Page 94 of Rage
I look behind surveying all three cars boxing me in. Whoever the fuck this is, doesn’t have any intention of leaving until they get what they want. “I don’t know you. What the fuck do you want?”
A slight nod. “No. But we’ve been looking for you.”
My jaw tightens. “I’ve heard that before.”
“So have we.”
Silence stretches between us. The man reaches inside his jacket. My muscles tense.
Instead of a weapon, he removes a black envelope. Heavy. Matte. It’s sealed with dark crimson wax.
He holds it out, but I don’t take it. “Who sent you?”
“The man who has waited eighteen years to meet his son.”
The words don’t land; they explode. My son?
Impossible. I don’t know who my father is, but there have been enough times when my stepfather made sure to let meknow that whoever the bastard was, he wasn’t coming to save me. My mother hid me for a reason, and that reason was for protection. My mother never…My thoughts stop.
The wax seal catches the light in the shape of a wolf. Its body wrapped around an ancient crown.
My pulse stutters. I knew that crest as a kid. I would catch my mother drawing that crest.
Over.
And over.
And over.
On scraps of paper. Napkins. Margins of books.
When I was little, she’d hand me a pencil and tell me to copy it until I could draw it from memory. I asked her what it meant once. She smiled, folded the paper, and then burned it in the kitchen sink.
I was confused about why she made me draw only to have it burned, as if it never existed. Then she told me never to draw it again. I haven’t thought about that symbol in years. Yet somehow...
I could recreate every line. Every curve. Every tooth. Every point in the crown.
The man notices my expression. “You recognize it.”
I don’t answer. He doesn’t need one.
“He hoped you would.”
My fingers finally close around the envelope. The paper is heavier than it should be. Inside is a single card with only six words.
Your mother kept her promise.
Now let me keep mine.
Below the sentence—The same wolf.
The same crown. Embossed in black.
I look back up. “If this is some kind of joke?—”
“It isn’t.”
My breath gets rougher. “Who are you?”
