"Okay, we'll start with something simple. The reason I can't accommodate all of you at once is because my pheromone lab is small, and I need to focus. Also, the machines are sensitive, meaning we can't have too many pheromonal signatures floating in the air simultaneously." My voice remained calm.
I surveyed my husbands, keeping my expression neutral, even though I was internally rolling my eyes. This was my punishment, or perhaps a lesson, for attempting to manipulate a certain stubborn pack leader who was determined to teach me my place. Funnily enough, our first shopping trip flashed through my mind, and I was struck by how different I was back then.
Now, as my penance, I had to show them my pheromone lab and how I studied my own pheromones. I had brought numbers one, two, five, and seven with me, and I couldn't take more; as I'd explained, my machines were delicate, and this would take time. I desperately hoped they wouldn't require my attention for too long, as I had other plans.
My pheromone lab was a normal-sized room, but in the center stood a booth, slightly larger than a standard phone booth. Inside, there was a seat and a machine that resembled some sort of keyboard. Since it was isolated, it was essentially a booth with a ceiling. Tiny machines were embedded in the walls and ceiling. In front of the seat was a display and another keyboard with numerous lights and new buttons. Those tiny machines were analyzers, designed to capture and analyze pheromones. The display would indicate when a pheromone matched its intended profile.
I stated, "This is fairly simple, but then again, it's not, as it requires you to understand your own sensations and feelings. I will show you."
I walked to the back of the room, my footsteps echoing in the windowless cellar. The room was equipped with artificial air conditioning, a custom-built space, not one from a design magazine, but a dull, sparsely furnished work lab. I approached a bookcase and took down a large dossier, a kind of encyclopedia about pheromones.
"This," I said, "lists over 65,000 base pheromones and their subcategories. This is what I've been working with."
I picked up another dossier, not as thick, and as I opened it, I saw tiny white pieces of paper, stained faintly pink. "These are my pheromone samples. These little dressings keep the pheromones secure, containing them so I can give them to Colin later, or have him add them to our database. Each of you will create your own collection, and I'll show you how."
Number One looked at me sharply and said, "Baby, I'm not sure if Colin will be in charge of this after this is all done, but go on."
I rolled my eyes; there was no time for jealousy.
I snapped, "Colin built this lab, not me, so this is all his. He's the one who has been studying these quite a lot, so you'd better remember it. I have no idea how these machines work or where he got them, so please, no jealousy drama."
My expression was tight, my hands fisted, and my eyes squinted. I sighed softly and, trying to explain in the simplest terms possible, realized it would be better to demonstrate.
My voice stern and tired, I said, "I'll show you how it's done, then you can try. Go on, check the 'pheromone bible', as I call it, and try to find a pheromone you might want to try to make."
I walked into the booth, taking my dossier with me. Determined to demonstrate how this is done and just how freaking difficult it is, I found a microphone so they could hear me.
As I sat down, I began, "Okay, the first thing is to take one of these from the green box. This is a cleaning pad. You wipe your pheromone glands once and discard them, and repeat until it no longer turn blue, showing your pheromone glands are clean. Now, you need to orient yourself to the feeling or sensation you're trying to achieve. I'm attempting one of the more difficult ones: number 456.345/9/3.01. This means if you open the bible, and look at pheromone number 456, which is hate, and its subcategory 345, meaning hate for boredom, and then subcategory 9, hate for boredom because of something I did, and its subcategory 3.01, meaning willingly and in the past. So, I am trying to evoke a very specific feeling here. The first thing I need to do is try to remember when I have felt this."
"Now, because there is a certain structure to this pheromone, I start our analyzer. I press this button, and the display wakes up. It asks for my fingerprint. I put it here," I said, demonstrating while explaining.
I had taken a cleaning pad and covered my pheromone glands as I spoke, as I might get pissed off as shit, which would mess with my pheromones. I was here as a teacher, and I was more than certain they had a truckload of questions for me. But let's get to that later.
