The Wolf’s Insight

8

After nearly two hours of travel, the train hissed to a final stop at Vanderhoof. As I stepped onto the platform, the sheer scale of the challenge hit me like a physical blow. The town was larger than McBride, housing over four thousand souls, and divided into two distinct districts. The density of human life here felt like a labyrinth designed to keep me from her.

"It won't be simple to find her in the middle of all these people," I muttered, my voice tight with frustration as we exited the station.

Chase shifted his weight, his tone hardening from brotherly comfort to Alpha-level intensity. "Come on, friend. Don’t fall apart now. We need to find this blessed mate of yours and put an end to this torment. Like McBride, we start with the gathering spots—bars, restaurants, shops, schools. And the libraries. We check every single public library first."

"Why the libraries?" Chase asked, his brow furrowed.

"Her scent... it reminds me of a new book," I replied, though the uncertainty gnawed at me. In truth, that lingering, dusty-sweet aroma was the only compass I had in this storm. "We’ll start with the southern district. It’s smaller, easier to comb through."

"How do you even know the map of this place?" my friend asked, genuine curiosity breaking through his gruff demeanor.

"While you were busy texting your beloved, I had Siri describe the city grid to me," I countered, eager to get to work. "Honestly, I should use her more often. She asks fewer questions than you do."

Chase chuckled, a dark, dry sound. "Touché. At least when she doesn't know, she just says, 'Sorry, I don't understand.' Let’s go."

The hours bled into one another. We scoured every corner of the southern district, a relentless march through concrete and crowded streets. My legs ached, and my wolf was pacing behind my ribs, agitated and starved for the scent that had become my entire existence. Finally, at a small café—a local Tim Hortons—I caught it. A faint, ethereal trace of chestnuts and old parchment clinging to a table. It was weak, but it was there. That single, molecular proof gave me the breath of life I needed to keep moving. 

The hours ticked by, marked by the mechanical ticking of the watch on my wrist. Chase, usually a font of sarcastic wit and grounding banter, fell into a heavy, thoughtful silence. We were both locked in our own worlds, searching through the crowds, lost in the hum of Vanderhoof. By 9:00 PM, the fatigue was bone-deep. 

Chase stopped, placing a heavy, grounding hand on my shoulder. "Kaelen, stop. It’s nine o'clock. We’ve searched the entire district. Let’s find a bar, get some food, and then head to a motel. There is nothing more we can do today."

"And then what, Chase? What other lead can I follow?" I flared, my voice cracking. "You’re right, we’ve raked through this entire city, and the only proof we found was in a pathetic, crowded café. The truth is, I’ve lost her. I’ve lost my mate, and it’s likely going to be forever."

Admitting the truth aloud felt like tearing a bandage off a raw wound. It burned. Chase moved as if to comfort me, but I pulled away, my pride rallying to armor me. "I’m fine, really. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe I’m stronger alone. Let’s just eat."

We ended up in a dingy, dimly lit bar. I sat at the counter, a plate of steak and chips untouched before me. My appetite had been replaced by a hollowness that no food could fill. I wore my mask of indifference like a second skin, while inside, my wolf was howling, shattered by the prospect of an eternal, lonely death. I excused myself to the bathroom, needing the small, futile distraction of changing my contact lenses. I splashed cold water on my face, staring into the abyss of the mirror, wondering if I truly looked as cold and detached as I felt. I swapped the lenses for a pair of dark brown ones—my standard camouflage. I had spent years mastering the art of looking 'normal,' the price of admission for a blind man in a world of sight.

When I returned to the table, I didn't reach for the food. 

"Kaelen, I know it’s hard, but you have to eat," Chase said, his voice dropping into the tone of a commander. "You haven't touched a thing all day. You are one of my best fighters, and my dearest friend. I am not going to let you spiral into self-destruction." He took a long, resolute gulp of his beer. "It isn't over. When you least expect it, she will be there."

