The Offering

by Rosary Deville

  “Um, hey, Don?” I went into the living room, knowing my voice would carry, despite the light rush of water from the sink.

  “Hm?” Don’s strong back muscles looked more defined in the sky-blue shirt he wore. When had he gotten that shirt?

  “Gonna ask me that question, Fern?”

  Snap out of it! Dammit, stop thinking about stupid Don. Like hell, he’s sexy!

  “Who said it was a question?”

  “I did.”

  “All right. I was thinking about going to check on Shamar. He’s been super strange this week. And he keeps getting sicker and sicker.”

  “Oh, yeah? The whole week, huh?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, since Belsday, and he didn’t even call over the weekend, either.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I know, that’s why I want to go over and check on him.”

  “No, I mean, that’s too bad, but you’re not going anywhere tonight. You’ve got school in the morning anyway. Just see him then.”

  “But something’s up with him. Honestly, the way he looked, I doubt I’ll see him tomorrow.”

  Don didn’t seem to think my problems were really problems. “Then talk to him when you talk to him.”

  “No.”

  The water stopped. Don stood in the separator between the kitchen and the living room. “What was that?”

  I shivered, then bit my lip to cover it up. “I said no.” I looked up and met his eyes. “He’s my friend, who’s possibly in trouble, and I’m gonna see him tonight.”

  Don’s eyes darkened. “You will go where I allow you.” I stood my ground. Don still held the towel he used to dry dishes. “Fern, do you dare to test me?”

  I looked away before I felt the fire burn within me. “Yes. Shamar’s my fr—”

  When I looked up, Don was right in front of me. He grabbed me by the arm and slung me over his shoulder.

  “You really like pushing it, don’t you, Fern?”

  “But he could be hurt?”

  “Think about it. He’s been sick all week. He’s around that age.” Opening the door of the bedroom, he threw me on the bed. “He’s most likely undergoing the Change.”

  The Change. I knew about this zombie phenomenon that happened when they reached adulthood. I was no expert by any means, but Shamar needed me. He came over when I was sick, and it always made me feel better.

  “Well, more reason for me to be there for him.”

  “Stupid boy.” Don shook his head, letting out a sigh. “You have zombie friends. Aren’t you aware of what their Change entails?”

  “T-They die.”

  “Exactly. So why the hell would you want to be around that?”

  “’Cause Shamar’s my friend. And it’s gotta be terrifying to be dying. I’m not gonna let him do it alone.”

  Don looked ready to get onto the bed with me. I crawled back on my hands and knees. I didn’t want to fuck. I needed to be with Shamar.

  He crossed his arms, revealing his prominent muscles and making his sky-blue shirt show off even more of his solid physique. Fucking shirt!

  He headed for the door. “You go there, and you’ll get yourself killed. Wait until you can see him in school.”

  Relief fell over me. He didn’t plan to fuck me. My relief was short-lived though. He pulled the door shut behind him, and I heard the click of the lock.

  “What the fuck? Don!” I sprang from the bed and onto my feet.

  “Appears like this is the only answer you’ll take.”

  I pounded my fists against the door, but the wood held firm. Even if I transformed into a werewolf, I didn’t have the strength to break it. If I was an alpha, that’d be another story. It wasn’t like I didn’t get stronger in werewolf form. I did, but betas evolved to be more beautiful than powerful.

  “Stop that. You’re not coming out. So get ready for bed. I’ll be in in a little while.”

  “What the fuck, Don? I’m not a little pup!”

  Don scoffed, his voice teasing. “Oh, really?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Now, now, stay in there and reflect on your actions.” His condescending tone pissed me off even more.

  “Dammit, Don!” There was no answer. He had clearly tired of me. “What the fuck?” Pounding on the door was getting me nowhere. And I needed to be there for Shamar. I remembered his look of fear when the skin on his face peeled off while we washed our hands in the bathroom sink. He had been terrified. Sick and alone.

  Of course, he had his family. Maybe I shouldn’t be worried. I wasn’t a zombie. How in the hell did I think I could help? His parents and older siblings were much better equipped. But not being a wereduin had never stopped Shamar whenever I got sick or needed his help. He was even willing to take on Don for me.

