I do not agree,my Bouda confirms.Tell him he is correct. I like this human. He has a spine.
“What do you know about my Bouda?” I keep my voice flat despite the surprise.
“I know that Bouda shifters are different.” He speaks carefully now, picking his way through the words. “I know that your beast isn’t just instinct. It’s a voice. And I’m betting that voice has kept you alive when you wanted to give up. Am I wrong?”
He knows too much,my Bouda growls.This is suspicious. Test him.
His scent. Smell deeper. There is something underneath the soap and the coffee.
I inhale, filtering through the layers until I catch it. It’s faint, the scent of Jasmine and old blood, and beneath that, a cold trace that makes my Ridge prickle. Vampire.
“You’ve been around vampires,” I say. The man blinks, genuinely surprised, and then laughs.
“You’re good. Yeah, I have contacts in Wintermoon. That’s where I want to take you, if you’ll let me.”
Wintermoon.My Bouda tastes the word like meat.The sanctuary. The place where shifters go to hide from humans who want them dead.I think it could also be a place to die with dignity, surrounded by our own kind.Or to live,my Bouda counters.Zaki may have survived. She may have made it there. We do not know she is dead. And your fated mate could be anywhere. She could be on Wintermoon right now, waiting for you, and you are standing in a dumpster feeling sorry for yourself.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Aiden.” The human extends his hand, then seems to think better of it and lets it drop. “And you?”
I open my mouth to speak my birth name. Alemayehu. What my mother gave me, what the Matriarch spoke when she touched my head and called me sister-son. It dies on my tongue.Let him go, my Bouda says quietly, and his voice is gentle now in a way he rarely is.That man burned with the village. Watched his Queen die and could not save her. Carrying his name will not bring him back. It will only make the weight heavier.
A new name for a new life?It is survival,he says.And survival is what we do. Pick a name. Something that does not taste like ash.
I think of the old stories, the names from before the clans fractured and scattered across the continent. Names that meant endurance, persistence, the will to continue when everything said stop.
“Kojo,” I say finally. The word feels foreign on my tongue. Borrowed.It means born on Monday,my Bouda observes.Were you born on Monday?I do not remember anymore. It does not matter.Close enough,my Bouda decides.Kojo. It is a strongname. Simple. A name for a man who is starting over. I approve.
“Kojo.” Aiden nods like the name carries weight. “Alright, Kojo. Let’s get you out of this dumpster and somewhere with actual food. We’ve got a long way to go.” He turns and starts walking without checking to see if I follow.
I like him,my Bouda announces.He does not beg or grovel. He just expects us to be smart enough to recognize a good opportunity when it is standing in front of us. That is a man who understands how survivors think.
He could be leading us into a trap.He could be,my Bouda agrees.But he smells like hope, and we smell like garbage. I know which scent I prefer. Follow him, Alemayehu. Let’s see where this leads.
I step out of the dumpster and follow him into the blinding sun.
Good,my Bouda whispers, and his voice holds something it has not held in six months.We survive, scavenge, and adapt. That is what Bouda do. And somewhere out there, a woman is waiting for us. A mate whose scent will make all of this running mean something. We just have to stay alive long enough to find her.
Wintermoon. I hold the word close as I walk, and for the first time in months, my Bouda goes quiet.
Not for lack of words.
He is finally, cautiously, allowing himself to hope.