by Cheree Alsop
“Except this stuff,” Safira said. She held the container of sauerkraut out to Joven and said, “Smell it.”
Joven inhaled a big whiff of the sauerkraut and started coughing. Everyone laughed as James pounded him on the back.
“Yeah, that’s a little potent,” the human admitted. “A little goes a long way.”
“None goes even further,” Marley said.
Everyone laughed again.
Chapter Eleven
“Zev, I made you one.”
Aspen tugged on my shirt and I lowered to my knees on the garage’s cement floor.
“I made it just the way I like it,” Aspen whispered. She glanced around to ensure nobody but Alia could overhear us. Her sister smiled down at her and the little girl turned back to me. “Melted cheese and mayo. It’s really all you need. I think you’ll like it,” she confided.
I couldn’t help smiling when I accepted the bun that she held out. “Thank you,” I whispered back.
She winked at me and slipped from the garage with her own hotdog held tightly in one hand.
I rose and found Alia watching me.
“She really has quite taken to you,” she noted.
I watched the little girl go back into the house as I replied, “She’s special. I don’t know why she would single me out.”
“Because you are, too,” Alia said, elbowing my side.
I knew she meant it to be playful, but her elbow caught me right where I had been shot. I nearly dropped my hotdog.
“Are you alright?” Alia asked quickly.
I held my side for a moment before I could straighten up. I leaned against the wall and waited until my voice was steady before I said, “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Alia shook her head. “I saw that. There’s no way you’re fine!”
The last thing I needed was for anyone to worry about me. Isley’s comment at her house that somebody should take care of me warred with the memory of the fear on her face when she found out what I was. I wondered if she regretted ever inviting me inside, letting me clean up, and drawing with me in her kitchen. I know I wouldn’t forget it.
Alia watched me with that concerned look I couldn’t tear my gaze from. I hadn’t been able to deny her anything from the moment I set foot in the Willard house. That still held true.
“I got shot, but I’m healing,” I finally admitted.
“When?” Alia asked with shock in her voice.
“Less than an hour ago,” Mitch said, walking up. “Virgo told me.”
I cursed the warlock’s concern, and also the werewolf’s keen hearing. I didn’t need someone else in the conversation. Werewolves didn’t show weakness. It had been drilled into us from youth. I didn’t need their sympathy.
“And you’re not healing, are you?” Mitch pressed.
The werewolf’s blue eyes searched mine. I wanted to lie to him. Instinct told me to protect myself. But if the witches called us to go back to the dark coven and I wasn’t at my full strength, anyone who went with us could be in danger.
“No,” I replied, lowering my gaze. I lifted the edge of my shirt. “But I had Isley burn it so it would stop bleeding.”
A gasp sounded from Alia at the sight of the raw, red blistered handprints and the black bullet holes. I didn’t need to look at it because I could feel how bad it was. I kept my eyes on the werewolves and humans that lounged in chairs and on blankets spread across the wet grass. Fortunately, nobody was paying attention to our conversation.
I pushed my shirt back down. “It’ll be fine.”
“Why aren’t you healing?” Alia pressed.
“Because the witches shot him with silver,” Mitch said.
I gave the werewolf an exasperated look. “I’ll be fine.”
“You were shot twice?” Alia exclaimed.
This time, everyone looked our way.
I forced a fake smile and said loudly, “No, I will not take shots with you. We’re too young!”
“Alia,” Mrs. Willard scolded.
Alia looked from me to her mom. “It was a joke,” she replied.
Mrs. Willard made a clicking sound with her tongue and shook her head. “Let’s not joke about that.” She looked around meaningfully. “We have too many impressionable people here.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Stein,” Striker said with a mouthful of hotdog. “We’re not that impressionable.”
“And we’re not exactly people,” Minxy, one of the only other surviving female werewolves, said.
“Of course you are!” Mrs. Willard exclaimed. “You have just as many rights, feelings, and needs as humans.”
