Chapter 5 - Jonah

It was a fine day for a funeral. Jonah combed his hair in the diner bathroom and splashed cold water over his face. He could've gotten a hotel, should've, probably, but it would have made the whole thing feel too real. So, he'd spent another night in his tent, camping at the edge of the woods.

"Coffee, dear?" The waitress was old enough to be his grandmother, her face wrinkled with years of smiles. She gave him one now and lifted the coffee pot.

"Please," he said.

"Long night?" She asked, filling his mug. It was chipped and scratched, shabby as the rest of the diner.

"You could say that," Jonah replied. He lifted his coffee. "But this will help., thank you."

He ordered a full breakfast, eggs, sausages, pancakes, and sat back in the booth to wait. The vinyl creaked beneath him. From the diner window, he had a view of the town he'd grown up in and grown out of. It was a sad sight, slipping into disrepair.

"Here you are, dear." The waitress returned, setting the plate down in front of him with a sticky bottle of pancake syrup. She followed his gaze out the window. "Not much, I know, but it's home. It had its glory days once, believe it or not, maybe back around the time when I was having mine."

She laughed, warm and raspy.

"I believe it," Jonah said earnestly.

"Sweet boy,' she said, tapping him on the shoulder with her pad of paper. "Give a shout if you need anything."

She walked off, leaving him alone with his food and his thoughts. If only "anything" included some instructions on what to do with his life. He counted the empty storefronts surrounding the diner and cursed his father again for his negligence. The people had suffered because of him.

Spencer's words came back. Could Jonah have done something if he'd stayed? Found some way to pick up his father's slack? But his father had never listened to Jonah, not even about simple things like not filling the house up with junk. He never would have listened to Jonah when it came to pack matters.

Too soon, the clock on the wall pointed to half past nine. His plate was cleared, his stomach full, and too many cups of bitter, strong coffee consumed. There was no more reason to delay. He smoothed his black shirt, wiped crumbs from his black pants, left a generous tip, and walked out into the overcast day.

The funeral was planned for ten o'clock at the hillside cemetery. Jonah knew the spot well. As teenagers, they'd dared each other to touch the gravestones in the middle of the night, seeing ghosts and phantoms behind every tree. He knew now it wasn't haunted by anything but memories. But that was enough.

He couldn't bring himself to join the small procession, laying his father to rest. The faces of the mourners were familiar. Calling them mourners was, perhaps, a stretch. There were no tears. No one wept for the old man. Even Jonah's face was dry; his tears had been cried the night before, and now the living had drawn his attention. He wondered what they would make of him, if he let himself be seen.

The ceremony was brief; at the end, handfuls of sand from the nearby beach were scattered over the freshly turned dirt. Jonah's pocket was full of the silver grains, waiting for his turn. When the crowd departed the cemetery, and only Jonah remained, he stepped out.

His father's grave sat slightly apart from the others, in a line of alphas that stretched back nearly to the start of the pack. Seeing his own last name repeated over and over, etched into the cold, grey stone, filled Jonah with unease. He could picture his own in the spot beside his father's, just another link of a chain.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there at the end," he said, scattering sand over his father's grave. "Or for the rest of it. I don't know what we would have been if I'd stayed. Maybe it would've been better. Maybe I shouldn't have run."

His voice thickened. He cleared his throat and went on, a vision of his father before him. Jonah could almost smell the tobacco that clung to the old man, and could see the faded, rumpled hat pulled low over his brow.

"Maybe we're just not fit for this role," he said, dropping the last grain of sand. "Maybe it would be better for this place if you were the last Broadhorn to call himself alpha."

Or are you just looking for another excuse to run? Jonah couldn't tell if it was his father's voice or his own that he was hearing. Turning from the grave, he started down the sandy hill back into town.

Halfway down, a wolf stepped out from behind a boulder. Its face was scarred, leaving only one good, golden eye, and its fur was patchy over its thin, bony body. Jonah took a step backward. The wolf was no threat, no matter what it tried, but he didn't want to have to hurt anyone.

"Hello?" He called, cautiously. "Are you here for the funeral? I'm afraid it's just finished, but I can show you to the grave if you'd like to visit it. It's just up the hill here."

The wolf took a step closer, then shifted into an old man. He was as scarred and bony as his wolf form, and his good eye glowed golden and brilliant in the grey. He pointed knotted finger at Jonah.

Jonah knew him now, a half-forgotten memory dredged from the past. The oracle. The Silversand's soothsayer. As far he knew, they were the only pack to boast the power, though some considered it more of a curse, depending on the fortune told. There was always a soothsayer, one born each time one died, known by their glowing, golden eyes and their white fur.

