by R A Watt
“Are you sure?” I asked.
She stood up. “Come, both of you, please. I want to show you something.”
Following her into the house, we made our way into the basement, and she led us to the wine cellar. The massive door must have been three inches thick. As she pulled it open, its iron hinges creaked.
She flicked on the light inside, illuminating a small, stone room about ten feet by ten feet. No furniture, just empty.
“Yeah? The wine cellar?” I asked.
“No, I’m sorry. I lied about that, Teavan. This was a secure room you grandfather helped build. On some full moons, when he knew he couldn’t resist, he would come here before dark. We would lock him in there until morning. The walls and door were too strong for him to break through. It was his idea.”
The weight of what she was telling me was sinking in. “If Grandpa was a werewolf . . . what about my dad? What about me?”
Chapter 25
“As far as Hubert knew, your father doesn’t know anything about it.”
“But, is he . . . ?” I asked.
“No, it often skips generations or vanishes completely,” she answered.
“What if you get bitten by a werewolf? Do you become one, too?” I asked.
She smiled and shook her head. “No, that’s just a silly legend. It’s a recessive gene. You either have it or you don’t. The saliva from a lycan will only give you a nasty infection if the bite doesn’t kill you.”
Then another realization swept over me as the term skips a generation replayed itself. “Wait. Am . . . I?”
Mrs. Leclair stood there with her eyes narrowed and a look of sadness in them. “Maybe. It does sound like it; all the signs are there, I’m afraid. For everyone, it reveals itself at different times during adolescence, sometimes even as late as twenty years old. Usually, it just manifests one night on a full moon. Traditionally, the parents would know to be on the watch for it. And if it does manifest, the lycan was brought into the inner circle. But as lycans have spread geographically further apart, the gene has weakened or vanished. It came as no surprise to Hubert that your father showed no symptoms. It was his plan, so it was more of a relief.”
“Was there a full moon yesterday?” I asked.
“No, though it’s not far off. Your gene seems to have manifested out of necessity, a sort of self-preservation. Your body went through great physical and emotional stress, and it needed to heal. It was your time,” she said.
Flashbacks of the paws, the running, the smells, the sounds. The eating. It felt like a dream, but I knew she was right. My stomach churned uncomfortably.
“Did it somehow . . . heal my arms? My bruises?”
She nodded. “A lycanthrope can heal from almost anything—remarkably quickly—and your body did just that. Bones break, mend, and re-grow stronger. Bigger. Your muscle would also have grown. Sometimes even diseases disappear, like diabetes and other such afflictions the youth can suffer from. In some ways, it can be a blessing. But in most, I’m afraid it's a curse.”
Mrs. Leclair sighed. “Even in his human form, Bruno will be growing stronger and faster, with heightened senses. You will, too. But similar to Bruno, you will be slower in your abilities than your grandfather because of your mother’s non-lycan genes.”
Suzanne looked at me up and down. “Teavan, you are different now. You stand taller; you seem bigger.”
I thought back to the mirror in the bathroom, and my jeans and shirt being too small.
“The transformation requires a lot of energy; you will find yourself hungry after changing to or from your lycan state. And on a full moon, you will likely have no control. This will need to be watched, Teavan. You could hurt someone very badly, if not worse.”
Quietly, I thought over all that she said. All that it implied. It was kind of exciting in some ways, and extremely scary in others. I tried to will myself awake, end this strange dream. It couldn’t be real.
“If I’m a werewolf, as were my grandfather, Bruno, and his dead brother. Then how many are there? Is this town full of them?”
She shook her head. “Heavens no, thank the stars. It’s just you and him. He’s after you because of who you are. This is no accident.”
“So, Bruno,” I said. “He started to change, and it wasn’t a full moon?”
“He was upset, excited. It can happen when you want it to, once you have control. Most still have trouble stopping it on full moons, though it gets easier with age or more direct bloodlines. The responsible ones always have a safe room they have access to,” she said.
