That Moment When: An Anthology of Young Adult Fiction

by A. M. Lalonde

  Decision made, Becca steeled herself and crept forward. She prayed her knife would find the correct target—there was so little light, and both bodies were twisting in combat. The werewolf paused, lifting its red-covered maw. It stared at her with gold-amber eyes and snarled a threat. When Becca did not listen, it released Vic’s throat and took a powerful leap toward her.

  Becca had no idea what a silver knife would do to the creature. She’d heard rumors that the beasts would turn to ash—but perhaps they had been confused with sanguinarians, who would die from such a fate when pierced by a stake. Werewolves were less known. Would the creature turn back to the human it had been?

  She didn’t know. And, truthfully, she didn’t care.

  The wolf’s massive paws landed on her, its weight toppling them both onto the filthy linoleum. Becca had only seconds before the animal could take hold of her with its impossibly sharp teeth. Without further thought she slammed the knife home, the blade embedding deep into the creature’s shoulder.

  With a real wolf, such a wound was unlikely to be fatal. But Becca knew silver was just as poisonous to a werewolf as moonlight was to the human it had once been.

  Sure enough, the werewolf let out an unearthly howl that seemed to stab its own way through Becca’s very being. Then, whining, the beast flung itself away from her, hitting its back and shoulder against the wall and cabinets, probably trying to remove the source of its agony. Becca scrabbled away to hide behind the kitchen’s small table, afraid to make a sound in case the creature regained itself and sought revenge.

  Soon the whines and scuffling quieted down. Becca could hear Vic’s labored, gurgling breathing, coupled with tiny moans that must be the beast’s dying breaths. Then the moans changed. They grew louder. More forceful. More piteous.

  More human.

  Again she heard frenzied thrashing against the floor, She heard cracking of bone. She heard tearing of flesh. And the horrible, agonizing cry of pain that filled her with horror.

  I caused this.

  Whatever—whoever this had been—they hadn’t chosen their fate.

  But neither did I. Neither did Mom and Dad.

  When these cries stopped at last, Becca crawled out from behind the table.

  The revelation that met her eyes, the strange inevitability of what she saw, prevented her from being utterly shocked. But the truth crushed her nevertheless.

  Transformed from his wolf form, Becca’s childhood friend lay on the floor, sweaty and covered in blood.

  “Lucas,” she whispered, staggering up a few feet and then crumpling again in front of the young man’s nude body, turned an icy blue by the strip of moonlight visible through the window. Only his hair and blood were nearly black. “Oh, God, Lucas…”

  He’d warned her. He’d tried to stop her from entering the building. And she should have recognized the signs of what he was: His worried looks to the sky. His rubbing his arms, probably already feeling the twinge of his impending change. His impatience. He’d known he was racing against the moon.

  And the look of alarm—clearly justified—when he’d seen the silver knife now limply clasped in his hand and steeped in his own blood.

  He’d apparently pulled the weapon out himself. His eyes were half-closed in a wince. He swallowed and frowned at Becca, who knelt beside him and knew the moment he recognized her. “It was you?” he whispered. “I figured he’d stabbed me.”

  His damp fingers reached for her hand—just as he had when they were children playing under the sprinklers, except now the liquid was thick, warm blood. Her right wrist still ached with its injury, which was reason enough for her to pull back.

  “I didn’t realize it was you, Lucas, I swear I didn’t—”

  “Shouldn’t have mattered even if you did. ‘Werewolves must die.’ It’s the law.” His lids closed against what must have been a wave of pain. “So few laws around now, you had to follow it.”

  The quiet resolve in his fading voice was more damning than any accusation. Becca shook her head. “You were my friend,” she said as she looked wildly around for something to stanch the blood. “My first friend, the only real one I’ve ever had. But ten minutes ago I actually thought you’d been working with him. Why didn’t I trust you?”

  “You were right not to. I should’ve said what I was, I…” His brows lowered in a scowl. “I—I didn’t want to tell you. We can’t. People kill us during the day.”

  “And now I’ve killed you anyway.”

