Chapter 241
Jacob’s Perspective
The low, steady rumble of the engine was the only comforting thing left in the world. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, my eyes fixed on the grey interstate stretching ahead. In the rearview mirror, the ruins shrank rapidly, finally vanishing behind the rolling horizon.
It was over.
For us, at least. The monster in Brett’s skin, its bloody accounts with the witches, the Hunters, and every other scavenger drawn to the stink… they could sort it out themselves. I didn’t give a damn anymore. We had our answer—the cold, brutal truth. That was enough. Digging any deeper wouldn’t bring anything back except maybe getting Celena or both of us killed.
Now, it was time to go home. My and Celena’s home. A place with a door we could lock, shutting out the whole fucked-up world for a while.
The blue line on the GPS crept steadily forward, the miles-to-home ticking down. But most of my attention was on the passenger seat.
Celena had been crying. Almost constantly.
Not loud, wracking sobs—that would have been easier, in a way. This was a silent, continuous unraveling. Tears would well up without warning, tracing paths down her pale cheeks, dripping onto the backs of her hands clenched in her lap, or soaking into the oversized grey hoodie I’d bought her at a convenience store last night. She made no sound. Just a faint tremble in her shoulders, her red-rimmed eyes staring blankly at the bleak landscape blurring past, as if part of her soul had stayed down there in the dark with her brother.
Then the tears would stop, as abruptly as they started. She’d slump against the window, head tilted, eyes empty, like a device whose battery had died. But before long—passing a billboard, a random old song on the radio, or nothing at all—the next wave would rise, silent and relentless.
I had no fucking clue how to fix it.
I wasn’t good with words. The younger cubs in the pack were wary of me, the elders thought me too blunt, even Lily sometimes said I had the tongue of a brick. I could plan raids, lead a hunt, face down bullets and claws without blinking. But standing before this silent, bottomless grief in the woman I loved, I felt like a fool with bare hands, trying to plug a crack that kept seeping water.
All I could do was this.
Whenever a tremor started, whenever a tear fell, I’d reach over with my right hand and wrap hers in mine. Squeezing hard, trying to push my meager warmth and the simple fact of *I’m still here* into her skin. If the road allowed, I’d pull over onto the shoulder, unbuckle, and lean across to pull her into a tight, fierce hug. My arms around her thin shoulders, my chin on her head, breathing in the scents of gun smoke and salt tears lingering in her hair. I didn’t say “don’t cry.” I didn’t say “it’ll be okay.” Those words would have sounded like the cruelest mockery. I just held on, until the violent shaking in my arms subsided into faint, hitching breaths.
Then, I’d use my rough thumb to carefully, clumsily—like a father wolf grooming a pup for the first time—wipe the wet tracks from her cheeks. She’d lift her damp eyes to mine, a look that shattered me all over again, and give the smallest nod. I’d settle back, restart the car, and drive on. This simple ritual—*stop, hold, wipe, go*—became our pathetic, only defense against the vast sorrow on this long road home.
Screw everything else. My whole world was now contained within this dusty, scraped-up Ford Explorer and the woman beside me, cried nearly hollow, whom I’d die to protect but didn’t know how to help. I just wanted home. Soon. I wanted her in our own bed—not new, but wide and soft—under sun-dried blankets. I wanted to make hot soup, even if my cooking was terrible. I wanted the familiar walls, the mundane routines, the slow crawl of time… to use all of that to dilute the fresh, ragged wound in her heart. I knew it would take a long time. Maybe it would never fully heal. But we had to start.
Midway, Lily called. Her voice came clear but weary through the car speakers.
“You’re out?” she asked, skipping any greeting.
“On the road. Heading home,” I answered shortly, glancing at Celena. She stirred at the sound of Lily’s voice but didn’t look up.
“Status?”
“Brett’s gone.” The words scraped my throat raw. “The thing said so. Completely. We got out alive.”
