Page 85 of Fate, Interrupted

Elias looks at me steadily. “Yes,” he says. “You’re correct. We haven’t seen issues like this in a very long time.”

The agreement arrives without satisfaction. Because the point he is making is that it doesn’t matter. Whether these incidents were organic or engineered by people with a reason to want wolves visible and volatile in the public eye, the political consequence is identical. Perception rarely concerns itself with cause.

“The council will expect cooperation from the packs while the situation is addressed,” he continues. “Inspections will increase. Businesses in this district will receive visits from city representatives.” He folds his hands together. “We are entering a period where everything visible will be interpreted. Everything public will be weighed.”

I know this rhythm. It has played out before, in various forms, throughout my entire adult life. One incident, real or manufactured, and suddenly every wolf in the city is required to prove that he can behave, that he is the safe and manageable kind. That the version of wolves the human world finds tolerable is the version currently present and accounted for.

“There is another matter,” Elias says.

I don’t move.

He leans back slightly in his chair. “You were seen again with the human woman.”

The words arrive with the same even tone he used for the vandalism report. That evenness is its own kind of statement.

“With the human woman,” I repeat.

He doesn’t say her name.

The omission hits immediately, and I feel the slap of it before I can decide what to do with it. He’s erased Norah to a category, the same thing humans have been doing to wolves for decades.

“Yes,” I say.

“You and I already discussed this situation earlier in the week.”

“We did.”

“I told you my concerns.”

“I remember.”

He studies me for a moment with the patient, measuring attention he brings to problems he’s not yet finished assessing.

“And yet yesterday you were seen walking with her down a city street. And last week you were rowing a boat across a public lake with her.”

His voice remains completely even. That evenness somehow makes it sharper.

“We had a picnic,” I say.

“I’m aware.”

Outside the window, a truck backs slowly through the yard, the beep, beep, beep of its backup signal reminding me of a metronome. It drifts faintly through the glass, small and ordinary and indifferent to what is happening in this room.

“You appear to have misunderstood the intent of our previous conversation,” Elias says.

I uncross my arms and move closer to the desk.

“No,” I say. “I understood it.”

He watches me. “I don’t believe you did.”

I hold his gaze and say nothing, because arguing is pointless now. He lets the silence continue. This is one of his tools Logan inherited. After a suitable moment has elapsed, he continues.

“The situation in town has changed,” he says. “Public sentiment toward wolves is becoming volatile. The last thing this pack needs is unnecessary attention drawn to one of its visible members.”

“That vandalism had nothing to do with me. Or ‘the human.’” I say it sarcastically, my gaze unwavering.

“No,” he says. “It didn’t. But perception rarely concerns itself with accuracy, and you’re not a private citizen engaging in private behavior. You’re a Coulter. Your actions are read as signals, whether or not you intend them that way.”