Suzanne sat down on the basement steps and thrust her hands in her hair. “This is crazy. Totally crazy.”
Mrs. Leclair strode over with a severe look in her eye. “Teavan, was it you last night? Were you the one that attacked the Denning girl?”
I could feel the blood rushing to my head. “Me? No! I would remember that. I wouldn’t do that. It was Bruno, he said he was going there. He did it, I swear.”
“And yet . . .” Suzanne interrupted.
“Yet what?” I snapped.
She shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “And yet you saw her last, don’t remember anything, may have changed into a wolf, and had blood all over you. That’s what.”
Her accusation stung. “You think it was me, don’t you?”
“I don’t think you would ever do something like that on purpose. Consciously, I mean.”
Heat spread into my face and neck. “But why—?”
“Settle down,” Mrs. Leclair said, holding her hand between us. “Was the blood on your clothes? Or just on your body?”
“Both,” Suzanne answered.
Mrs. Leclair smiled. “If you had attacked her in your canine form, there wouldn’t be any blood on your discarded clothes now would there? You would have changed first.”
It was my turn to grin, and I spun around back to Suzanne. “Exactly!”
She shrugged. “Maybe; that does make sense. Trust me, I hope so, this isn’t something I’m hoping to be right on.”
“Well, I believe you, Teavan,” Mrs. Leclair said. “But this all goes back to what we discussed last time. Bruno needs to be stopped, and I can’t do it.”
Suzanne was thinking, and she spoke up. “What if we just film him, you know, and show the police?”
“His father is the police here,” she answered.
“Well, another police department. Any town, I don’t know,” Suzanne suggested.
“If you happen to show the wrong people, Suzanne, bad things happen. As you can imagine, a great many people have far more invested in this never coming to light, than for you to prove something about a local bully. Even if you could get it on film, these things tend to get sorted out . . . internally,” Mrs. Leclair warned.
“We have suspected presidents, some of the best athletes, CEOs. You name it, they have often been either full lycanthropes or partial ones. They’re faster, more alert, and have heightened senses. Why do you think some of the world’s best winemakers are in France and Italy? Or chefs? The superior smell and taste genes go a long way. These people tend to excel; the last thing they want is for anything like this to ever come to light.
“I’m afraid,” Mrs. Leclair continued, as she picked up a box on the table in the back corner where her husband had melted silver, “there is only one viable solution. Trust me, I’ve been thinking about and testing this for thirty years. He’s bad, and he’ll get worse. More brazen.”
This time her suggestion didn’t seem so crazy.
“And he has it out for you, maybe all three of you. You heard what he did to that poor Denning girl, and she has nothing to do with this. And like your father, his father is not in the inner circle; it’s not like we can appeal to him for help. Bruno is coming for you. You’d best strike first.”
Chapter 26
We left Mrs. Leclair's and agreed to be in touch later in the week. There was a full moon on Thursday, and she pleaded for me to spend the night locked up in her basement for it. Suzanne l
et out a nervous laugh as we left and said we would think about it.
Someone was sitting on the front porch as we pulled up to my house.
Sybil.
“Hey,” I called, leaning my bike against the side of the garage.
She came over with her fists clenched at her sides, face twisted.
“Why aren’t you calling or texting me back?” she snapped.
I was confused at her hostility; she was on my list to call after our visit with Mrs. Leclair. Honey was barking excitedly from inside the house, wanting to be let out.
“My phone—it’s busted.”
“Yeah, right. Or you just don’t want to talk about last night. About what you did.”
I held my hands up. “Wait. First, how is Rachel? Suzanne called the hospital, but they won’t tell us anything since we aren’t family.”
Sybil shook her head. “Well, she’s not dead, if that’s what you’re asking. Eighteen stitches, a few broken bones, and she’s unresponsive. So we don’t yet know what happened to her. Or who.”