"Chase," I sighed, "my mate isn't a sweatshirt or a pair of socks you can't find. You talk as if this door could just swing open right now and she’d walk in simply because I need her to."

I had barely finished the sentence when the heavy door of the bar creaked open. I turned my head toward the sound, my senses screaming, but all I caught was the overwhelming, mundane stench of beer, ketchup, and frying oil.

"Damn, Kaelen," Chase teased, his laugh bubbling up. "If that’s your mate, the Moon Goddess has a cruel sense of humor. A guy just walked in who looks like he’s devoted his life to a religion of burgers, beer, and football."

I groaned, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite my misery. "Stop it, you idiot. I’m not in the mood." But even I couldn't hold back the laughter. The absurdity of the situation was a necessary release.

We spent the next fifteen minutes trading insults and talking about nothing, a rare moment of levity. Then, the door opened again. 

This time, the air in the bar shifted. 

The scent of her—chestnuts, bay leaves, and the crisp, clean smell of a crisp autumn afternoon—rushed in, flooding my senses like a benediction. I felt as though I had been thrust into paradise. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild, rhythmic warning.

"Chase," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Who just came in? Describe her. Now."

"Oh," Chase said, his voice dropping, his tone shifting into something softer, more reverent. "It’s a girl. Medium height, normal build, fair skin. Her hair is brown, falling all the way down to the small of her back. Her eyes... they’re like nutella. Her face is oval, perfectly balanced. She’s wearing blue jeans, black boots, and a jacket to match. A red and black plaid scarf, a red beanie, and black gloves. Is... is it her?"

"Yes," I breathed, my mind painting a portrait of the scent. "She smells like books and roasted chestnuts. It’s her."

I focused on her, listening to the subtle rhythm of her breath, the slight hitch in her step. I followed her scent as she moved to the counter. I tilted my head, straining to hear her voice.

"Hey, Jake, give me a few beers to go. I need to get home," she said. Her voice was firm, laced with a hint of fatigue, but it had a melodic quality that felt like a song I had known my entire life.

"Coming right up," the bartender replied. "I just need to grab them from the back."

I felt her sit, heard the soft sigh of exhaustion escape her. I started to rise, but another figure beat me to it. A man, swaying on his feet, reeking of cheap gin, drifted toward her.

"Good evening, sweetie," he slurred, his voice dripping with unwanted entitlement. "What's your name?"

"My name is none of your business," she snapped, her tone sharp as a dagger. "Get lost. I want to be alone."

"I bet you want company, don't you?" the man pushed, and I heard the screech of the stool as he invaded her personal space.

The rage didn't just bubble; it detonated. My wolf slammed into the driver's seat, his fangs bared. I was across the room in a blur of motion.

"She said she wants to be alone," I growled, my voice vibrating with a lethal, predatory promise. "Which part of that sentence is too difficult for you to grasp?"

The man turned, his face flushed and ugly. I caught the stench of his breath—foul, rotting. "Mind your own business, kid."

I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the lapel of his jacket like a vice. "Stay away from her."

"And who’s going to make me? You?" He swung a punch, a lazy, drunken arc. My reflexes, honed by years of darkness and instinct, moved before he could even blink. I parried the blow, tightened my grip, and slammed my forehead into his nose. There was a sickening crack, and he dropped to the floor, unconscious before he hit the wood. 

"Anyone else?" I asked the room, my voice deathly calm. The bar was silent. No one moved. 

I turned my back on the crowd and focused on her. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she said, her voice quiet, a layer of sadness coating her words. "Don't worry. I’m used to this."

I stood there, paralyzed, suddenly feeling the weight of my own awkwardness. "Right. Well, um... I’ll leave you to it."

"What?" she asked, a spark of playful irony cutting through the gloom. I could hear her heart rate spike; she was as rattled as I was. "You aren't going to ask my name?"

"I didn't want to bother you," I mumbled, feeling like an absolute fool. I had no script for this.

"It’s no bother," she replied, and in the silence of the bar, she finally offered me the key to my own salvation. "My name is Artemis."