  Fuck.

  Going over to the bed, I flopped down hard. I wanted to kick and scream on the floor, but that would really confirm my pup's status. And I didn’t want to give Don the satisfaction.

  A light drizzle fell around the mini dogwood tree that sprouted through the bedroom. As the tree grew below the house, and the opening that surrounded the tree concaved, the water did not bounce off any surface. So instead of getting all over the floor, it simply fell and soaked into the dirt. The netting at the top of the house, which wasn’t visible from this angle, kept the bugs out.

  Wait a sec…if water could get in, then I could get out.

  Like all werewolf pups, I grew up climbing trees, so climbing up the dogwood was a piece of kibble. Now to do something about the netting.

  I hadn’t taken Wolfsbane since the night of the Hunt. So far, Don’s alpha prowess wasn’t suppressing my ability to shift. Technically, it made me instinctually not want to shift and disobey him, but the end effect was the same.

  As a werewolf, I might not have had the strength alphas had, but my claws were still sharp. And the netting above the tree was meant to keep the bugs out, not werewolves.

  I put on one of the few pseudo-shirts I owned—a plain tee—and shorts. Normally those kinds of clothes weren’t made for betas, only alphas. Thankfully, I hadn’t put my pseudo-shoes in the coat closet but left them in the room.

  The dogwood bark held my claws nicely. I had always been quick when it came to tree climbing and won whenever my little sister and I raced.

  When I reached the netting, a simple slice of the claws ripped it open. Don’s house was practically one large window, so I had to be careful not to be seen. It would be less conspicuous to crawl.

  I stayed in werewolf form to run on all fours and still maintain a humanoid shape. But I quickly tired because it required too much energy. So I shifted somewhere in-between werewolf and wolf and stayed close to the ground.

  The living room lights illuminated the surrounding foliage. That asshole was probably watching TV. What the hell gave him the right to lock me in our room? Our room? As if I’d ever call it that! Fuck him.

  I made it to the street and trotted to the bus station. The extra padding on my palms and fingers prevented the gravel from digging into my skin. Despite the physical exertion, I always felt safer and more in control the closer I was to werewolf form, probably why alphas prevented us from transforming, especially early in our relationship.

  I knew the bus route by heart. There were a few more stops before I reached his house than when I’d lived with my folks.

  When I got on the bus, I realized I hadn’t taken any ules.

  “Fare?”

  “Put it under Blackfang Pack.” Thankfully, I now had Don’s family name behind me. As a pup, I couldn’t take ules from my family’s vault. But as Don’s mate—even unofficially—I could withdrawal from his Pack’s treasury under his name. All I needed was one bitemark to identify as a Blackfang. Every family member of age had unlimited access. But it was common courtesy for individuals to put more in than they took out in a given month. Theoretically, I could withdraw any amount I wanted—assuming Don didn’t prevent me.

  The bus driver, an o
ld, flea-bitten werewolf, gave me the once over like he didn’t believe I was old enough. Tugging down my collared pseudo-shirt, I revealed Don’s bitemark.

  He squinted but finally nodded. Then he took out a digital scroll containing a roster of family vaults. It didn’t take long to find the correct one. As vaults were expensive, only Highbornes and other aristocracy had them. Normal banks were run by goblins, but underground vaults were maintained by gollums. Although small, these rock beings could turn to stone anyone foolish enough to look them in the eye. The price they charged was insurance for any accidental damages.

  The driver marked three tallies next to the name before he handed me the digital quill to get my signature. The tallies were a placeholder. Don would have to pay the fare later. Every transaction in the vault would be under his name. I’d already seen him take out his unofficial monthly quota when I caught a glance at his laptop. Another transaction would make him look bad. Unfortunately, his family wouldn’t notice a measly three ules—their vault probably overflowed with ules, remedies, and other treasures. Too bad. That jerk deserved it for treating me like a pup.

  I took a spot in the back.

