with our lifespans.”

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