Streak of Black

When I was little, I heard of how your life flashes before your eyes when you die. That's not true. At least if it is, I wouldn't know—not yet. It flashes before your eyes before you do something that you know may result in your death. And it's not your whole life—just the moments where you were most content.

I charge Damien's dad; I see my mother sitting next to my bed and singing an old French lullaby to me when I was three. I lean into her side looking up at her as she gently strokes my auburn hair.

I leap in the air; I see my dad laughing as he, Lovett, and I try and fail to make my mother a birthday cake a month before the accident.

I land on Damien's father's chest with bared teeth, suspended in midair for what seems like forever; I stand over Kenley when I was nine, having beaten him at play wrestling. Aunt Lunette gives me a hug and offers a smile filled with pride.

He falls to the ground; Ryder and I are in the forest back home, and he kisses me, the first time I kissed him back and mean it.

The gun goes off; Ryder tells me how he knew he loved me, and I kiss him.

I barely miss the bullet as I roll off of Damien's dad; I tell Ryder I love him.

Damien's father runs, and I join the fight.
* * * * *
My Pack and I battle against the henchmen in a war that their leader abandoned. Many of us are back to back, tail to tail. Tall men come at us from all directions, and we leap out at them. We claw at our attackers and dig our teeth into them. I briefly consider the fact that they're fighting a war that they were drafted into and are fighting in blindly because a man with power and money told them to. It's actually pretty sad, but I can't allow that to distract me.

I don't dare to get anywhere near Ryder for fear that one of us will get distracted and get the other killed. For that matter, my mind doesn't register which wolf is who for the same fear. I have no clue how I'd react to seeing specific members of my Pack being attacked or vice versa, and I don't want to find out. I refuse to allow their blood on my hands.

I use many of the maneuvers from the room on these men, taking them from the ankles or behind. The smell of blood, sweat, and gunpowder fills the air. Slowly, however, less and less guns are being used. Many lay around the field, rendered useless due to the crushed state they're in. If I was human, I'd smile at Lovett, knowing that he had a hand in that.

Daggers are thrown blindly. Some men overestimate and hit their partners, not used to fighting targets so much closer to the ground. We use their distractions to our advantage, attacking those without weapons. Many see the hopelessness in the cause and flee. Some stay and fight to the end, for which I commend them. The sun begins to rise in the distance, and we are surrounded by, and covered with, blood and death. We don't even bother worrying about the fact that when we Transform, we'll have no clothes. The majority of us are related, Ryder has already seen everything of me that there is to see thanks to our awkward bath moment last month, and, quite frankly, we're all just too worn out to care.

We lay exhausted on the floor, waiting for the sun to rise and take us back. Even after it rises, we stay there, too exhausted to move. I'm distantly aware of the weeping soldiers littering the field, but I can hardly feel bad for them. Not right now.

But among those tears is a whimpering, almost like a dog in pain. I look up and around. I knew this would happen. I feel tears in my eyes as I close the small space between my Pack member and me.

Zeeva lays on the floor, her hand covering the bullet hole in her right side. Blood is smeared in her hand and around the wound. Everyone looks over, and Eyulf crawls to her side. I hurry into one of the tents and grab rags and a blanket. I wrap the blanket around my fallen friend and hand her a rag to cover the wound. I weave in and out of other tents until 11 blankets lay in a pile. Everyone grabs one and wraps it around themselves. Eyulf picks up his mate and walks ahead of all of us, hurrying her back to the house. I hear him whispering how this is his fault, punishment for what he did to his dad, as tears drip from his eyes and down his cheeks.

Back at the house, my aunt gets rubbing alcohol, thread, tweezers, a knife, and a needle. She sterilizes everything even though infection isn't a huge concern for us and slices Zeeva's injury a little bigger. She reaches inside with the tweezers and pulls the bullet out, handing it to Lovett, the only one who can touch steel. As the bullet scrapes through her, Zeeva screams out in agony, her face streaked with tears and her hair damp with sweat. Even Charlette came out of hiding to watch the spectacle unfold with horror, fear, and guilt playing on her face. She knows that the only reason we sought the men out and fought them was because they were going to try to take her and Gabrielle away. I want to reassure her, but I can't. I blame her too.

Zeeva is passed out by the time my aunt finishes, her face pale. Eyulf kneels by her side. He rubs her right hand in both of his as he kisses it and whispers prayers in his native Norwegian tongue. My aunt sews Zeeva up with an expert hand, a much neater job than the one that Andre performed on Ryder.

Lunette checks her pulse. "It's faint, but she should be okay." We all hear the emphasis on "should" and hear the uncertainty in her voice. Eyulf picks her up and follows Lunette up the stairs to her room. That seems to be turning into the recovery room. Everyone, still wrapped in blankets, doesn't seem to want to leave the room—doesn't seem to want to leave each other. No one talks, but no one leaves. Even Rudi, whose been giving Zeeva the stink eye since everything went down between them, has a face marred with concern.

"You okay?" Ryder whispers to me, sitting beside me, a little away from everyone else. Some things never change.

I can't talk, I just nod. He falls silent too, and I just lean my head against his shoulder.

Finally, someone decides that we've been sitting around, pretending that nothing is wrong for long enough. Of course, that person is Cannan.

Wordlessly, he stands and exits the room, trudging up the stairs and turning on one of the three showers in the house. Everyone begins to shake of the shock and slowly begin to rotate in and out of the bathrooms for quick showers. Ryder goes in after me, and finds me in the study as he dries his wet hair. I'm staring out the window at the sun as it rises in the sky.

"How are you?" He asks, taking the other chair, knowing that right now is not an appropriate time for a make-out session.

"Death follows me everywhere, Ryder. I try to pretend it doesn't, but it does. Death, pain, torture, suffering."

He rises and comes to kneel before me, and he grabs my hands in one of his as he gently tilts my head so that I look at him. My wet hair brushes my back, and cold drips of water stream down and soak into my shirt. "Louve, none of this is your fault," he says gently.

"I tell myself that, Ryder, but is it true? I ask this thing, this Voice what to do, but she never tells me. What's the point of her being here, of me having to suffer with these premonitions if it doesn't let me help anyone or stop anything? It should happen for a reason, but how has it helped us significantly."

"Maybe you're supposed to learn how to control it all somehow," he suggests, trying to be less objective. The last time that he tried to outright tell me to remove Monique's presence from my life, we had a huge fight, and neither of us wants that now. He stands, picks me up, and puts me in his lap, combing my tangled, wet hair with his fingers.

I don't want to talk anymore. I just want to lay here with him. I don't want either of us to go anywhere. For now, I can't let myself think about Zeeva. She's not dead, but she's out cold—I can feel it in my head. The house is silent, but I know that no one is asleep. I don't know what to do anymore.

When did my life become so complicated?

'When I came along.' Monique sounds smug, and I accept her statement without argument.