  Five more stops and the bus veered down the main street and crossed over the bridge leading into the bog. All around us, tall oaks grew, their thick knees waded in the swampy water. Moss dangled from the branches with a full moon peeking out between them. It wasn’t only werewolves that honored the full moon. Other races did too, so maybe it played a role in the zombies’ Change.

  Finally, I came to Shamar’s stop. It was at the fork of a dirt road, yellow lights on two lampposts lit the path. The moment I stepped off the bus, I was enveloped in the sounds of bullfrogs and crickets. I swatted the gnats away from my eyes.

  Shamar’s family lived down this street. It was kind of creepy at night. It made me think of my horror movies, which always got me excited. I loved being scared.

  I passed several circular bog homes with wooden porches and steps leading up to the door. Poles on either side of the bog home stuck into the mud and prevented the home from sinking into it. That allowed zombies to live close to the swamp. Warm glows came from inside the homes. Shamar’s was the third to last one on the block.

  At his bog home, I thought about knocking at the door. But all the lights were off. If they were asleep, I probably shouldn’t be inconsiderate and ring the bell.

  I changed back to a wereduin. Going around the home, my feet sank into the muddy ground, the tall cat willows got my shorts a little wet.

  I forgot why I hated to skip the door and go straight to his room. Fucking swamp.

  No way I would be changing back into either worg or werewolf form. My pseudo-shoes would be gone, and I didn’t want mud on my feet. It always got in between my claws.

  A faint light came from Shamar’s window. Not warm yellows like most of the bog homes I’d passed, but a soft, reddish-orange glow shown behind the whicker.

  Zombies didn’t share our love for trees. But bog homes were made entirely of wood, so I might be able to climb to his window. My wereduin claws were plenty sharp. Maybe I could make it if I went up lightly?

  First, I better get his attention. “Shamar?” I tried to make my whisper loud and quick. After searching for a stone, I threw it at the pane.

  The lights flickered as if someone was there.

  “Shamar?”

  No answer.

  He had to be in there. Maybe he was too sick to come to the window. It pissed me off that as a zombie, Shamar was subjected to a curse that killed him before reanimating his body. When they awoke, they were a full-fledged zombie.

  And I thought the Offering was bad.

  I climbed the side of his house, cringing at the scratch marks my claws made. It wasn’t nearly as easy as I thought, and it made me appreciate trees even more. Finally, I reached the ledge of his window and gave it two knocks.

  “Shamar?” I kept my voice low to not wake up his family.

  Silence. The light flickered. Someone was there.

  “Shamar? Don’t get up if you don’t have to.” I started opening the window. “I know you’ve been feeling sick and all—”

  All thoughts left me.

  Shamar stood in the center of his room. Naked. His green skin glowed. His eyes closed. Lightening danced on his skin—long tendrils of energy, in various reds and oranges, coming from ritual mats around him. Voodoo trinkets and incense produced a haze.

  I watched him, shocked. Had it already happened? Was Shamar officially a zombie? “Shamar?” My voice was barely a whisper.

  Slowly his eyes opened. He had been facing the window, and the moonlight reflected a yellowish-white glow on his skin.

  His glossy white gaze was unfocused. His head dangled to the side, neck up before it rolled to the other side. His green skin had ripped, and some of it was shedding off. His body seemed more like a voodoo doll in how it contorted than the boy I knew.

  His mouth opened, dirt and grime rolled down his chin—some of it poured out from his shredded skin. He looked terrifying, but I could never be afraid of my best friend.

  He made a low moaning. His eyes grew wide, blackness filling up the milky-white orbs. Still glossy and unfocused, they were directed at me.

  “Shamar?”

  He took one step toward me and stumbled, falling straight onto his face.

  “Shamar!” I jumped from the window ledge to help him up. The moment I reached for him, his hands shot out and grabbed my ankle, and he sank his teeth into my skin. I screamed in pain and instinctively kicked him off. I accidentally kicked his head, and his neck snapped to the side with an ugly popping sound. “Shit, Shamar! Snap out of it! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Grabbing his head, he cracked his neck into place, then lunged at me again. Raspy growls slipped past his stretched lips. His eyes watched me with a vacant stare like he didn’t know me at all. Like I was nothing but a meal of flesh he’d brought for lunch. Only he wasn’t smiling, or laughing, or being his super overly emotional self.