Suddenly cold, Jonah shivered. Whatever the man in front of him was about to say, he knew it wasn't going to be anything he wanted to hear. That was just Jonah's lot in life.

"Look, I know—" Jonah began, hoping to head the soothsayer off before he could deliver whatever future he saw for him.

But the old man spoke up in a surprisingly strong, steady voice that commanded attention and respect. "I see your fate, Jonah Broadhorn."

There was a pause, a brief moment of hope, when Jonah thought the soothsayer had decided to keep that fate to himself after all. But then he went on.

"It is entwined with the fate of Moira Callaghan. Bonded. Mates. For all eternity, your thread will be braided with hers." The soothsayer did not drop his finger, pointing at Jonah's face like a threat.

Moira Callaghan. The gorgeous woman he'd seen in the pub. The one who hated him. The one he was warned away from. His mate? He couldn't believe it.

"Are you certain?" Jonah asked, though he knew that the soothsayer was never wrong.

Again, the man continued as if Jonah hadn't spoken, his golden eye unblinking.

"The fate of the Silversand pack rests in your joined hands. Your bond, the key to its future." The old man dropped his finger at last.

He watched Jonah for another heartbeat before shifting suddenly back into his wolf form, loping away with surprising speed back into the woods. He vanished like a specter in the trees.

"You've got to be kidding me," Jonah said aloud, looking incredulously around at the gravestones behind him, the only other witnesses to the madness he'd just heard. "Why me, of all people?"

He tilted his head up to the sky, but the clouds had no response for him, no answers. The graves kept their silence. Jonah had never felt so alone, nor so cursed. Bonded to a woman who hated his guts. And not just that, but the entire fate of the pack depended on his mating with her. If the soothsayer foretold it, it must be true, but he couldn't imagine the steps between his current situation and the one where Moira was his mate.

All he knew now was that he couldn't run back to the White Winters yet, not with this prophecy hanging over his head. He'd heard stories of people trying to dodge their fate, running from it. They'd all been dragged back by circumstances beyond their control, arriving at the same place they'd tried to avoid, just with a whole lot more suffering along the way.

"Dammit." Jonah kicked a rock down the path and followed it, heading for the Silversand town. Or what was left of it.

The steep downhill met a curving road, lined with decrepit houses with overgrown gardens. Most of the windows were dark. Jonah turned right onto the main street and shoved his hands into his pockets. They were shaking. His shoes crunched on the sand that littered the sidewalk, blown up from the beach just on the other side of the buildings.

Few shops were open, or still in business. Jonah passed shuttered windows and crumbling facades, until, finally, he found something that was open. A bookstore. A sign hung beside the sidewalk, an arrow pointing down a path with the words Flynn's Hideaway: Used and New Books above it. The path was guarded by a low white gate beneath a trellis covered in a bushy, green vine. Jonah opened it and, ducking his head beneath the arch, made his way down the path.

It was dark, lush, and green, and the bookshop at the end was cozy with its white-washed clapboard and warm, yellow lights. Unlike the rest of the town, this place was still cared for, still loved. Maybe there was hope for the town yet.

The sign on the door said Open. Inside, the bookstore was every bit as cozy as it had looked from the outside. Books were shelved neatly, and plush, old carpets covered the floor. The checkout desk was covered in stacks of books needing sorting.

"Hello?" Jonah called out, finding the place empty. He double-checked the sign on the door. Definitely open, but there were no hours listed beside it to double-check that someone hadn't just forgotten to flip the sign.

"Coming!" The voice surprised him, coming from somewhere he couldn't see.

Given the state of the rest of the town, Jonah wouldn't be surprised if the place was haunted. Maybe it was the ghosts taking care of this shop.

But the man who appeared from a backroom, teacup in hand, was solid and alive, looking just as surprised to see Jonah as Jonah was to see him. He was a few years older than Jonah, maybe in his mid-thirties, with the start of grey in his hair.

The man pushed his glasses up his nose and smiled. "I don't know you. Rare to see a new face in this town. Did you get lost?"

There was no malice in the words, no hint that he wished Jonah was not there. Given the homecoming Jonah had expected, it was such a relief that he found himself smiling back, even though he knew it was only because the man hadn't recognized him or placed him as the old alpha's son.

"Not lost," Jonah replied. "Though I do feel like I've stumbled into a depressed version of Wonderland. I'm Jonah."

