Charlie watches as Brighid’s features change from satisfaction to confusion, and now it’s her turn to be pleased– though the feeling passes as quickly as it comes. The hunter’s line of questioning is sincere enough for Charlie to believe her: Addison’s death and Jacob’s disappearance are not Brighid’s, nor her clan’s, doing. She is not that good an actress, and even if she were, Charlie wouldn’t be so easily fooled.
She smiles, quiet and small to herself, until the next realization hits and wipes it away: she still doesn’t know who is responsible. She is no closer to the truth than when she entered this bar, and will likely not be any closer when she leaves. The situation begs a new question, too: why is Brighid here at all?
Charlie opens her mouth to ask, but Brighid speaks first. She takes a drink instead, holds the whiskey on her tongue. When she sets the glass back down on the bar, she’s smiling again. Brighid thinks she’s discovered something, but she hasn’t: see, Charlie has no pack, and Addison Tarry is much more than a wolf.
“Oh, that’s hardly a realization, Brighid,” Charlie replies, taunting the smile right off her face, “don’t go patting yourself on the back about it. It’s ugly.” She takes another drink, prolonging the pause before she continues.
“No,” she says finally, replacing the glass to its coaster, “She is not one of mine. She’s a student at Blackrock High. Has family, like you, although it’s a damn shame that hers aren’t as prone to murder.” Truthfully, Charlie isn’t sure whose benefit this is for. She’s not so foolish as to think Brighid will be swayed by a few humanizing words, but it feels good to say them to her regardless. It feels a bit like revenge.
Charlie turns to face Brighid once more, leaning her face close. “You think you have a purpose, is that it? Because somebody told you so, because they handed you a secret and a knife on a silver platter?” Charlie smiles. She’s gaining confidence now; it’s a dangerous thing. “We’ve existed far longer than you have, and we will exist long after. You play a one-sided game because someone was stupid enough to tell you you’re special. We’ve been surviving for thousands of years.” She leans back, picks up her drink again.
“What makes you think you’re going to win?”
It should feel like a victory, this information she’s wrung out of this women. A woman who clearly prides herself on being tightlipped and in control. She is too much alike Brighid herself. But that is not a route Brig wishes to travel down.
There is nothing similar between a human and a wolf, not at the core.
Charlie’s smile is goading. It feels more like a challenge, and Brighid cannot help the flash of concern. Is this a mistake? There is something sickly that tugs at her gut. Makes her stomach roll, and the back of her neck flush. It takes her a minute, but the realization clicks into place and she feels dread in every aspect of her being. It’s humiliation she feels. Charlie has embarrassed her. Brig feels too hot all of a sudden, packed between bodies of drunkards and fools. She is not ugly. Brighid’s spine straightens.
“But there are more of your kind,” she will wrench this conversation from the jaws of defeat. She will make this woman feel small and useless like the wolf she is. Because wolves fear her. She is the monster that hunts monsters. She is the thing that goes bump in the night.
“You know nothing of the family I have.” It should come out meaner, a vile thing. But it is simply a fact. This woman thinks she knows so much about her. Brighid wonders if she knows how wrong she is. “Are you finished?” The boredom in her tone carries carefully.
She lets the word murder hang in the air. It does not cause her pain. She is not a murder.
“The things we say,” a finger runs around the rim of her glass, “to help us sleep at night.” Her smile is larger than before. “Does it feel good to know there is a family grieving that your kind took? Does it help you sleep that there are humans out there that you have betrayed?”
The roll of her eyes is unnecessary. She has heard these words before. The desperation that comes from being backed into a corner. The wolves are all the same, at the heart of it. They only wish to save their skin and will do so with whatever tools they can manage.
“Humanity always wins.” There is an offered shrug, the picture of nonchalance. If it weren’t for the way her eyes sparked with the hint of something dangerous.