She proceeded to launch into an explanation, emphasized by the empty hotdog bun in her hand, about why werewolves were people and deserved just as much consideration.
“Sorry,” Alia said quietly, turning back to me. “But if you can’t heal, shouldn’t you be laying down or something?”
“That’s what Virgo said,” Mitch pointed out.
I lifted my hotdog. “I need to eat this or I’ll hurt the feelings of one very important little girl.” They watched me with matching worried looks. The fact that they had matching worried looks rankled. But I knew I wasn’t going to get out of it. I finally sighed and said, “I’ll rest in a bit. I promise.”
My eyes caught the sight of a face peering through the kitchen window.
“In fact, I’ll go now.”
I walked past the pair toward the house. I felt them staring after me. I supposed I should have been touched by their concern, but I was getting tired of people worrying about me. I was used to taking care of myself. It was time I did it again.
When I met the green eyes that watched out of the window, Isley ducked back behind the curtain. I leaned against the house with my free hand on my side. It throbbed intensely thanks to Alia; though, to be fair, it hadn’t exactly felt like a tickle before that.
“Isley?”
No response followed, but I hadn’t heard the sound of her footsteps leave the kitchen.
“Isley, it’s Zev. Will you talk to me?” I hesitated, then said, “Please?”
Silence followed my words long enough that I thought she wasn’t going to reply, then she said, “There’s nothing I want to say to you.”
Maybe silence would have been better.
I leaned my head against the wet siding of the house and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth.”
“You lied to me!” she replied.
I grimaced and said, “I didn’t tell you I wasn’t a werewolf.”
The curtain ripped aside and she glared at me. “But you said nothing when I told you how afraid I was!”
“You were afraid of me,” I replied. My words caught in my throat when it tightened. I swallowed and continued with, “I didn’t know how to take that.” At her silence, I said, “I haven’t changed, just your perception of me.” I paused, then said, “I’ll still protect you.”
“From yourself?”
The one thing I had never known as a werewolf at the Lair was that words could hurt far worse than any blade. I swallowed down the bitterness that filled my mouth at her question and did the only thing I could do. I walked away.
I kept walking until the sounds of camaraderie and fun at the Willard residence died away, but I didn’t have the heart to stop in the middle of nowhere, so I kept going. As I walked, the clouds lessened a little and the light from the almost full moon edged the darkness in gray. I soon found myself on the outskirts of Brickwell. The quiet little town was nestled in tight for the night, oblivious to the danger that resided not far from its borders.
I walked past windows shuttered against the darkness and lit inside by night lights or flickering fireplaces. The smells of dinners long since over drifted beneath front doors and windows. My stomach growled, reminding me of the hotdog in my hand that I had forgotten about.
With a whisper of thanks to Aspen, I brought the bun to my mouth. Though it was cold, the taste of the hotdog meat was complimented by the
white sauce and the cheese that had melted on top. My mouth watered at the flavors and a smile spread across my lips. Aspen was right. It was the perfect hotdog. Though I had never tasted it any other way, I was convinced there was only one condiment of choice for such a meal. I had no idea what mayo was, but it combined with the cheese to create a perfectly delectable spread. My only regret was that it was gone in three bites.
The feeling of no longer being hungry spread with satisfaction through my body, dulling the pain of the bullet wound and calming my raging emotions. I wasn’t used to dealing with emotions at all. Anything more than anger or rage had been tempered with hot irons and solitary confinement in the Lair. Being allowed the luxury of jealousy, loneliness, sorrow, and even happiness made me feel almost guilty, another human emotion I hadn’t experienced until I left the Lair. At that moment, if I could have phased into wolf form and pushed away the mind-numbing barrage of how I should be feeling, I would have in a heartbeat.
