Corbyn grunted as he searched for a foothold, cradling me in his arms while trying to navigate the steep incline of the hill. I could feel the way he lifted up onto the next rock step as if my legs were the ones forced to support our weight, my eyes not knowing where to focus when I caught a trickle of sweat running along the side of his face. “You could let me down now,” I offered. “I feel good enough to go the rest of the way on my own.”

“Non, ma petite,” Corbyn said, “If this looks difficult for me, it’d be impossible for you.”

“Is that some sort of insult?”

“Not meant to be. I’m sorry.” He clenched his teeth, straining for the next step and pausing to catch his breath after claiming it. “I meant… Even if you feel better, you would exert yourself again.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Something about the pained expression on his face made me frown. Regardless of the circumstances, I couldn’t help but feel a moment of compassion. “Why didn’t you masochistic people create a better way up here?”

“Because, we don’t usually climb the path in this form.”

Corbyn offered me a tired half-smile to underscore the point. No sooner did it fade away, though, then he continued up the hill, digging deep for whatever it took to ascend the last few feet of incline. When we reached the top, he finally lowered me onto the ground, not letting go of me in case I couldn’t manage my own stability, but finally giving me the autonomy I’d asked for. We walked from the stone steps toward an earthen pathway until we reached the side of what looked like a vacation home.

Large, picturesque windows broke up the pristine white exterior, framed with light-colored wood that matched the front door. Resisting the urge to ask Corbyn where they kept the doggie flap, I still winced when karma sent a shot of agony through my shoulder. ‘Right,’ I thought in a mauldlin sort of way, ‘That’ll be me in a month.’ In an effort not to think about it, I glanced around at the rest of the property. The same thick border of forest I had seen at the bottom of the hill lined the top as well. In the distance, I saw something odd; flickering lights that would have resembled fireflies had it been closer to summer. Glancing away from them, I saw a deck on the back side of the property, facing a scenic overlook.

Corbyn brought me toward the front door, passing a large generator and the outcropping that formed the back side of a chimney. As I glanced up at the shorter second floor, I imagined a loft or an attic. Either way, though, the house didn’t resemble a place where modest people lived. “Almost there,” he said, ensuring I had a tight hold on him before we ascended a short set of stairs leading up to a porch.

The large space that flanked both sides of the door looked lonely for something, either a rocking chair or a swing where you could curl up and read a book. The part of me still touched by magic envisioned sitting beside Corbyn, as if I’d forgotten being mad at him, or could sink back into whatever spell had brought me to this point. On the other side of midnight, though, all I could feel was sick and in a lot of pain. So, I abandoned the mental image and walked inside the house with Corbyn still supporting me.

The front door opened up to a spacious living room, with high, vaulted ceilings and richly-colored rugs which had been arranged on top of a hardwood floor. Handknitted blankets had been draped across the backs of plush couches and highback leather chairs, giving the barely-lived-in house a warmer, more inviting feel. “Nice,” I said, spitting out the word before I could stop myself, my eyes settling on the cold hearth right as a chill settled into my bones. I suddenly wanted a fire to lie in front of, so I could sleep off the rest of the wooziness still affecting me.

Right after I took a shower, that was.

Corbyn smiled when I glanced at him again, tossing his damp shirt near the front door and setting his coat on top of one of those blankets. “It is nice,” he said. “I haven’t been here in years. My parents forced me to stay home after I ran away. Before that, though, I came here with them whenever they had meetings. Sometimes, we hosted other shifters from this realm. Sometimes, members of other packs. It’s always been a neutral place, no matter who came to visit.”

“It’s funny, you talk about this place like you grew up here, but you don’t sound like you’re from this part of the world,” I noted, letting my eyes wander around the living room again.

“I’m not. My family are French. My grandparents were human aristocrats before the French Revolution. Fate smiled on them and turned them wolfen before they risked facing the guillotine. Our estate remained intact and the money was used to better our people and their way of life.”

I looked back at Corbyn and blinked. “The French Revolution?” I asked. As he smiled, I squinted at him from across the distance separating us. “How old did you say you were again?”

“Older than I look and younger than I feel, chérie,” he quipped. Sobering, he strode further into the house, acting like he hadn’t just stripped down to half naked; like there was something about the state that felt comfortable to him. I felt compelled to follow him, making sure to take it slow. Fortunately, Corbyn didn’t seem to be in a hurry. “If it helps, to my people I would be considered a young adult.”

“I guess it’s better than nothing.” When we bypassed the large, living area, we wandered closer to a spiral staircase, leading up to the loft I’d recognized from the outside. A narrow hallway fed into a dining room, but it was as we walked past a bathroom that I thought of that shower again and mourned the fact that there probably wasn’t any hot water. Corbyn led me into the kitchen, where I lost myself admiring the rustic, almost European quality everything seemed to have. Pots and pans hung from a wire rack and stools had been arranged in front of a center island with everything a mixture of grays and blacks and chestnut-colored wood. I raised an eyebrow at the fruit that had been arranged in a bowl, almost like Corbyn expected me to paint a still-life.

“Has anyone been here recently?” I asked.