  I raced to get out of the way, but he took me down to the floor, and we rolled around until he pinned me. I held up both hands against his chest to stop him from biting me.

  “Fuck! Stop, Shamar!” I transformed into a werewolf and used that newfound strength to roll him off me. He was ungodly strong. Normally zombies were the weakest race, but not this Shamar. He was like a never-ending source of power. I had barely gotten to my feet when he charged, slamming me into the wall. “Shamar! Stop! It’s me, Fern. Stop!”

  “F-errrrrn.” I thought I heard what sounded like my name in his guttural groans.

  “Yeah. Fern, your best friend. Who’s been really fucking worried about you. So stop trying to fucking eat me!”

  “Brrraiiinss!”

  “No. Fern. Not brains. Fern, dammit!” Okay, maybe Don had been right. What the fuck was I doing here? I was about to get my brains eaten by my undead friend.

  Being best friends with a zombie, I assumed I knew what to expect. Sure, I wasn’t an expert, but we did talk about our races sometimes. Didn’t we? Actually…perhaps not as much as I thought. We normally discussed bands and music whenever we hung out.

  Right now, Shamar was Raging—when zombies became mindless killing machines. But I didn’t think that happened until after their Change, not during it. I thought he would be bedridden or something, not chasing after me like the walking dead!

  I wished he didn’t get so tight-lipped during conversations about his culture. Maybe then I would have seen this coming? But when it came to anything zombie-related, Shamar liked to shoulder his burdens alone. Take his Change for starters. He hadn’t even told me it was happening! Shamar cared so much about my problems but shut me out when it came to his. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was embarrassed. But why? I thought zombies were pretty cool. That didn’t mean I wanted to be eaten by one.

  I dashed for the window, making it to the sill when he grabbed my back and bit down on my shoulder.

/>   “Ah! Stop!” I cried out at the spike of pain. As a werewolf, I was used to being bitten, and zombies didn’t have nearly enough fangs to really hurt me…at least not right away. Thrusting my head back, I banged his forehead, and he let go. At the sound of popping bones over my shoulder, I looked back. Shamar’s head dangled to the side from my force. “Shamar, stop! You’re gonna hurt yourself!”

  Shamar rearranged his head and neck once more, correcting what I had dislodged. Without another thought, I jumped out of the window and landed on all fours. My claws dug into the muddy ground.

  “Brraaainssss!” Shamar reached out of his window, then leapt out after me. I thought he would break something, but lightening—the reddish-orange stuff that had surrounded him before—struck his body, and he landed on his feet. Upright. He looked taller. His menacing, black eyes bulged out. Grime and dirt seeped out from his open mouth; my blood stained his teeth. Still naked, the moonlight revealed the damages his body had undertaken probably from the curse—rips and tears all over, some spots open, revealing milky-white muscles or jutting bones. “Bbrrraaainsss!”

  “Shit, shit, shit! Shamar! Wake the fuck up!” I backed away from him straight toward the marsh behind his house. He was walking me out to a place where it would be hard to escape. Already the mud stuck to my paws and made my steps sluggish. “Shamar, stop!”

  He charged and knocked me on the ground. I bared my fangs. Rolling over onto all fours, I tried to run away. He collapsed onto my back, his fingernails tearing off my fur. He bit down on my shoulder, shaking his head as if to gnaw the flesh off of my bones. If I hadn’t been wearing pseudo-clothes, he would have torn my shirt apart.

  I reached behind and clawed his shoulder, but that spurred him on, and he attacked the back of my head, savagely biting me. “Bbbrrrrainnss.”

  I cried out as his teeth broke my skin.

  Suddenly he was yanked off me and sent flying into the bog. Don stood there, a full werewolf. He growled at me. “You. I fucking told you to stay put.”

  “Don!” I was too relieved to be afraid of him and his wrath.

  Shamar rose to his feet. “Brrraiins.” The throaty words rumbled from his dislocated, hanging jaw.