Of Fur and Ice

by Andrea Marie Brokaw

  “Yeah.” He squints at me. “Why?”

  “No reason. Just checking.” I turn to face the front again, hiding my grin from him.

  Beside me, Aliah's eyes have gone wide. A smile spreads across her face, bringing a pretty sweetness. She nods at me when she sees me looking over, and she's dancing with the mountain as she rides the snow on our runs. There's a playful joy in her motions today, lending her a most unusual and high-flying form of grace. Watching her is like seeing someone with paralyzed legs suddenly rise and start performing the lead from Swan Lake. The word 'amazing' just isn't strong enough. I can only wish the moon affected me like it's affecting her.

  After a morning of cold and activity, we return to the nice warm school for lunch and then have the afternoon off to rest up. Most people, even the suddenly giddy Aliah, go to their rooms to nap, although a few gather in the rec room to watch movies. I decide to play detective.

  Trembling, I creep into the boys' side of the living area, a story prepared about how I need to ask Tod a den question should anyone catch me. It's not Tod's door I ease through though. It's Warren's.

  The room is remarkably neat, with very few personal touches. That strikes me as sad. He's been living in this room for four years, it should have more of him embedded in it even if he is only here during the week.

  I glance through the drawers of his desk, finding nothing but old essays and exams papers. The book shelves are bare save for a few books, mostly texts and nonfiction. The worn Stephen King novel tossed negligently on the nightstand doesn't have any bookmarks with convenient notes or addresses on them. Nothing under the bed, not that I thought there would be. Nothing helpful in the trashcan like there would be if this were a film.

  I spend about half an hour nosing about in Warren's things, but don't learn anything I didn't already know. He didn't even leave his laptop for me to try to hack into.

  With a dispirited sigh, I get up to leave.

  Before I open the door, something catches my eye.

  The sweatshirt, left uncharacteristically balled up behind the door, doesn't strike me as a clue. Unless you were wondering which college football team Warren sides with, in which case you'd now know it's the University of Alaska's. But it does smell of Warren.

  Thinking about Aliah's belief that I should be having visions if people close to me are in trouble, I fold the shirt over my arm. Maybe if I have something with his scent to focus on, I'll be able to open a psychic link to him, or get my subconscious to pay attention to details I already have, or something. It can't hurt to try.

  Going back to my room, I curl up on my bed, Wolfgang, the wolf Warren left me, hugged to my chest and Warren's dirty sweatshirt under my cheek. Closing my eyes, I let his scent envelope me, hoping I'll be sucked into a vision that will let me know what's going on.

  The only thing I wind up sucked into, though, is sleep.

  When I open my eyes again, it's an hour until moonrise and a strange new vibe thrums through the building.

  Walking into the dining room is like passing into a wave of excitement and power. The energy is raw, tense, and intoxicating.

  My steak seems bloodier than usual, its flavors more vibrant. The red of it pops out against an otherwise gray world, reminding me of the special effects in the film Sin City.

  “Just think,” Sam chirps, “after tonight, we'll finally know what you are.”

  I shiver, not sure I want to know.

  “You'll be fine.” Tod gives me a gentle smile, and I nod in response.

  I don't want to talk about my change. Or think about it too much. I've been doing a pretty good job of not thinking about it until now, not allowing myself to feel the fear that nibbles at my insides or the panic that makes it harder than it should be to breathe.

  Warren's not at his table. Not that I expected him to be.

  Lyly's here, but she's not sitting with us, thank goodness. I think we're all too grateful of that to ask Tod about it and risk him remembering to get back together with her. Assuming, of course, the problem's that he's forgotten about her. Surely if he simply refused to take her back, he'd have told us, right? So we could stop wasting brainpower worrying about it? Unless he's doing it to give me something other than changing and Warren to ponder.

  The meal is over far too quickly, and I find myself walking through a bit of a haze down to sickbay, where Mr. Atherton is waiting with the counselor Becky and the school nurse.

  The nurse's office is a little strange. It has the usual tables and collections of needles. It has the same diagrams of body parts that were in my old school's medical rooms and the same little charts about common illnesses. It has a few beds, for students who are too sick to stay alone in their rooms. None of it's unusual.

  No, the odd thing about this sickbay would be the cages.

  There are three of them in a line.

  I've been briefed on what to expect tonight. I'll be locked up, but only as a precaution. The first turn is usually more stressful than the others, and a lot of people react with high levels of violence. Therefore, it seems safer for everyone if my first change occurs in a controlled environment. Particularly when we don't know if I'm going to change into a vole or a saber-toothed tiger.

  “You ready?” Becky asks, sounding excited.

  “Don't have much choice,” I mutter, walking past her into the first of the cages. As cages go, I suppose it isn't so bad. The bars are strong and daunting, and the door closes with an ominous clank. But the bed I plop myself onto is soft and the comforter is fluffy.

