Chapter 18: If They Only Knew

Garin was busy grading terms papers. There were only a few weeks left before the end of the semester and it showed in his students’ papers. He groaned as he found another plagiarized essay. It appeared as if one student wrote at least five papers. He took a long swig of the amber whiskey at his elbow, the ice cubes clinking gently.

He couldn’t stay focused. He kept thinking about Willow’s kiss last night. She kissed him desperately. He didn’t know why, but it felt like not only their first but also like she was trying to tell him goodbye. Maybe he was reading too much into it. He kneaded the back of his neck and looked at his watch. He had been grading for over three hours. Time for a break.

Stretching he stood and wandered downstairs, hoping that there were leftovers in the fridge and no family members anywhere. His hopes were dashed when he saw them sitting at the dining room table, speaking in hushed tones. When they saw him, they went silent. Everyone left except his father.

“Sit,” Weyland commanded, pointing at the empty chair at the other end of the long marble table. With a sigh, he sat. He looked at his father definitely, hands spread. His father tossed an envelope towards him, drinking his own whiskey.

“What’s this?” Garin asked, not bothering to open the envelope.

“Open it,” he replied, sifting the whiskey between his teeth, staring at his son. Garin begrudgingly opened the envelope. Five photos fell out. They were of him and Willow.

“You’ve been spying on me?” he asked, his voice falling lower with simmering anger.

“No. On her. Your little pet,”

“Don’t call her that,” Garin snapped, keeping his anger in check for now. Experience told him the longer he played submissive the more his father would ramble, and he would get more information on what he was planning.

“What the hell were you thinking? She’s one of them!” his father yelled, never one to keep his anger under control. Garin was surprised the glass didn’t shatter as Weyland slammed it against the table. Garin just looked at his hands, wondering what he could say to not set him off further.

“Do you have any idea the danger you have put yourself in? All of us in? They are dangerous! Wild. Sure, she may appear as a nice piece of ass, but have you seen the size of her shifter form? She could kill you without breaking a sweat!” Garin swallowed his rage and took a deep breath after his father’s outburst.

“We haven’t gotten that far.” Garin spat sarcastically.

“It’s gone far enough! You should’ve never even spoken with her! Miles and Silas have seen you wandering past her café day after day, like some lovesick kid. It’s over Garin. Over!” he slammed his hand flat against the table, standing.

“You don’t get to tell me who I spend my time with,” Garin replied coolly, his eyes dismissive. His father ground his teeth together.

“Maybe if you would have actually listened to anything, I tried to teach you, we wouldn’t be in this predicament,” He rubbed his hand over his shorn brown hair, his face red from anger and alcohol.

“This has nothing to do with you or the family,” Garin said, his frustration growing.

“She hasn’t told you about the treaty, has she? Do you know anything about her history? You could give a shit about ours but since you are so infatuated with her, why don’t you read this,” he slid a thick, linen-covered book towards Garin. Garin looked at it skeptically.

“What’s this?”

“Everything you really need to know about her kind. You won’t listen to me but maybe you’ll glean an ounce of understanding from a book, which you so dearly love,” his father spat and tossed back the rest of his drink.

“Stay away from that girl,”

“Or what?” Garin challenged him.

“Or it will be the end of her, you or both. The Red Hoods don’t associate with shifters,” he stalked from the room. Garin looked at the large book in front of him as if it were diseased. It appeared to be an encyclopedia of sorts. The Red Hoods emblem, a hood encircled by a bow and arrow, was embossed on the front in faded gold filigree.

With a hesitant finger, he pushed back the cover page.

“The History of the Red Hoods-Abridged”

Est. 1752

He scanned the table of contents. This book was over 3,000 pages long. He flicked through the pages, most of which were full of dense text, some depicting horrible images. He stopped on a particularly gruesome one of a snarling wolf standing above a pile of dismembered bodies. “The Massacre on the Moors” was printed beneath it. He shuddered and went back to the front of the book, his finger running down the page until he found what he was looking for.

The Bittermane Clan, pg. 2087

He squeezed his eyes shut and turned to the page, feeling as if he were betraying Willow in some way. A detailed family tree was printed on the first page of the chapter. He saw that her mother and father had been scratched out so harshly the pen had torn through the page.

“Weird,” he muttered and continued on to the next page, beginning to ready Willow’s family’s bloody history.

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Willow rushed the way home, feeling as if eyes were watching her from every direction. She had closed the café early, stating a family emergency. She ran home, not caring if she looked insane as her boots pounded against the sidewalk. Dust rose in plumes as she raced to her house. She reached her porch, barely out of breath but still panting from fear.

The note and letter opener weighed heavily in her bag as she gathered herself before walking into her house. A fire was burning in the hearth in the living room, but her grandmother wasn’t in her customary position in her recliner. Willow thought she smelled something baking. Her grandmother must be prepping for the festival.

“Willow,” her voice rang out from the kitchen. Willow tugged off her coat and boots, letting them drop beside the door. She held her bag for a moment before shoving it deep into the hall closet.

“Coming!” she replied. The kitchen lights were turned down low to a comfortable rosy glow. A few loaves of bread sat cooling on the counter, the aroma tantalizing and driving her fear to the back of her mind. She reached towards one and was rewarded with a rap on the knuckles with a wooden spoon.

“Don’t mess with them,” her grandmother scolded her. “Sit, we need to talk,” Willow paled slightly. Did her grandmother know about the threat? No, she wouldn’t let her granddaughter be threatened like that.

“What’s up?” Willow asked, perching herself at the counter. Her grandmother slid her a steaming cup of apple cider towards her.

“I need to tell you the truth about your mother.”