I continued, "Now, as I am logged in, the system asks for the pheromone number, and I type this string of numbers here. Now, here," I pointed to my left, where one machine had come to life, displaying ten red indicators. "This shows how close I am to my target. The system knows my alcohol group, which is always part of my pheromones—my special one—so that's not a problem. As this pheromone has a certain structure, I am trying to create it. The more indicators that turn green, the closer I am. Once they are all green, it is done, and it is time to collect. But be warned, I have tried this pheromone for weeks, and this is hard even for me, as I am trying to recall a memory where I would have felt something like this and then isolate it from other irritations boiling in my mind."
My Salvatore husbands were quiet; I could almost hear the gears turning in their minds. Number One, a telepath, sent a wave of fear and terror through my mind. It wasn't what he could do, but how he chose to express his displeasure. He was unimpressed, not because he wasn't impressed, but because he hadn't been kept in the loop. He was pissed off at me for keeping secrets. Thankfully, there were pheromones for that.
"Darlin'," Number One began, his voice soft yet predatory, a clear sign of his displeasure, "it would have been advisable to tell us sooner. But fine. Try your little pheromone trick, and then it's our turn. You can be sure this will be added to the task list. Number Four is not happy, and I'm not happy either. I have no idea what those damn cleaning pads are, and we will build more of them. But considering you're pregnant, I'm unsure how much we should let you do."
I rolled my eyes and focused, trying to recall the whole damn story. I had to nail this pheromone, hoping for the best. I had gotten a maximum of seven indicators, so it wasn't perfect, but I was hopeful I could succeed. Or even hit eight indicators. I had so much hatred in my past, so many things.
Despite knowing what Mimosa and the girls were doing, the lesson with Dillinger still affected me. I truly hated that man. But I couldn't use that memory; it didn't evoke boredom, only burning hatred, disgust, a sense of powerlessness, and uselessness. It wasn't the right direction. And of course, being surrounded by telepathic husbands like the Salvatores, this wasn't easy.
Since Wulfe was in a super-protective mood because of that memory, it would be hard if the wrong memory popped into my mind. Yet, that damn cellar, the cold floor, his disdain still affected me. Maybe it was because Damon had done something similar, but I was trying to bury the memory, feeling the Salvatores in my mind like hounds on a scent trail.
No need for them to see the whole damn thing; it just pissed them off and made them even more protective. And I needed some nice time, not ten overworried husbands all over me.
"Baby, what the fuck was that?" Number Five asked, his voice sharp.
He was clearly attuned to me, having sensed the memory.
I replied, "Nothing, just old shit. I have plenty of those."
He softened, "Don't bullshit me. Start telling."
Number One delved deeper into my mind, which roused Wulfe. I could feel his relentless search, almost overwhelming my thoughts as he, too, had homed in on the memory.
I said, "Well, this guy was in that place where we were, but he will be dealt with. Mimosa and the other girls will handle it in my sheds."
Number One's brows shot up, but he grunted, still digging. "Show us. It's up to you how painful this is. Wulfe will find it, no matter what. Just let it out."
I rolled my eyes; I wasn't in the mood to be a victim, but then again, did I have a choice?
I said, "Again, an old story. No need to dig it out. My past being what it is, I'm trying to have a good time here."
Number Five was adamant. "My love, you being you, it isn't giving you a good time if you have a pool of rot in your mind. However, Mimosa and the others will kill this shithead; trauma lingers. You need us, maybe Wulfe. And for us to help you, we need to see it, get rid of it."
I sighed and let a memory surface. It wasn't pleasant, but since they wanted it, so be it. The memory began: I was wearing a fuzzy sweater and loose pants – my disguise. Without makeup, I still looked very young, so I was trying to pass for a teenager. I sat in the cell for a while, and then the door opened, and a man walked in.
The closest comparison I could make was between Bruce Willis and Paul McCartney. He walked behind the table and sat down. He opened the folder and read it, grunting occasionally. I could smell his sweat and the fact that he'd just eaten garlic bread.
As my memory deepened, the man started asking me about everything, from my name to what I was doing near the plant. I answered cursorily, trying to give answers. I didn't tell them everything, and as a pretender, I could maintain my role well. After an hour, the man left. He was gone for about fifteen minutes, and when he came back, he gave me a juice box.