  “I hope I don't try to become a woolly mammoth,” I tell the adults. “Because I don't think one of those would fit in here.”

  “I don't think you're a mammoth,” Mr. Atherton tells me with a smile.

  I start to smile back, but then remember I'm mad at him for refusing to tell me where Warren is. “Is Warren still okay?”

  He nods.

  “And you still won't tell me where he is?”

  He shakes his head while Becky gives him a curious look he ignores.

  “If I do become a mammoth, I'm going to squish you.”

  The mumbled threat makes him smile.

  My eyes go to the window, and I wonder how much longer I have to wonder what's going to happen to me.

  “Just a few minutes,” Becky answers the unspoken question.

  We wait in silence. Sitting there with people watching me, eager to see what I'm going to do, makes me feel like I'm in a zoo, waiting for the keeper to show up and run me through a series of tricks.

  The moon rises.

  I don't see it. It's behind the trees. But I feel it deep inside of me. So do my observers; I see it in their tension.

  My limbs start to tingle, my senses heighten. Every little sound becomes enormous, every flicker of light a painful sun.

  Mr. Atherton turns the lights off, and I whisper a thanks. The whisper sounds like a shout. The blood in my ears becomes a torrent of noise. The creaking of the walls is a riot of sound.

  Pressure builds inside me.

  And builds.

  And builds.

  And then bursts.

  Leaving me sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling perfectly normal.

  The adults look at each other. They look at me. No one says anything.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “I don't think we're going to have a show today.”

  “What happened?” Becky asks. “You were shimmering... Then... Nothing.”

  My mouth twists through a surge of irony. “Maybe I'm a werehuman.”

  Her eyes widen as if she's considering the idea.

  “You're certain it's been long enough?” the nurse verifies.

  “Yes,” Mr. Atherton answers her.

  The nurse nods thoughtfully. “And her scent was doing something.”

  “What?” Mr. Atherton demands.

  “It sort of shifted too. To a series of things. Bear, wolf, leopard, lion, fox... Something I couldn't identify.”

  “Might have been
woolly mammoth,” Becky offers, sounding serious.

  “And how do you feel now?” the principal asks me.

  I shrug. “Fine. Normal. Kinda confused.”

  He meets the last admission with an understanding nod. “You're not alone. I've never seen someone not change on their third moon.” He looks to the others, and they shake their heads.

  Becky tilts her head. “I don't understand how you could control it when you can't control your partial shifts.”

  The nurse makes a light snorting sound. “I still don't understand how she's making partial changes before her third moon to start with. I've never heard of anyone doing that. Let alone a kid too young to partially shift at all.”

  I didn't realize the skill was quite that rare, although Warren had hinted it was. “Can Kim do it?”

  Mr. Atherton's eyes narrow. “Where is Kim?” he asks.

  We all shake our heads. “Go find her,” Becky is ordered. “But be careful. It's possible they shift on earlier moons than we're used to.”

  “No,” I tell him, as Becky sprints off. “I was paying attention last moon. I didn't change.”

  “And the one before it?” he asks.

  I shrug. “Okay, I don't remember that one.”

  I'm not sure if Kim is on her first or second moon, but she looks just as human as I do when Becky leads her into the room a few minutes later.

  They put her in the middle cage and she lays down straight away, turning her back to all of us without a word. She doesn't bother to answer when she's asked how she feels, just tenses and huffs.

  Whatever.

  I trade shrugs with Mr. Atherton. He doesn't look hurt by Kim's response to his concern for her well-being.

  He turns on the room's TV, finding a marathon of ancient Star Trek episodes that no one objects to watching.

  I fall asleep around midnight, as Kirk rips his shirt fighting a guy in a lizard costume, and wake up to find the TV off and Kim already gone. My door is open, so I walk out and go upstairs, happy to find it's still breakfast.

  “So?” Sam asks, not waiting for me to put my tray down on the table.

  Sitting, I sigh.

  “That bad?” Tod asks. “Tasmanian Devil?”

  A tiny smile forms on my lips. “No.”

  “Poodle? Mouse? Guinea Pig? Please tell us you're not an insect.”

  I laugh. “No. Nothing like that.” Not looking at anyone, I sigh again. “Nothing at all actually. I didn't change.”

  Not looking at them doesn't mean I don't know they're all staring at me. “You didn't change?” Tod repeats. “At all?”

  “Nope.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I have no idea.” There are tears in my eyes. Stupid eyes.

  Aliah reaches over and rubs my hand. “You've done things you aren't supposed to be able to do yet before. Like the ears Friday? Maybe you subdued it without meaning to? Maybe because the nurse's office just wasn't a good place to change?”