  Lucas sighed and let his head fell back. “Well, you tried your best,” he muttered. “But don’t get ahead of yourself. I might’ve gotten the knife out in time. Not sure. If the wound heals… it’ll open every time I change, and it’ll be painful as hell, but…” His words vanished into silence, and his face seemed whiter than the moon.

  Tears stung Becca’s eyes, something she’d long thought eradicated from her physical vocabulary. But she couldn’t break down now—she had to attend to that wound. She clambered to her feet and, stepping over Vic’s body—the feral was still breathing, still refusing to die—at last found a relatively clean dishtowel. Then, remembering Lucas’s still-shuddering frame, she fetched an old coat hanging on a hook by the back door. She laid it over his scarred, naked body and pressed the towel against his shoulder. The open stab wound was bad enough, but the skin surrounding it looked as if it had been burned by acid: long tendrils of raw skin had been eaten away by the silver.

  “Lucas,” she whispered when he barely moved in reaction to her putting pressure on the wound. “Can you hear me? Can you talk?”

  “I’m still here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Guilt, anger and fear comingled uncomfortably within Becca’s chest. “I don’t understand why you’re here. Or how? How did you get in?”

  “The same way that feral’s been getting out. A tunnel in his cellar. Leads to a well. An old dry well in the woods.”

  A gasp escaped her. “The stone well. I saw it. I was there last week. I didn’t know—”

  “It was only luck that let me find it.” Lucas drew a ragged breath. “Couple days ago I spotted him at dawn, not long after I’d transformed back to human. He… he carried something wrapped in a tarp. I knew what it was. And I could guess what he was.” Each word was forced through his blue-tinged lips and clearly cost him great effort. “As for why I’m here? Guilt. Should’ve told you about him. I never thought you’d actually get inside.”

  Becca used her shoulder to wipe tears from her face, still holding the makeshift tourniquet tightly against him. “That’s what you get for underestimating me.”

  He gave her a faint semblance of the crooked smile she remembered. “Right. Everything’s my fault. You always did blame me for pranks you pulled.”

  For a few silent seconds they looked at each other. Becca wondered if he was also struck by the enormity of the gulf between now and the children they’d once been.

  Lucas continued. “I misjudged the time before moonrise, talking with you. By the time I entered the tunnel, I started to feel the pains. Last thing I remember was running toward a set of cellar stairs. Guess that was when I… turned.”

  The roars I heard. That was him. And he tried to save us, he risked his life. Becca knew she had already subdued Vic and the wolf could have killed her. But Lucas had tried. That meant a lot. It meant everything.

  “I didn’t think it was possible,” she said slowly. “Someone doing something selfless.”

  Lucas’s eyes opened a little. He started to sit up, and though Becca discouraged him, he managed to lean against one of the cabinets. Finally, with obvious difficulty, he lifted a finger to point at her neck, then her forearm. “Selfless,” he echoed. “How many of those bandages are there? Aren’t they the result of you being selfless with your family?”

  Becca’s lungs froze mid-breath. How had he guessed?

  At once, she knew. Because he was a preternatural creature himself. Again she recalled his saying that they were on ‘different s
hifts.’ Lucas had known her siblings couldn’t travel by day, just as he couldn’t by night.

  He deserved the truth. “No, I’m not selfless at all. I’m supposed to protect them. I’m supposed to provide for them. I promised my parents I wouldn’t let Jake or Mia get… violent.”

  “I knew you guys were different. You were obviously still human, but I could sense they were something… Wasn’t certain what they were, wasn’t sure they were sanguinarians, but I knew it wasn’t natural.”

  “My brother and sister are natural. They can’t help how they were born in this godforsaken place!”

  Lucas didn’t answer. His weary gaze just examined her, accompanied by the sound of Vic’s relentless, deathless breathing. Then he shifted to look at the other man’s body. Softly he said: “If they’re hungry, bring them in. Let them finish him.”

  She sat back on her heels. “No! That’s precisely what I can’t do!”

  “Becca. He has to be killed either way.”

  “What? No, he doesn’t. Let him die on his own, he’s gonna bleed out eventually. I don’t even understand how that bastard’s still alive.”

