Chapter Text
"Weirdest thing I've ever seen, I swear. Could'a mistaken it for a ghoul attack or something," says one of Trevor's werewolf informants.
"Oh my god, shut up," says his sister/packmate, "you didn't see shit!"
"I meant the body!" he pauses, brows knitting together, and scratches behind his ear. "Bodies? Was kinda hard to tell. All torn up and covered in bite marks. Hard to get a real good look before the scene got cleaned up."
Trevor sighs and traces the sound muffling sigil that Sypha had scratched into the tavern table to give their group some privacy. "But what kind of bite marks?"
James opens his mouth again but the pack matriarch makes a hushing gesture and pulls her pipe from her mouth. "They looked human in size and shape, but a human couldn't bite that hard that many times without their jaw giving out."
A few of the other people in the tavern send odd looks their way, but Trevor is pretty sure it's only because of Sypha's robes. Speakers don't exactly frequent establishments like these. Trevor isn't sure if Speakers are even allowed to drink, or if that goes against their code or something.
He's met up with this pack a few times over the years, and he knows that they're regulars here. Knows that they haven't hurt anyone. He just can't bring himself to hunt an innocent family.
"We haven't had an attack like this happen around here in decades," Grandma Al continues, "people are getting antsy, especially since the victims look to have been clergy."
"But the local priests haven't gone missing?" Trevor asks, suddenly much less sympathetic towards whoever it was.
"No, but rumour has it that some higher up was making a," she curls her lip, "surprise visit."
A chill runs down Trevor's spine.
"You said nothing like this has happened in decades," Sypha says, "what changed, that this place was safe for so long?"
Trevor had honestly assumed that the pack had been scaring off anything dangerous, but the younger two werewolves suddenly won't meet his eyes.
"Hmm." Gran takes a drag from her pipe and considers how much to tell them. "A doctor set up shop in the next town over. The place is warded all to hell, enough to make my nose itch."
Sypha and Trevor exchange glances.
"She's not a witch!" Jessy bursts out, misinterpreting their look. "She's a good person!"
“That’s not what we were thinking,” Sypha says with her hands raised to show her palms.
“I take it she gets that accusation a lot?” Trevor asks.
Gran nods. “She doesn’t have a lick of magic but she sure knows about it. Recognized us for what we are real quick, still wasn’t afraid to treat Jessy’s broken leg.”
“If she doesn’t have magic herself,” Sypha asks, “then who put up the wards?” She fidgets with Trevor’s empty mug.
“No idea.”
As they leave the tavern and head back to their wagon, Sypha looks ready to explode from not thinking out loud. Trevor considers putting a hand on her shoulder to remind her that people can hear them on the streets but immediately dismisses the idea, sure that the unasked for contact would be unwelcome. Soulmates they may be, but they had only met a few months ago.
“So, this Doctor Tepes,” Sypha says as Trevor tends to the horses, “we are going to see her, yes?”
“If nothing else, you two can swap notes,” Trevor agrees. He doesn’t feel the need to say aloud that they aren’t going there to antagonise the doctor; accusations of witchcraft are one thing that the newly met soulmates already know they have a mutual hatred of.
“I will take the first driving shift.” Sypha arranges a blanket over the front bench just the way she likes it, like a little bag she can tuck her feet in against the cold. “And you can rub my shoulders.” Her attempt at casualness is ruined by her little shit grin. “They are just, so sore.”
Trevor feels his face heat as he thinks of how much touching his feathers on her left shoulder blade that’s going to involve, not to mention the mark of her yet undiscovered second soulmate on her right shoulder blade. He’s still getting used to how casual Speakers are about touching soulmarks out in public, and touching marks that aren’t their own. “... Will you please at least keep your outer robe on until we’ve left town?” It’s not that he dislikes touching his soulmark; on the contrary, he could spend hours tracing the feathers that are slowly multiplying as visual proof of her growing affection for him, watching them glow under his fingers and hearing Sypha sigh in relaxation. It just feels like something that’s too exposing to be done with people around, even if Sypha is technically the one being exposed… mostly.
Sypha laughs. “Yes, Trevor, I would hate to really shock everyone’s delicate sensibilities.” Her smile turns more serious, gentle. “And you know I won’t touch your chest out in the open, even if there’s no one around.”
He pauses in hauling himself up onto the seat next to her, closing his eyes and taking a shaky breath. “I know.” Trevor settles himself and hands Sypha the reins. He avoids thinking about her mark that sits in the centre of his chest, warped but not erased by burn scarring, lest he get misty-eyed. The feeling that overcomes him each time at least part of it responds to her touch despite the church’s efforts to deny him that connection was indescribable. Needless to say, his reactions are always far too fucking embarrassing for anywhere but the safety Sypha’s cozy wagon parked in the middle of nowhere.
Sypha links arms with him, as though to prove she’s not expecting that shoulder rub until they’re on the empty road, and gets the horses moving. “Someday, I will have grown my mark on you so much that you will have to wear high collars and grow a full beard if you still want to be modest.”
Trevor’s whole body heats at that. He clears his throat. “Maybe…” He thinks of having a soulmark that’s escaped the bounds of the scar, becoming clear imagery kissing its way up his throat. A bold proclamation that even when Sypha found her romantic soulmate, he wouldn’t be left behind. “Maybe I’ll have loosened up by then.”