“Only me. I bought a few things so I could stay here for a day or two,” he said.

“Aren’t you afraid of someone finding you here?”

“This isn’t the first place they’ll look. I have other places where I usually hide from them and it’ll take a while for them to search those first.” Something about the look in his eyes turned melancholy. I didn’t have a chance to figure out what before he painted on a smile again and pointed at the refrigerator. “Would you like something to eat?”

“I should say yes, but my stomach doesn’t feel up to it yet.” Glancing back toward the bathroom again, I frowned, something inside of me longing to be clean and burried in blankets. The humming coming from the refrigerator had given me a spark of hope, and if Corbyn had been here for a short while, maybe that meant a hot shower wasn’t as much of a pipe dream as I’d hoped.

“Can I clean up?” I asked, looking back at him. “I mean, you can tell me if I’d encounter the wrath of ice crystals, but I think I’m more concerned about a shower and a nap right now.”

He smiled warmly. “Let me show you the bedroom, chérie,” he said, walking past me and leaving the implied direction for me to follow. I did, without questioning, not hearing any double entendres and grateful we’d brushed past the topic of the night before, at least for now. At least until I could figure out how I really wanted to feel about all of this.

When we reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, he extended a hand toward it. “There’s another bedroom, if the stairs bother you, but this is the larger one. It has a bathroom attached to it if you want to take a shower.” He clutched onto the railing as I started to ascend, looking up at me as if nervous that I might hurt myself. When I glanced back down at him, I almost felt like reassuring him. ‘Yeah, if only you weren’t the person who put me in this spot to begin with,’ I thought, though, as if I needed to remind myself this was almost an abduction.

“I think I’ll do fine,” I said, flashing a small smile that lasted only as long as it took for me to look back up the stairs and continue climbing. Corbyn called after me, telling me there were towels and spare clothes and that I should feel free to make myself at home. Despite the momentary dizziness, I made it to the top and sat on the bed to regroup. Within a few minutes, I’d gathered enough steam to stumble my way into the bathroom.

While the process of getting undressed hurt worse than it had first throwing on my clothes, the shower made it worth it. As warm water trickled over the wounds on my shoulder, washing off more of the blood, the temperature soothed the kinks out of my limbs, easing any aches that still lingered after a night on the forest floor. I shampooed my hair and scrubbed down as gently as possible, turning off the stream only when I felt satisfied enough to stumble back into the bedroom.

A towel wrapped around my body, I left the dirty clothing I’d shed on the floor of the meticulously clean bathroom, apathetic toward whatever effort Mother Marchand had probably put into keeping it that way. Sitting on the bed again, however, called my attention back to the aesthetics – an old habit from being an artist, I told myself. Especially one who got herself in trouble more times than she could count analyzing people on the basis of the stuff they owned. At the same time, even as I scanned the collection of fine art and dark, patternless fabrics against the backdrop of a more neutral palate, I noticed one thing missing.

If this was where the Marchands slept, where were the pictures of their kids?

Maybe it was a ‘human’ custom, and while I kept that in mind, I also thought about the embarrassing collection of photos my parents kept of me and my sisters and couldn’t help but to frown. The Walkers of Lancaster might not be werewolf nobility, I asserted, and not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but they cared about us. Sometimes, despite ourselves. Whether or not the Marchands of France had ever been a guest inside Versailles, they seemed not to know they had a son.

“You’re being judgmental again, Charlotte,” I muttered to myself, pausing to study the wounds on my shoulder and standing only when I was satisfied they hadn’t started bleeding again. A walk-in closet at the far side of the loft contained racks upon racks of clothes, neatly arranged on hangers with every accessory known to mankind. I plucked an outfit that looked way more conservative than I preferred dressing before smirking to myself and looking at the opposite side of the closet. By the time I emerged, I’d stolen a pair of Mommy Marchand’s dark brown slacks with a white Oxford straight out of Papa Marchand’s collection.

My petite body drowned in baggy clothing, but something felt comforting about it. So much so that I collapsed into bed without questioning it any further. I was tired. I felt like I’d been run through the wringer and spat out the other side; trampled down by whatever metaphysical entity thought it was funny to give a college girl a supernatural STD. I burrowed underneath the blankets and smiled as I finally found that pocket of warmth I’d been looking for.

Maybe Corbyn was right – that I needed to rest and at least figure out what was happening to me first. All I knew was that I lacked the ability to make sound decisions and probably wouldn’t gain it back until I’d at least kicked this nasty dizzy spell. I didn’t fight it this time when the urge to sleep came over me and as I heard the faint crackle of the fire, I actually smiled with something vaguely resembling contentment.

He had a long way to go before selling me on the prospect of being with him.

A little of the magic which led us together had begun creeping back to me, though, filling my dreams with the thought of him.

***

My dreams had never been very lucid in the past, just disjointed images thrown on the walls of my subconscious like a child with fingerpaint. Usually speaking, when I did find myself in some sort of dream world, something about the experience made me aware I’d tripped into Wonderland, with the laws of gravity up for grabs and the piece-de-resistance resulting in me entering a crowded room naked. What I entered when I fell asleep, however, seemed much more rooted in reality, evoking all of my senses the moment I opened my eyes.