Having spent some time there and feeling the effects of a fast metabolism and a growing thirst, I quickly drank the pear juice, even though it wasn't my favorite. The man then asked a few more questions, and suddenly, my vision blurred. My head began to cloud, and I realized the juice had been drugged. I fought to stay awake, but it was no use. I lost consciousness surprisingly quickly.
Damon grunted as he delved into the memory. I could feel Wulfe's mind wrapping itself around my own, preventing me from succumbing to the memory's grip. I was sitting in my pheromone collection booth, the patch on my neck turning a deeper red as my pheromones flooded out, the memory proving unpleasant.
Number Two muttered, "Damn nasty shit, I'm not sure what we need to do with this."
Number One remained silent, absorbing the emotional weight. He could feel Wulfe preventing Mimi's mind from sinking too deep, while the other Salvatores used their telepathy to soften the trauma, the memory becoming hazy.
However, if Wulfe deemed it necessary, he could erase the entire memory. Damon could feel Wulfe's will beginning to trace the memory, seeking where Mimi had hidden a backup. The memory unfurled further, igniting a genuine rage in Damon's mind; he was furious. And he wasn't the only one enraged.
I woke up in the memory. I was chained naked to a cold concrete floor. My hands and legs were bound behind my back with heavy chains, and I felt as though I was being examined. I didn't know how long I lay there, helpless and still drugged, when the man returned.
He leaned over me, looked down, and said, "Oh, you're awake. This is going to be more fun than you know, freak."
He took a syringe from his pocket, removed the needle cover, and injected my shoulder. He then tossed the syringe in the trash and sat down in a chair to watch me.
He said, "You're going to die. That injection will kill you; it will take some time, but it will work, and I'll see the whole thing."
As the poison ravaged me, I lay helpless on the floor. My temperature plummeted, causing me to shiver. My blood sugar crashed, making it difficult to stay conscious as my strength ebbed away. The pain was excruciating. My body desperately fought for survival, yet the poison relentlessly undid me, moment by moment.
Though I knew I was immortal and would eventually revive, the process of dying was neither fun nor easy. Hours crawled by, each one diminishing my strength and slowing my pulse. Breathing became a struggle. Meanwhile, Dillinger sat nearby, his smile widening with each worsening symptom of mine, and I could see his perverse enjoyment etched on his face. I was drifting in and out of consciousness.
Memories began to surface, and Wulfe's will fiercely protected me. Damon flooded my mind with a torrent of both love and hatred for Dillinger, as if acknowledging my suffering and empathizing with me. The other Salvatores, Charles, and the entire pack, were filled with love and rage at what I was enduring.
As the memories faded, the toxicity lessened. Love continued to flood my mind, a welcome distraction. It was both amazing and strange, perhaps a new experience for us all. Perhaps I was learning a lesson, realizing that all I needed to do was trust, knowing that someone was there to catch me, to help me, to take away the negativity.
I barely registered the door opening, and then Number Two was there. He picked me up and carried me to a bedroom, the others following. Once in bed, he continued to hold me as Number One came to the other side, stroking me. Just then, the door opened again and in walked Leopard and Demon, my husbands, in their feline forms. They leaped onto the bed and pressed themselves against me.
"Baby, tell us more, please," Number One urged. "We are helping, and you can feel it. But we need to eliminate this rot. This is what fuels MDNS, and you don't need it right now. You are pregnant again, an empath and telepath, so we need to keep your mind as clear as possible. Even simple pheromone collection can dredge up trouble, and we will not tolerate this kind of poisoning of your brilliant mind any longer. Do you hear me?"
I nodded, gazing at the wall opposite me, feeling the love and care of my many husbands.
Lying in bed, I realized that I, Mimi Salvatore, immortal killer and alpha female of our pack, was loved and cared for. I had experienced so many instances in my life where I doubted my worthiness of such feelings, but now, it was wonderful. If this meant my husbands saw me as a victim, so be it; I couldn't help it. My voice, quiet, attempted clinicality, but my emotions bled through. Once upon a time, I would have handled it clinically, but not since I'd learned to feel.