He held out his hand, and the other man took it, shaking it carefully. His teacup was very full. "Rami. Nice to meet you, Jonah. I promise you this town has its charms. It just keeps them well hidden, so don't run off yet."

Rami walked over to the desk and put aside a stack of books to set his tea down. Jonah knew he should tell him who he was, who he really was, rather than let Rami believe he was just a newcomer, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. The sight of a friendly face after everything he'd been through was something he wasn't willing to ruin.

"I'm planning to stick around for a while," Jonah said.

He started flipping through the books on the nearest shelf, nose wrinkling when he realized what it was. Local history. He turned to the next shelf. Horror. Jonah didn't have the stomach for that genre, so he continued until he found the beach reads.

"Where are you staying?" Rami asked. He was flipping through the stacks of books on the desk, putting them into specific piles.

Jonah tucked a third book under his arm. "I'm not sure yet, actually. Know of anyone renting?"

His father's place was open and free, but Jonah wouldn't stay there even if someone had paid him to do so. It was full of garbage, dust, and bad memories. He'd probably hire someone to clean it out, rather than do it himself, just to avoid that trip down a bumpy, painful memory lane. Just another gift his father had left him, along with the legacy of neglect.

Rami considered for a moment, silent, then snapped his fingers. He had stacked the books so high in front of him that Jonah could only see the top of his head. "Yeah, actually. There's an apartment above the cafe that lost its renter recently. I bet you can be in there tonight if you want. It's already been empty for a couple of weeks."

Jonah hesitated even though he knew what his answer would be. Had to be. But renting a place in town meant committing to this path, taking the first step down it. If he left now, he could be back at the White Winter house before lunch tomorrow and slip back into his old life, the one where he was just the omega.

But for how long? How long before the soothsayer's fate dragged him back to the Silversands and threw him at Moira's door? Running now was only delaying the inevitable.

"That'd be awesome," Jonah said, hoping his voice sounded more believable to Rami than it did to him. To Jonah, it sounded like a man heading to the gallows.

"Just one sec," Rami got up and vanished into the backroom again. The sound of muffled voices carried through the walls, not distinct enough to make out the words.

Trying to fight the rising panic in his gut, Jonah plucked a few more beach reads from the shelves. Their sunny, pastel covers promised happiness and serenity, two things that seemed far out of reach in his actual life. By the time Rami returned, Jonah had amassed a stack of books that required two hands to carry, which he plunked down on the desk.

"Alright, Jonah. She said she'd leave the keys on the kitchen counter for you. You'll just need to drop by Mrs. Maybach's house with a check on your way over." Rami jotted two addresses down on a sheet of paper and ripped it out of the notebook, handing it over to Jonah. "This top one is the cafe, and the bottom one is her house. She's a bit of a grouch, but don't let that scare you; she's got a soft heart. Keeps that place spotless, too."

Jonah stared down at the torn paper and heard his blood thrum in his ears. "Thanks, man. You work fast."

Rami chuckled and took the first book off Jonah's stack, scanning the price. "There's just not a whole lot going on in this town, so everyone knows everyone's business, and no one is too busy to pick up the phone. Plus, this place is becoming a ghost town. I'll do whatever I can to get some new life into it."

Jonah shifted, uncomfortable. It was his father's fault that the place was a ghost town. He imagined the mark of it on him like a giant red A, obvious to anyone who looked at him that he was the son of the Silversand Alpha, he carried his shame.

"Did you grow up here?" Jonah asked, trying to pull the conversation away from himself before Rami started asking questions.

Rami shook his head and started putting Jonah's books into a tote bag marked with the store name. "No, actually. I lived in the city but got tired of all the noise and the people. I just wanted to be by the beach."

"And you chose here?" Jonah raised his eyebrow. It wasn't exactly the kind of town people fell in love with at first sight.

"Weird, I know, but I've got a thing for the underdog. And the rent was super cheap. I've got a spot right on the beach, and sure, it's not much to look at, but the ocean is right there, so who's looking at my house anyway? It's worth the tradeoff for me."

Jonah paid and took the tote bag, stuffed to its gills with his new books. "Well, this place is lucky to have you. You've got a great selection."

"And I think you just about cleared us out," Rami said, nodding his chin at Jonah's tote bag. "I hope you'll give this town a chance, Jonah. It might surprise you."

Somehow, Jonah doubted that. He waved goodbye to Rami and stepped back onto Main Street, clutching the paper with the addresses in his fist. The town might have a place for him to stay, but the Silversand pack was another story. Why would they ever want Jonah back? With every step he took down the street, the soothsayer's words rang in his head, the beat like a funeral dirge.