Instead, I was left at their mercy, with mercy itself being the ultimate of all forbidden emotions. What a confusing thing being a human was! I wasn’t very good at it, didn’t especially like it, and had survived enough confusing situations to wonder if I wouldn’t be better off as a wolf forever. I had nearly attacked a few of Alia’s friends, I had fought Mitch in the store where she worked and destroyed a few clothing displays, I had overreacted and dumped orange Julius all over Isley, I had almost attacked someone delivering something to the Willards’, and I knew in the back of my mind that I was lovesick over Alia’s attraction to Mitch instead of me.
Yes, being part human was perfectly, utterly confusing and to be avoided at all costs. I only had to figure out how to go about being a wolf again. I couldn’t even begin to think about what I would do if the silver never let that happen.
Frightened by my own thoughts, I turned my attention to my surroundings. Streetlights chased away the night in little circles of glowing warmth. Cars and trucks lined the streets like slumbering beasts that smelled of oil and gasoline. A lone dog barked in the distance, but quieted at a sharp word. Here and there, cats that looked hefty as though they ate from several homes hissed and darted into the shadows when I crossed their path.
At one corner, a little mouse scurried across the sidewalk toward the beckoning scents of a pizzeria that had turned off their lights not long before. The wolf side of me wanted to give chase, while my human side appreciated the little guy’s fight for survival. I watched him make it to the curb, jump into the street, and run across, only to freeze halfway to the other side.
I followed his gaze to where a fat gray cat appeared from the shadows of the pizzeria. A glance behind me showed two other cats who had taken an interest in the mouse’s plight. Its whiskers twitched in indecision. A lazy smirk filled the gray cat’s face as though it enjoyed the mouse’s dilemma.
In the Lair, such a circumstance would be met with similar interest. Weaker, younger, inexperienced werewolves were often set upon by the older ones as an example to the others. Those who survived quickly learned to watch their backs and trust no one.
My heart went out to the little mouse. He had no one to watch his back. Being left to choose between one mouth and two wasn’t a pleasant decision.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered.
Ensuring that no vehicles were around, I took several steps into the street. The little mouse turned toward me. I could feel the gazes of the cats as I knelt on the wet asphalt.
Mice knew werewolves were dangerous just like the cats did. A hiss from one on my left seconded the thought. Yet werewolves were different from both animals and humans in that we were very in tune with the projection of our emotions. Being raised in a Lair where a vampire Master had access to our thoughts left us extremely careful in how we communicated and expressed ourselves. Not only did we pay attention to the scent of emotions, but we learned to project certain feelings like calmness or fury to help control our opponents.
I lowered my gaze from the attentive mouse and set my right hand on the asphalt with my palm up.
“Come on, little friend,” I whispered.
The words didn’t matter. It was the emotion I projected with them. Closing my eyes, I pictured feelings of friendship, camaraderie, warmth, safety, and brotherhood flowing toward the mouse as if they were scents or sounds. I had done the same in the ring to entice anger and aggression in an opponent, and often found that they responded by overreacting, striking first without preparation, or landing a poorly timed attack. In this, I was giving the mouse a choice. He could go with the cats whose hunger and eagerness wafted from them with a scent nearly as sour as the sauerkraut, or he could go with the werewolf who his instincts would say was an enemy, but the feeling he got argued otherwise.
Ultimately, if the mouse chose to try his fate with the fat cat near the pizzeria or the two cats behind me, I wouldn’t stand in the way. Nature and instincts dictated survival, and I had learned recently that I didn’t get to decide what was best for those around me. I had to let them choose and respect that decision, just as I would do for the mouse.
The smallest of footsteps met my ears. I didn’t open my eyes until a tiny, wet paw touched my palm. I glanced down to see the mouse climb slowly onto my hand. His tiny legs shook and nose twitched at the terror of his situation, but a look to the right and left showed that all of the cats had advanced a few steps in the hopes that he would turn tail and run in their direction.
