Page 105 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
“Actually, we’re bringing along some … extra guests. We thought we’d stay at the lodge.”
“I suppose that works,” Raeanne added hesitantly. I could hear the beeping of what was likely an oven or a microwave or some other kitchen appliance. Likely, she was baking up a storm. It was the one subject she and Argent could have a conversation about without resorting to thinly veiled insults. “The lodge is currently empty; there won’t be any other guests.”
You know how in every Hallmark or Lifetime Christmas movie ever created, there’s some adorable lodge run by smalltown folk with good hearts and holiday cheer? This was like that except it was run by self-hating werewolf smalltown folk with good hearts and holiday cheer.
Also, my guy did wear flannel like a proper Christmas movie hunk. And, like any proper Christmas movie, we’d met in the way that most of the films’ leading ladies do: city girl goes to the smalltown south and falls in love.
Thirteen years ago …
Christmas fucking sucked. It was my least favorite time o’ the year, despite my family’s insistence on celebrating the holiday like any other American family. Unlike other American families however, ours was made up of werewolves.
“Abel, if you don’t get those goddamn kids off the picnic table, I will slap you upside the head.” My mother was pointing at my brothers’ kids, both of whom were in wolf form, much to my family’s immense displeasure.
Our pack was small, one of the smallest registered packs in the North American territory. Forty wolves, all related, all assholes.
“Alright, alright, Mama, I hear ya.” My brother Abel dumped the armful of firewood he held next to the firepit, but I was already on it, scooping up the wiggly bodies of my niece and nephew as they yipped and licked at my mouth in submissive puppy gestures.
“Get outta those forms and go get some clothes on!” my mother barked at the pair of them, swatting their butts as she passed by. She was in a hectic flurry today, setting up a huge outdoor dining table for the winter solstice dinner.
Well, other wolves celebrated the winter solstice. We celebrated contemporary American Christmas, but a few days early, on the actual solstice. Although we were still observing a traditional werewolf holiday, that’s where the love for the solstice stopped.
We didn’t acknowledge it.
Later tonight, the adults in the pack would shift and go their separate ways in the woods, letting out their inner beasts with no small amount of shame.
I felt stifled already.
“Stella will be here tonight,” my mother cajoled, dropping a stack of gold-rimmed plates on the table. I had to hand it to the woman; she knew how to decorate like nobody’s business. The table itself was a showpiece, carved from a single tree and laid with a red and green runner, tall crimson taper candles in holders made from antlers, and bowls overflowing with nuts, sweets, cookies, candy canes, and oranges.
My mama knew how to make things homey, even in the bitter cold of December.
“Stella,” I said, trying the name out on my tongue. Stella was the only—and I mean only—single female werewolf in our pack that I wasn’t directly related to. The matchmaking efforts between her mama and my mama were legendary. Though I wanted a mate more than anything, I didn’t want her.
Despite my unsavory witch half, Stella had made her interest in me more than clear.
I set my niece and nephew on the ground and stood up, swiping a hand over my face as my mother threw me a look.
“Caine, you’re unhappy.” She turned around to face me, dirty blond hair curled and twisted up into a messy bun, her mouth shifting from a sly half-smile to a frown. “You don’t have to tell me that: I can see it plain as day on your face. Stella is a good woman; she’d make you happy. She’d make all of us happy.” Mama threw her hand out to indicate her now naked grandchildren who were being hurriedly wrapped up in blankets and shooed into the house to change.
Nudity was common amongst most packs—just not ours.
Over the years, our small pack size and geographical location had led our alphas—that is, my great grandparents and then their kids and now my mother—to adapt to local tradition and give up many of the traditions that came with being werewolf.
Some days, I felt so closeted that I could barely breathe.
This was one of those days.
“I know you want more grandbabies,” I said, offering my mother a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll do my best.”
That was a lie, but just a little white one to please Mama and make her smile.
In reality, I wanted to scream.
Instead, I sat through dinner—which was damn good, even if the company wasn’t much to my liking—and I sat through Stella brushing up against my side at every available opportunity, and then I bailed.