In some senses, I wondered if it was even a dream at all.

It wasn’t a picture that greeted me first. I felt a breeze lull past me, warm and coaxing me to wade further in. As I drew a deep breath inward, I took in a scent that struck me as familiar and exotic at the same time. Without even needing to be told, I knew it belonged to him. And I couldn’t stop myself from breathing it in again.

He smelled like autumn; like the smell of leaves falling and crackling hearths and apple cider. A subtle aristocracy danced around something reckless and impulsive, becoming intertwined in a way that affected me from head to toe the more I took it in. As I looked around, I noticed I was outside again, looking upward at a sky littered with sunlight, that same gentle breeze causing the branches to sway and the shadows to shift around us. For some reason, it made me smile.

“Tu es belle, chérie,” he said, prompting me to turn my head and look at him. As our eyes met, a smile traced across his lips, expanding until it reached his eyes. Lying on his side, with his elbow resting on the ground, he wore the same outfit he’d worn when we first met and seemed stuck admiring me until I rolled to mirror his position. At that point, he inched closer, stopping once he could reach out and brush my fingers with his.

“If you keep insisting on speaking French to me, I’m going to keep assuming you’re insulting me and just want it to sound pretty,” I said, not really meaning it. His hand on mine felt inviting and a soul-deep, primal part of me wanted desperately to enjoy the sensations he created. As I looked down at our hands, though, I couldn’t help the way my smile disappeared. My thoughts scattered in different directions, not knowing where to settle first.

“Ma petite?”

I glanced up at him quickly, flashing a smile for as long as the exchanged look lasted. “I don’t know how to sort through all of this yet. Or even what to think about you, Corbyn. I swear, if you would’ve told me yesterday that I’d be in a strange house with a strange man worried about something other than my grades for next semester, I would’ve laughed in your face. Date with destiny or not.”

“Adventures are scary sometimes, aren’t they?”

“Is that what we’re calling this? An adventure?”

He laughed lightly, causing me to look back up at him. Corbyn looked past me, sorting his thoughts before meeting my eyes again and offering a much more chagrined smile. “All of the ones I’ve ever taken have been at first. Leaving home a second time after being punished so severely the first time was frightening. I didn’t know I’d find you here when I left.”

“You’re going to tell me you’re just as scared as I am?” My lips quirked.

“Maybe not as much.” His grin spread again, hand lifting from mine to settle on my shoulder. “Only saying I’ve probably look a lot calmer than I really am.”

“Leaving everything you know, getting mixed up with some girl who’s just as lost in whatever this as as you are, and realizing that if your family catches you, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble? That sort of thing?”

“Yes, that sort of thing exactly,” Corbyn said with a laugh.

I sighed and surrendered to the urge to inch closer to him. “I didn’t believe any of this existed yesterday.”

“Imagine what you might discover exists tomorrow.” He gathered me against him. I didn’t fight him; in fact, I nestled myself close to him and shut my eyes while smelling autumn again. I couldn’t explain what made me feel so close to him, whether it was the magic that had us glued together or the bite he claimed bound us, in his world. It still felt in a lot of ways like this was something happening to somebody else and I didn’t know how long it would take to feel some other way.

“I love you,” Corbyn whispered.

“You don’t even know me,” I said. “I don’t even know you.”

“This won’t make any sense to you yet, but I’ve known you all of these years. I searched every face and every soul for yours and almost lost hope that you existed.” Corbyn backed away from me slowly and while I didn’t know what to expect, it still surprised me when he pressed his lips against mine, the gesture both gentle and forceful at the same time. I got the impression of him wanting to convince me, to help me feel what he felt, and as I kissed him back, the moment swept me under for as long as it lasted, stealing my breath when the kiss ended. A tingle raced up my spine and the marks on my shoulder itched, like the universe knew I still needed convincing and wanted to weigh in.

I had to admit, in that moment, both he and the universe offered a strong argument.

He opened his eyes as I opened mine, both of us looking into each other’s eyes while the ethereal glow from his soul wrapped itself around me again. “How do you know this is real?” I whispered.

“You’ll understand soon, chérie,” he said. “It’s too soon for you to see the world the same way I do, but when you’re able to, you’ll understand. Until then…” Corbyn reached up, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Get to know me, ma chère. As you said, we’re both lost in whatever this is. Maybe we could learn how to face it together.”

Before I could respond, Corbyn leaned forward, his lips touching mine in a much more chaste kiss. “Rest,” he whispered afterward. “You’ll feel better soon, I promise.”

I nodded, suddenly tired again and eager to slip into dreamless sleep. With gentle touches, he coaxed me onto my back again and with feather brushes of his lips on my cheek, Corbyn faded from my dream. I watched the leaves descend from the trees above me, as if to form a blanket and tuck me in. It felt pleasant. Calm. Bringing out some inner form of happiness; the carefree spirit I’d had when I was a little girl coming out for the first time in years. I closed my eyes and didn’t notice when I’d drifted to sleep again.

When I woke, I entered reality again. Or at least, the new world I’d been brought into.

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