I let my emotions guide my words. "I lost consciousness and awoke, chained and shackled, in a cold, concrete bunker. Naked. Then, a man returned and injected my arm, claiming the poison would kill me. He sat and watched as it began to work. I was examined while unconscious, and it took nine hours for my death. My heart stopped, and the man announced it on the phone: 'Freak dead, mission accomplished. You can examine the carcass.' My mind then went black. I awoke in the woods, regrowing. I was just a piece of tissue, the size of a postage stamp, but I remembered everything. After 24 hours, I changed into a jaguar and ran to the nearest safe house, Texas castle. It took hours to get there."
The two sighed. "So wrong, but people are like that. You can't help it."
I remained silent, sighing. Number Two looked at me, pulled me closer, and stroked me. "Just tell me the rest. The worst is still to come, isn't it?"
I shuddered slightly. 'Well, I went back to base after eating and changing. I left everyone with a plan to take down the facility, which took about a week. Then, I asked my hacker for those surveillance tapes. I'd requested them before. I looked them over, and it was clear they'd been studying me closely, knowing who and what I was. They knew about the fleas and my other peculiarities, yet they still killed me. I wasn't suitable for their super-soldier program because I couldn't breed with humans, and my mind was too far gone to be programmed. I was useless to them. I was something new and unprecedented, dangerous and scary just because I wasn't human. But they didn't see any of the good in me, only that I was a freak. They had no choice but to kill me. No mercy. I was too much of a beast for them, or something, since I wasn't human at all."
The number two said, "As I said, people aren't always as perfect as you'd like them to be."
"They took my body and examined it," I continued, "but as you know, every time I die, all the samples and tissues die simultaneously, so they learned nothing. Then they burned my body, drained it, and even tried to study my brain, but everything died. This guy got rid of my body and burned it. A few cells survived, went up the chimney, and fell down somewhere a week after I died. And I became aware."
I hadn't even noticed that Adam and Charles were in the room, as well as Mariella and most of the girls. It was nighttime, so the toddlers were sleeping. Adam looked at me, and he knew.
He said, "I know. I saw the videos and the files. I know what you went through and how it crushed your faith in humans. You can't do anything about it; humans are beasts, and we just have to get over it. We can't make humans believe in us, no matter what we do. Yes, I've tried to maintain the reputation of werewolves, to teach people that we have souls, too, but it's not always that easy. People don't believe what they see is a beast, something stronger than themselves, and it always puts them on the defensive. They know their own fragility and weakness, and that's why humans are beasts."
"Maybe so," I sighed, "but it's just so wrong. After decades of saving and helping others, putting everyone else first, and sacrificing myself more than once – and they knew who I was, what I was doing – they killed me simply because I was stronger than humans. Looking at my fleas, I saw that every single one was afraid of me, even Magnum. He was afraid, too. I don't want to be feared; I want to live in peace and help where I can. That realization crushed my will to fight for good. If Damon hadn't demanded I give up the fleas, I don't know what would have happened. Sure, I created the second set during those seven years, but this time I knew what I was doing, and I adopted the right attitude: no emotions. I was simply doing my job, my mission, not making friends."
Adam was silent, studying me intently.
Finally, he said, "I understand, honey. You should never feel guilty about giving away your fleas. You deserve to live, too – a good life. I would have wanted you to have a better, more peaceful life. But you are unique, and your life reflects you so well, reflects us so well."
He looked deep into my eyes, so close. As the love of so many Salvatores washed over me, I felt like I was exposing a vulnerable part of myself they had never seen before; something bruised from countless blows. I wasn't sure if it was my soul, but the amount of love that flooded through me was incredible. I was safe. I had someone, many someones, caring for me, loving me, ensuring I wouldn't take any more hits. It was truly amazing.
Feeling tired and worn out, perhaps it was just a lingering ghost of a sensation, or perhaps I was truly exhausted. I leaned my head against someone—I wasn't sure who was nearby—closed my eyes, and surrendered to sleep, hoping for a brighter tomorrow. My past, with its many regrets, pains, and losses, weighed heavily on me, dragging me down time after time, despite the love of many husbands and the whole pack.