  “Of course you don’t. How could you? You people never talk to werewolves.” Lucas’s tone had taken on a hint of bitterness, but he shook his head and went on evenly. “We kill our prey. We don’t usually leave survivors. But this man is like me. Lucky.”

  When Becca couldn’t find a response to his sarcasm except for a numb, confused stare, Lucas pulled the coat away from his side. Just above his left hip was a massive scar, old but unmistakable as having come from a vicious bite.

  “Lucky,” he went on, “‘cause we were both attacked but didn’t receive the killing bite—the one that would’ve finished us off.” He let the coat fall back into place. “And like me, without it, he’ll live, and he’ll turn. And trust me: he’ll be worse as a wolf than as a man.”

  Becca hugged herself. Vic had been a monster while human. If he became worse…

  “Fine. Then I’ll kill him,” she said, stark and cold. “Give me the knife.”

  Lucas’s reply was interrupted when fists battered the kitchen door. Jake and Mia were outside calling for her, clearly desperate and afraid.

  “It’s all right,” she answered, her throat constricted and hoarse. “I’m okay, guys. Everything’s okay!”

  “But we’re so hungry! Can’t we just have something? You said we could!”

  Lucas watched her in expectation, but Becca couldn’t return the look. She lifted his hand—more roughly than she’d intended—so he could keep the towel pressed to the wound himself. Then, when she moved to the door, she pressed her cheek against the wood before murmuring, “I know, Mia. In a little while.”

  “Did you eat yet? You said if you ate we could have something too.”

  Her sister’s voice was forceful and petulant. Becca unlatched and opened the door, just enough to see them. “Just wait. Someone—you know that guy we saw outside? He’s a werewolf. He got hurt trying to save us. I have to help him.”

  Jake’s eyebrows raised in interest at the word ‘werewolf,’ but Mia scowled. She then shoved the door hard enough to make Becca stagger back in surprise. Immediately both kids rushed in to stare at the two injured men.

  Stopping abruptly, Jake clutched his stomach. Vic’s kick had hurt him, maybe even broke a rib, but Becca suspected he was mostly famished. All three of them were. And he was staring in fascination at the blood covering both Vic and Lucas.

  A sick sensation rippled down Becca’s spine. “Guys… I told you to stay outside. I’ll feed you as soon as I—”

  Mia’s tug on her sweatshirt interrupted her. “Are you hurt?” she asked, her voice innocent as she pointed to the bloodstained sweatshirt. Then her tone changed. “We want some now! You promised!”

  This argument was nothing new. As the months and years passed, Becca’s siblings had turned bolder, more demanding. But in front of Lucas, Becca felt shame and horror at her sister’s expectations.

  “I did, but not now. I’m way too weak.”

  “We won’t take much, honest. Please?” Jake entered the begging phase, Mia following immediately: “You always told us if we did what you said, you’d take care of us.”

  Their two smaller figures surrounded her, pushing her and tugging the hem of her sweatshirt. Despite their size, they were strong. For the first time, Becca was afraid—not for them, but of them. “Guys, stop. I know you’re hungry, but—” She shook her head helplessly, not knowing what to do.

  Except she did know. She just wished she didn’t.

  From behind her she heard a groan, and when she swiveled she saw Lucas, now wearing the coat, lurching unsteadily to his feet. He took a few steps forward, squinting in pain, before he propped himself against the kitchen table. Without a word, his eyes seemed able to express his sympathy and—if she needed it—his support.

  He held out his hand to clasp her fingers. Reflexively she squeezed back, feeling his extraordinary strength bolster her own.

  At last Becca let go, clenched her fists, stepped aside and gave in. But even before she finished giving her permission, Jake and Mia had rushed gleefully toward Vic.

  * * *

  “They’re old enough to take care of themselves, you know. A lot of them do.”

  Becca nodded. They were seated on a sofa in the living room, staring into the button candle in its tin holder. It was barely a flicker now, an hour since Vic had slammed it down.

  Lucas’s wound seemed to have healed somewhat—one of the advantages of his lycanthropy was a speedier recovery from injuries. Tremors still rippled along his body, easily noticeable even through the bulky material of the coat. When Becca had asked earlier, he had explained that it wasn’t normal for him to be in human form at night; his muscles, nerves and bones were caught between the pull of the moon and the unwelcome constraint of the silver-based wound.

