What Happens Next - Roderick Version

this month's lore post is a glimpse at Rory's POV leading up to a certain recent scene in Chapter 2! warning for blood and violence (approximately the same amount as in the book)

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Cammore, Arizona is a quaint little town. Rory might even call it charming. It’s really too bad he won’t be staying long, but he makes a mental note to pass back through on his way back east, when he isn’t chasing a deadline in need of big-city internet connections.

But that’s not today. Today, he’s just stopping to fill up the tank on his Harley and to find somewhere to grab lunch. If everything goes well, he’ll be back on the road before nightfall and might be able to make it to Flagstaff before he needs to stop and sleep.

He has lunch at a bar that styles itself as an old world pub--English “old world”, not Mexican “old world” like he’d expect this far southwest--and their patty melt is so good that he gets a second one to take with him and have for dinner. He settles the sandwich’s styrofoam box securely in one of the saddlebags on his bike and slips his jacket on even though it’s a little too warm here for the thick leather.

As he takes one last wistful look around the town, he notices a man approaching him at a rapid pace. Even at a distance, he can tell he’s in a panic, fear hunching his shoulders and speeding his steps. Before he’s even thought about it, Rory puts his helmet down and moves toward the man in a nervous half-jog.

“Help…” he rasps as soon as he’s close.

"Hey, easy. What’s wrong?" He puts his hands on his shoulders, trying to steady him and get his attention all at once. The man grabs him too, hands digging into his biceps hard enough to bruise, hard enough that he thinks for a second that he might somehow rip the leather.

This close, it's obvious how sickly the man is. His skin, which looks like it might normally be a warm tawny brown, is ashen and gray, and he's so skeletal he can see the knobs of his spine through his shirt.

"Help… me… please…" he says again.

But Rory doesn't want to help him anymore. Every instinct is screaming at him to leave, to get back to the Harley and leave this town in his taillights.

The man snatches his wrist as he tries to take a step back and looks up suddenly, his eyes locking on Rory’s. It takes him a moment to realize what’s wrong with them.

They’re gold. A bright, lurid yellow that almost glows in the late afternoon light. No, not almost; they're definitely glowing. There's no way that's a trick of the light.

His heart sinks to his knees as he recognizes those gold eyes. And what they mean.

He's had this dream before. Had it every night for a month now, had almost convinced himself that's all it was--a dream. It doesn't feel quite as unreal when it's staring him in the face.

On reflex, he tries to run, but he knows it won’t make a difference. He knows what happens, has memorized every step and line in his part of the dance.

He barely feels the first bite as the man--the wolf now, he thinks dimly--sinks his fangs into his shoulder. The pain follows a moment later, bright and burning, blinding him for a few seconds.

The next thing he's aware of is the asphalt scraping against his cheek, the wolf's hot breath on his neck and distantly, the sound of approaching footsteps. He tries not to flinch when he lunges at him again.

He knows how this dream ends. He knows what’s coming, knows who’s coming, but not what it means. At least, finally, after a month of dreaming and daydreaming, Rory will finally get to know. He’ll get to see what happens next.

It's the last thought he has before the world goes black.