She was red-faced and glaring, completely ignoring Suzanne who stood silently next to me.
“Sybil, can you chill for a minute? You are next on my list to call, but my phone is toast, and you can’t even begin to believe what I’ve been through over the last twenty hours. Please, come inside and listen for a minute?” I pleaded.
She laughed. “What you have been through? Rachel is in the hospital, and you think you have been through a lot? Are you kidding me?”
Suzanne stood forward. “I understand your anger, but just hear him out. Please?”
Sybil looked back and forth between Suzanne and me.
“Fine.”
We went inside and sat down. Honey was jumping excitedly and licking everyone. Suzanne and I explained the whole story.
Everything.
Sybil remained quiet the entire time, but it felt like she was just waiting until the end of the story so she could pounce and take me by the throat.
But instead she shook her head. “No clothing at all?”
“Nada,” Suzanne answered.
“I mean, I knew you were weird, but this takes the cake. But I didn’t see you doing any drugs last night,” she said with a laugh, eyeing me warily.
Sybil stood. “Teavan, stand up.”
As I got up, she stepped uncomfortably close, looking me in the eye, her warm breath in my face. “That’s odd. You are taller, now that you mention it.”
I pointed to my hiked up jeans. “See? It’s true.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean anything; you are a terrible dresser to begin with,” she said.
Suzanne let out a laugh as she filled our waters.
“Gee, thanks,” I answered, turning red again.
Sybil sat down at the corner of the table, and lifted her right arm on top. “Come on,” she said, wiggling her hand.
“You want to arm wrestle me?” I asked, looking at her.
She nodded. “Show me, Mr. Werewolf.”
“Well, if that part about me is even true, I’m, like, not transformed right now.”
“But the old lady said that Bruno was stronger even when normal, right?” she asked.
Sybil had a point.
My right arm met hers from across the table, and we clasped our hands together.
“Yuck,” she said, shaking her head. “You are all sweaty.”
Shrugging, I said, “Sorry, it’s hot in here.”
She shook her head. “Not really, but whatever. Ready? Go!”
Immediately she thrust with everything she seemed to have, almost wanting to break my arm. Taking out her frustrations. Her face grimaced, her teeth clenched, and her freckles almost disappeared into the redness.
Had I not known Sybil better, I would have thought she was playing a trick on me. Pretending to try as hard as she could, but actually exerting nothing.
Except she was.
She looked me in the eye, and growled through her clenched teeth. “Finish it!”
Slowly and with more ease than I thought possible, I lowered her arm until the back of her hand touched the table top.
She jumped up from her chair, stretching out her arm and fingers, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s impossible. You . . . you are a weakling? How . . . ?”
Suzanne took her place immediately. “Let me try.”
She was a little stronger than Sybil, but not much. I was victorious even sooner this time, not wanting to drag it out. Suzanne also got up and stretched her arm. “Damn. That is weird.”
The ease with which I beat them both reiterated the fear inside that this was all true. But at the same time, I kinda felt giddy at this newfound strength. I kept that part quiet.
“So, now what? So you are a lot stronger than you look. Can you somehow prove more?” Sybil asked.
Shrugging, I said, “I don’t know how it works. When I changed . . . it just kinda happened. Out of necessity, said Mrs. Leclair. But she said on Thursday a full moon is coming, and I need to barricade myself in her basement safe room.”
“And what about Bruno?” Sybil asked.
“Bruno? I don’t know; I’m not calling him to join me.”
Sybil shook her head angrily. “No, you idiot. I mean, will he also change on Thursday?”
Suzanne spoke, “According to Mrs. Leclair he should; seems like he’s way too young to control it.”
Sybil stood and started pacing, seeming to formulate a plan. “Well, maybe someone stays with you at the Leclair place to keep an eye on you and see if anything even happens. And someone else goes to the Vincent home, with their phone, for pictures and video. I volunteer.”