  Now he leaned forward to peer at her. “You had to know this would happen one day, right?” Once again, she nodded wordlessly. “And,” he went on, “that they won’t go back to how they were before... satisfied by whatever small amounts you’ve been letting them take from you. You know? Their hunger’s more powerful.”

  “Yes,” she said, the word almost unable to escape her clenched jaw. “I know.”

  Lucas hesitated, and his hand again encircled hers. “They’re a danger to you,” The harsh words were spoken as gently as any she’d ever heard. “They’ll take and take until eventually they won’t look on you as a relative. Just another human—”

  “I said I know!” She yanked herself from his grasp. “I know I have to leave them, I know they have to join their own kind! Is that what you want me to say, damn you?”

  They fell into silence. Becca could again hear little Jake and Mia enjoying themselves. Their audible delight in feeding to their hearts’ content filled her with both relief and revulsion. She had provided for them, just as she’d promised their parents, but this feast was the death knell for her family.

  Suddenly she bent forward, head bowed as she released her sorrow in choking, ugly sobs.

  After a while, Lucas’s hand sought hers again, slipping beneath fingers damp with tears. She held on, grateful for his warm strength. And this time she did not let go.

  —ABOUT THE AUTHOR—

  Kira Lerner enjoys treading in deeper, darker waters, and has reveled in life's complex dramas ever since she started writing and performing as a singer/actor at a crazy young age. Her fiction ranges from YA paranormal romance and epic fantasy to horror and rom-coms. She's also the warped mind behind About Schuyler Falls, one of the first online soap operas. When not writing, she’s a crazy Anglophilic writer and staunch New Yorker who loves chocolate, Chopin, cats, serial commas, and her family (not necessarily in that order). When not working on her own fiction, she edits other authors’ works to develop stories to their full potential.

  If you're looking for atmospheric, captivating tales that draw you into thrilling ne
w worlds (literally... you can even star in her YA paranormal romance with a time-travel twist, Night Wolf), follow Kira and journey into the dark side.

  Visit her site to find more free stories, gift coupons and exclusive news about upcoming releases. You can also get a tantalizing preview of Night Wolf, plus an extra free goodie perfect for other writers!

  www.kiralerner.com/wp/ya-anthology

  MISERY

  Patti Larsen

  It’s been so long since I stood here. The paint’s peeling from the front door, rust running from the busted lock, the clinging hinges. But I still feel the echo of the girl I was, the whispered voices of the ones I loved haunting the flagstone walk, the driveway, their faces lost in the dust over the picture window.

  I could move on, forget my promise and go. Not like anyone would judge me for my choice, for turning away from what was, instead of focusing on what is. Yeah, I could turn and walk under the old, swinging sneakers hanging from the line overhead in silent welcome, show this place my back for the last time. Probably should, considering. Like I said, it’s been so long and I’m tired. Haven’t I fought enough, done enough? There’s those who would say I’d seen the day come and go any kind of return might bring me peace, so why bother? Why come here, when the road calls me on from a past I can do nothing to change? I should go. Just go. Just…

  Not yet, Abigail. Not yet.

  I barely feel the stone under my feet turn to concrete steps as I climb in a body that feels far heavier than it did a moment ago. The thick door creaks, groans, my shoulder against it, the house itself seeming to shake with my return. Hinges protest in whining voices as the rust gives way, the crumbling paint turning to dust under the pressure when I finally relent and ease through the slim opening I’ve managed to make. Barely a crack big enough for me, but I squeeze through anyway.

  It’s wide enough to let a beam of light in once I’ve passed, morning sunshine catching the ballet of particulates I raise with my footfalls. I pause on the hall carpet, the crunch of its decaying fabric loud in the dull quiet. It may have been years since I stood here, since anyone passed through that old, wooden door, but I’ve made a habit of invading places like this. Enough that I lose the trepidation I’ve been feeling all morning, the leaden regret and nostalgia pulling at my sneakers, at my aching knees and protesting hips. At the flutter of my heart in my chest.