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Myrika is by Raze!
She wanted very much to ask Cassandra to stop, to look up and agree, and smile, though she was fully aware how absurd such a hope was. The tawny hybrid refused to yield to the compulsion to ask her outright to stop. Perhaps it was the cold tallying of this clan's history -- the observational and dry way she'd written death, war, and rape -- even using her grandmother's polite phrase: have against her will. That phrase, echoic in her head just then, very much needed to be scratched out, perhaps the whole page torn out and rewritten. Such coldness had no place in descriptions of brutality. Those deeds needed to be laid bare, visible for what they were to the world.
All the fur along her shoulders and neck was fully roused. A shiver ran through her arms, and the rattling brought a sharp stab of pain in her hand. She looked down and saw a smudge of red against one tawny-hued knuckle but paid it no mind. She touched her sister's hair, running her fingers along the long silver-pale locks, brushing them away from her face and tucking them behind her head. It's not your fault, she said.
I would have done the same. Would she have? I wouldn't want them. You didn't want them, she murmured, unable to keep the words away. They never were. She didn't know if the words even mattered -- there was blankness in her sister's face. She kept talking all the same, some of the same phrases and sentiments repeating. I'm sorry, she said, and it was one of the things the fire-haired coyote said again and again -- for what had happened, for making Cassie relive it, for thinking she could have helped, and many other things. There were many pleases, too, though Myrika did not know if she was pleading to be heard, believed, or right.
Listen -- please, she said, louder, clearer, and less a babble than the rest when one very clear and very rational thought arose above the jumble. If anyone ever touches -- if anyone even looks at you or anything else -- tell me, she said, authority sliding unintentionally back into her voice. Tell me -- and I'll tear them to fucking pieces. It wasn't so monstrous to seek vengeance, however -- what made it so was the quiet cold all her anger had turned into, fire frozen into a solid chunk of ice in the center of her. It was too easy to mislabel the feeling as protectiveness and too easy to turn all that cold into its fuel. Maybe she had her pet monster, after all.
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