I cupped my hand and lifted the mouse carefully until it was cradled against my chest. With a hand on my side to keep the pain manageable, I rose and made my way toward the pizzeria. The fat cat hissed and slunk back into the shadows at our approach.
“Hold on,” I said quietly to the mouse.
I walked around to the back of the small restaurant. The smells of discarded dough, old cheese, pepperoni, and unused crust filled the air. No wonder the mouse had taken such a risk!
In the back corner of the alley past a large garbage container sat smaller trashcans where the night’s garbage had been tossed. Crusts and a few half-eaten slices of pizza protruded from the overflowing can.
Worried that the cats would appear as soon as I left, I tipped a cardboard box labeled ‘Baking Flour’ onto its side, wedged a trashcan against it so that cats wouldn’t be able to move it, and bent one corner up just enough so that the mouse wouldn’t be trapped. I picked up several pieces of pizza from the garbage can and tossed them inside the box. Then, very carefully, I lowered the mouse to the ground.
He glanced up at me and his whiskers twitched as his nose worked back and forth. Catching a welcoming scent, the little mouse’s head swiveled toward the pizza. A tiny squeak escaped it and it leaped off my hand toward the mounds of crust.
“Enjoy,” I whispered.
I moved the box so that the mouth of it was against the wall, then rose gingerly to my feet. I surveyed my work. The garbage can would keep it from moving and the little open corner was the only access. The mouse was safe, would be well-fed, and the ornery cats would have to search for another victim.
A feeling of satisfaction rose in me when I continued on my way. It may not have been a huge task, but at least someone was happy, fed, and warm that night because of me. The voice in the back of my mind pointed out that it was only a mouse, and I had caught hundreds upon hundreds of them in the Lair’s woods, but I chose to ignore it. At least, to that mouse, it mattered.
The werewolves from the Lair would never understand. For some reason, that thought made me smile as I continued my walk up the road.
My feet took me to Virgo’s bookstore. To my surprise, a light flickered in the back of the Inking Post. I glanced at the sky. It was turning gray with dawn, but was still too early for the warlock to open his shop. He was not a morning person.
I stepped carefully on the wet sidewalk. The silence of the night made me hyperaware of how loud the shoes I wore were on the cement. I had practiced my whole life being a silent, deadly wraith. I wasn’t about to be
thwarted by a pair of rubber soles for the sake of propriety.
Choosing instinct over fashion in a decision Virgo would frown at and my old Master would praise, I slipped off my shoes and set them beside the door. When I checked the door knob, I found that it was locked. That left me with two choices; I could either pry off the silver tape Virgo had put over the cardboard that he had used to patch the broken window, or I could pick the lock. Lock picking wasn’t known for being quiet, but tape and I had never gotten along. Something about fur and sticky substances was far better left alone.
I fished the two paperclips out of my pocket. Carefully so as not to make any unnecessary noise, I slid one paperclip into the doorknob and felt as well as listened for the catch. I held down the one piece, slid the other one in further, moved the next two teeth, and the nearly inaudible click told me I was home free. I held my breath as I turned the knob and hoped the hinges on the door didn’t squeak.
The absolute silence of the door made me wonder if Virgo used magic on it to keep it quiet. The fact that I was able to enter at all brought the hint of a smile to my lips. The first time the warlock and I had met and he realized what I was, he had nearly killed me with wolfsbane. Now, the absence of wards to keep werewolves out of his store was a tribute to how far our relationship had come. He trusted me; now it was up to me to protect his bookshop.
I closed the door behind me and walked on completely silent feet past the desk bearing the cash register and odd trinkets Virgo had collected. A single light shone near the back corner where books on the Universe were kept. I had been there often enough not to need the light.
My muscles tensed. I rounded the corner, prepared to take down whoever was there. The sight brought me upright.
Chapter Twelve
“Virgo?”
The warlock spun to face me, his cellphone in hand and the light shining in my eyes. “Zev? What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“This is my store!” he replied.