Silence on the line for a few beats. I could almost hear her taking a deep breath. “…Understood. Celena?”
“With me.” I paused. “Not good.”
“…Take care of her, Jacob.” Lily’s voice softened, holding a rare, sisterly gentleness. “Route secure? Need an escort?”
“Not now. We’re on the main roads. Taking it slow.”
“Keep in touch. Let me know when you’re home.” Another pause. “…I’m sorry. For all of it.”
“Yeah.” I ended the call. *Sorry* didn’t fix anything, but knowing the pack was there, that Lily was watching, made the road home feel a fraction more solid. After I hung up, Celena placed her hand lightly over mine on the gear shift and pressed down, just for a second. A faint, almost imperceptible response, but enough. She’d heard. She was still here.
We obeyed traffic laws, drove the speed limit, even waited in line at the toll booths. Like any ordinary couple returning from a disastrous trip. Except our clothes were filthy and torn, our eyes bloodshot, the car smelling faintly of blood and despair.
That night, we stopped at a roadside motel that looked marginally clean. I paid cash for the room farthest from the office and parked right outside. The room smelled of disinfectant and old cigarettes, the sheets looked grey, but there was hot water.
I avoided anything that might hurt her. Checked the room quickly, drew the curtains, dimmed the lights. Ran a bath and left clean towels by the door. Didn’t mention the past few days. Avoided her eyes, afraid of the emptiness I’d see there. I just moved silently through the tasks: checking locks, stuffing her dirty clothes into a plastic bag, fetching barely-edible sandwiches and water from the vending machine.
She stayed in the shower a long time. I leaned against the wall outside, listening to the water run, my heart clenched, braced for muffled sobs or worse. When she emerged, her face was flushed from the heat, her eyes still swollen, but she looked… slightly more present. She ate a few bites of sandwich, drank some water, then curled up on the bed nearest the wall, her back to me.
I turned off the lights and lay down on the other bed, still dressed, eyes open, tracking every tiny sound of her breathing in the dark. She didn’t move for so long I thought she was asleep. Just as my own eyelids grew heavy, I heard her speak, her voice a faint, thick whisper in the dark.
“Jacob.”
“Yeah?”
“…Thank you.”
Just those two words. Then her breathing evened out into the slow rhythm of sleep. I lay there in the darkness, and the tight, aching knot in my chest loosened, just a little, because of them.
Fortunately—maybe ’fortunately’ was the wrong word, but it was true—she came back to herself faster than I’d dared hope. Not healed. The grief was still there, a backdrop to everything. But the state of total collapse, of being sealed off from the world, began to recede.
The next day in the car, the tears came less often. She took the water bottle I offered and drank. Once or twice, her gaze lingered on a strange road sign or an oversized truck. On the third day, she even reached out and tuned the radio herself, though she turned it off again quickly.
The road home was long. We had time for silence. Time for the sharpest edges of the pain to slowly, slowly blunt.
On the final stretch, familiar sights began to appear. The distant silhouette of our pack’s mountains on the horizon. The unique scent in the air—a mix of specific pines and wild things—growing clearer.
About half an hour from home, passing through the nearest town, Celena spoke. She’d been watching the world outside. Her voice was hoarse but clear, and it held a faint trace of… life.
“Pull over.”
I signaled immediately and eased onto the shoulder. “What’s wrong?” I thought she needed water or to rest.
She turned to look at me. Her eyes were still puffy, but the utter deadness was gone. Replaced by a faint light, and a look of quiet resolve.
“I want…” she licked her dry lips, “…to buy some clothes. Right now.”
I blinked, looking at the oversized grey hoodie she’d worn for days, stained with grime and tears, and understood instantly. She wanted to put on something clean, something belonging to “normal life,” before walking through our door.
“Of course,” I said at once, a complex warmth—bitter and hopeful—welling in my chest. “No problem. I’ll come with you.”
As if I’d say no. She could ask for anything right now, and if it was within my power, I’d move heaven and earth to get it for her.