  “Yeah,” Bryce supports the concept with eagerness. “That could happen. I hate that room. My bear wouldn't want to play in there.”

  Everyone nods now. “Maybe we just need to get you outside,” Tod concludes.

  “Maybe.” Should the idea should make me feel relieved or distressed? I realize I'm looking at Warren's spot while I think about it and give myself a mental slap.

  I stay behind with the ice skating crowd today rather than going with the skiers. Bryce gets me into some hockey skates and starts teaching me some new movements. Sprinting back and forth is distracting. I work up a sweat and manage to forget to worry about Warren for thirty straight seconds at least a dozen different times. But when I stumble out of the shower, exhausted, before heading down to lunch, the wolf is the only thing on my mind. I hug his shirt tightly, focusing on his scent and trying to summon an image of him, but there's nothing.

  For a moment, I consider wearing the shirt, but shove it under my blankets instead.

  I mean to go to lunch, but I fall asleep in the few seconds I let myself curl up on the bed, launching quickly into an awful dream.

  Warren stands in front of me, bleeding. It was his blood in the hallway Sunday, spilled by the beast that took him away. He tells me to leave, begs me to flee. With a snarl, he turns, accepting the attack of a fierce wolf. The wolf knocks him over, mauls him with its claws, bites at his throat.

  The beast's teeth sink into Warren.

  Blood is everywhere.

  I leap out of bed before the dream fades, going straight for my shoes. My hands are trembling as I tie my laces. Sprinting, I return to Warren's room.

  He isn't there, but I notice something, something I saw last time without understanding what it meant.

  I grab his truck keys, and I run to the garage.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I curse when I spot the truck sitting in its usual spot. I was hoping to be wrong about that. Why couldn't the keys in my hand just be his spare set?

  If Warren left without his truck, doesn't that imply something is wrong? Seriously wrong? Mr. Atherton is acting like there's nothing to worry about, but is he just sparing me?

  My parking job at the end of my drive into town, during which I stall the truck's manual transmission only three times, is not the best the lot behind Denali's has ever seen, but I leave the truck near the rear entrance, where it's unlikely anyone who doesn't work here will be inconvenienced by it. Taking a deep breath, I open the door and step into the biting cold, letting it fortify me for the task at hand.

  The bar is warm and deserted save for a bored-looking woman reading a magazine behind the bar. “Where's Warren?” I ask without preamble.

  The woman doesn't look up, just points towards a door marked, “Private.”

  Ignoring the sign, I open the door and walk up the flight of stairs it reveals.

  The stairs dump out into a living room. A battered brown couch, two reddish recliners that have seen better days, and very nice television sit amongst handmade wooden tables, dream catchers, and a vast assortment of forest-themed paintings.

  Classic heavy metal comes from behind an archway, and I follow it into a kitchen that was obviously decorated in the nineteen seventies and not touched since.

  At an olive green stove, stirring a pot of something, stands a very shirtless Warren.

  Well, obviously, he's fine. His throat has not, in fact, been ripped out. There's is not a single mark on his back save for a tattoo of Celtic knotwork on his shoulder blade. He's even singing.

  About half a heartbeat before I run away, he turns.

  “Michaela?” Holding a large wooden spoon, he takes a step closer to me. “What are you doing here?”

  A blush rushes over my cheeks. “I was worried about you.”

  “I'm fine.”

  Nodding, I feel like a complete looser. I recognize I should be relieved, but there's too much humiliation for me to feel happy about Warren being safe and healthy.

  “You could have called, you know.” He steps back again, leans against the counter, and folds his arms across his bare chest, the spoon lying against one of them. There's a hint of amusement in the creases on his face, but his eyes are distant. “I have a phone. Seth even has its number.”

  “And it's probably in the student phone book, huh?” I stare down at the ground to keep myself from staring at Warren's partially hidden pectorals. “I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

  “Michaela?” The concern in his voice causes me to realize I'm shaking.

  “I had this dream,” I blubber. “This wolf ripped your throat out. And there was blood all over the place. And Mr. Atherton said you were alright, but he wouldn't tell me where you were. And then I found your truck sitting in the parking lot, so I was scared, and-”

  Suddenly, Warren is wrapping his arms around me, pressing me against his bare skin. I stop trying to talk and concentrate on trying to remember how to breathe. His scent flows into me, comforting but, at the same time, making me struggle all the more
to figure out how my lungs are supposed to work. “It's alright, Michaela. I'm fine.”

  A few moments of trembling later, I finally relax enough to draw a normal breath. My arms slide around Warren, hugging gently back. My eyes are closed as my cheek presses against his chest and I let myself swim in his warmth. His heartbeat is fast, but its deep timber comforts me. Warren is fine.

  He pulls away from me. “I think I need a shirt.”