Staring at the floor, I thought about Mrs. Leclair and her warnings about bringing this information public. But the alternative was impossible, too. This was the only way.
“You can’t go alone, Sybil,” I said, looking up. “You need help. And what if he . . . turns on you? Sees you? How will you even know where to find him?”
“I think I know where he’ll be. The Vincents have a guest cottage near their house, like a treehouse without the tree. Bruno and Grayson spent their summers sleeping in it. I imagine he still does. He’ll be in there.”
“And what if you need help?” I asked.
Sybil looked at Suzanne. “You should stay with Teavan at Mrs. Leclair’s. It’s gonna have to be Tweedledee and Tweedledum.”
They had been my first and only thought, too. I didn’t want any more people a part of this, but at the same time, we needed help. “Okay. Let’s meet them tomorrow and tell them everything. We will have to work out how we all get out for the night, like some kind of mass sleepover at each other's houses.”
“But where? Where do we actually sleep?” Suzanne asked.
It was quiet as we considered each alternative; explaining to our parents that we were sleeping at other kids’ houses. And somewhere we could arrive—late. There was only one option.
“Mrs. Leclair’s,” I said.
At that moment, there was howling in the far distance outside. Honey jumped up from under the table and ran to the front window, putting her paws up on the sill and looking around as the hair on her neck bristled.
“You better call your dad for a ride home, Sybil. It’s getting dark,” I said.
Sybil went to the front window and looked out at the darkness falling to the horizon. There was another howl, and Honey’s ears went down, flat to her head, and she growled.
“Maybe just this once,” she said with a quiver in her voice, sliding her phone out from her back pocket.
* * *
Both Suzanne and I called the hospital again on Sunday, but they wouldn’t give us any updates on how Rachel was doing. It was killing me.
As we waited for the guys to come over, I closed the door to my bedroom and decided to do something I had never done.
I got down on my knees and leaned against my bed with my hands together, and closed my eyes.
Dear God. I don’t know ho
w to do this, as you probably know. But I am praying for someone. Rachel. She’s hurt, real bad, and I pray to you to help her recover. I promise if she does, I’ll be a better guy. A better person. Just let her be okay. Please.
Amen.
Remaining there for a few minutes, I repeated my awkward prayer a couple of times, not knowing if I was doing it right. Or if there was anyone even listening. But Rachel believed and she needed this. I decided to pray every day until she woke up.
When Kevin and Jermaine arrived, we told them what happened. They weren’t nearly as skeptical as I would have been had I not witnessed things firsthand.
“I told you, man, weird things happen here,” Jermaine said.
Sybil had been with Rachel all morning at the hospital—no change. When she got to my house, we all walked over to Mrs. Leclair’s to get her advice for Thursday, to show the guys the safe room, and to ask if everyone could stay over.
Mrs. Leclair lifted a hand to her face and shook her head. “Oh dear. Why have you gone and spread this? It was only for your ears; it was just you two implicated in this. Few outsiders know. You three are now at risk just knowing.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Sybil answered.
I shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Leclair. We decided we can’t kill him, that we need proof instead. And I can’t be the one to get it, since on Thursday . . . you know. And it was Sybil’s cousin that was hurt, so she is in on it.”
Mrs. Leclair put her hands on her hips, surveying each of our faces as we stood outside on her porch. “What will you do? Simply waltz up to his house, get a video of him changing, then walk away? You think he won’t see you? Smell you? You’ll never make it out; this is much too dangerous.”
We told her about the guest house and how he would probably be in there. It seemed to take forever for me to change, so they would only need a minute or two of video and be long gone before he was done transforming.
Mrs. Leclair sat down carefully on her rocking chair, steadying herself as she did. “It goes faster with time, I’m afraid. The more often you change, the quicker it happens. You won’t have twenty minutes.”
“Okay, fine, we take, like, thirty seconds of video, run back to our bikes, and arrive here before he even knows what happened,” Sybil suggested.