Hunter's Moon

by Tess Grant

  The old man waited for her in the dark shadows on the north side of the cabin. He didn’t say a word, but she could tell he was impatient by the rough way he thrust the M1 carbine at her. He had the .45 strapped to the thick belt around his Dickies, and the flask peeked out of one pocket. They had set out the stakes around six that evening—Kitty had gone for an after-supper bike ride—so now the only thing to do was wait.

  They trudged north to the safe zone they had set up. She cleared her throat once and started to speak but didn’t like the way her voice fell into the woods. The forest wasn’t silent by any means—certainly not the eerie alive silence that preceded the werewolf—but it was the rustle and hum of the night, and it wanted no human intrusion.

  Kitty was amazed by Phinney’s dexterity in the woods all over again. He glided up the path, fast and silent. She lumbered behind him, huge and ungainly and slow. Twigs snapped from her passing, leaves rustled. Once she tripped. Her breathing alternately rattled and swooshed in her ears. The carbine dangled from a leather strap over her shoulder, and creepers seemed to grab at it, slowing her down with their grasping hands.

  They arrived at the safe zone, swinging wide around the deadfall and coming down into the little nest at the base. The gap in the canopy from the fall of the two giants let in more moonlight than she expected, lighting up the space in front of their own shadowy hole. The punji sticks bristled forward from the jagged root clumps, sharpened silver tips glinting faintly in the white light. Kitty had clambered up onto the trunks that afternoon and under Phinney’s direction had managed to shove two of the spears deep into the punky wood. They crossed at the shafts and jutted backwards over the trunks. Spiky roots thicker than her wrists radiated from the base of the trees. They contorted in all directions and were nearly as good as Phinney’s silver-tipped stakes.

  Kitty squeezed between the spears, reaching the small crater in front of the root ball. Finding a spot with no spikes poking out of it, she settled in, back tight against the spongy wet earth still clinging to the bottoms of the trees. The rich smell of damp earth and leaf mold surrounded her. It nearly nauseated her with its thickness, and she breathed through her mouth a few times to quiet her stomach. Against the base of the other tree, Phinney started to lower himself. When his knees popped loudly, he gave up and stood, resting his back against the wall of earth. The night continued its soft song, and the moon climbed higher.

  “How come they don’t come now?” she finally asked in a whisper.

  “They come when they’re damn good and ready. I’ve never known them to show up earlier than midnight. Sometimes it’s later but not by much. Thompson and I just always figured it was the witching hour. Maybe that’s silly, but when you can darn near set your watch by them…” His voice trailed off.

  She quieted so she could listen.

  After a few minutes, he broke the silence. “Don’t be hard on your mom.”

  “What?”

  “Your mom. Don’t be hard on her. That day in your house when you were making chicken, you said she doesn’t say much. Maybe she’s not the type.”

  “The talking type? She always has something to say to me.” In the close quarters, she could hear the small gust of breath that always pushed out ahead of his smile.

  “Maybe she thinks she’s doing a good thing. Protecting you from the big cold world.”

  Kitty shifted her back and felt dirt grains trickle down the inside of her shirt. For a second, the thought of grubs and centipedes tunneling through the wet earth floated across her mind, but she slammed the door on that in a hurry. One nasty thing at a time. “I don’t get it.” In the dark, here with Phinney, she finally said what bothered her out loud. “One minute, I’m supposed to be grownup and making supper and watching Sam. I'm supposed to pick out the college I want, even though I know we'll never be able to afford it. Then I turn around and she wants me to act like I’m ten years old.”

  Phinney didn’t reply, and Kitty wiggled again. This time, something bit hard at her thigh, and she pushed at it with irritation. It was only the small metal clicker in her pocket, the cricket Phinney had given her. When he spoke again, it surprised her.

  “Maybe your mom doesn’t know how best to be a mom. Sometimes, when people don’t have good examples, they have to make it up as they go along. It doesn’t always work out.”

  “Huh?” Kitty could feel Phinney dancing even though he was standing still as a statue beside her.

  “Talk around town is that your mom’s family wasn’t so family, if you know what I mean. Not much structure, parents gone a lot.” Phinney still hadn’t moved but she would have bet his face was twisting into all kinds of shapes, none of them resembling his usual confidence. “I don’t know if it’s true. That’s what people say. You know the mouths in this town—you’ve heard what they say about me. Point is I think she had kind of a crazy life before she met up with your dad. Maybe she wants to raise you a different way, give you the security she didn’t have. Maybe she thinks the best way to do that is to pretend the bad things don’t exist. Just cut her some slack, Kitty. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Kitty shifted again, her butt grating against what was probably the only stone in this entire pit of dirt and rotted leaves. Then Phinney moved for the first time since they had arrived. He stood straight, breath huffing out as he pushed himself forward and drew the .45 out of his belt. She could see him in profile against the moonlight, putting two fingers to his eyes then swinging them wide over the clearing.

  He didn’t need to say anything. Tension dripped off the sagging leaves, silencing the night song one insect at a time.

  It was here.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kitty pulled her knees up into shooting position and swung the barrel of the carbine out toward the glade. She did her best target practice sitting this way. Lifting her head from where it nestled against the stock, she surveyed the clearing. It jolted her suddenly how stupid her position was. Werewolves weren’t tacked down like paper plates on plywood. They could come from anywhere and in this position she could only shoot easily in one direction. Phinney and she had gone over and over the motions, but she’d never once had a moving target. She used one arm to lever herself up to standing, keeping the carbine aimed toward the shimmering spot of moonlight in front of her.

  The hairs on her neck and arms were upright, held aloft by a foreboding so strong she could taste it. Fear tasted gross—a mouthful of hot metal. She didn’t have to wait long; the taste was driven out by a smell. A noxious reek of dead meat and rottenness. It had to have crawled on its own hands to get to her. Nothing else would have carried it.

  Phinney stood silently, unmoving. Nothing ever bothered him. In a minute, he’d figure out where the thing was, snap the gun up and end this, and she would still be trying not to throw up. She concentrated on scanning the clearing. Right to left, right to left. Her eyes ached with trying to see.

  She had hit the end of her visual sweep on the left and rebounded back to the right when the shape registered. For a heartbeat, she thought she was dreaming again, thought she could hear it breathing. Then she realized the breath was her own, filling her ears, and nothing stood between the two of them but thin air. She wiggled the M1 in that direction, but couldn’t take her eyes off the thing to see if Phinney acknowledged it.

  Can’t let it get a jump on me.

  Her arm holding the barrel started to tremble. Better biceps or no, she still wasn’t much in the muscle department. Phinney still didn’t move. What was this waiting? Using the moonlight as best she could, she drew a bead on the shape and squeezed the trigger. The carbine cracked, followed by an outraged snarling yelp, and the creature disappeared.

  “Whoa!” Phinney whispered, laying a steadying hand on her arm. “You pissed it off good. We may be waiting a little bit for the son of a gun to come back around.”

  “I thought the point was to shoot it,” she whispered, embarrassed and angry all at once. She blinked, trying to get a clear
view of the edge of the woods. The muzzle flash had ruined her night vision. “I don’t get the hanging around.”

  “Guess I should have told you the game plan.”

  Kitty hissed in irritation. “That would have been good.”

  “I should have warned you. Better to wait for it to charge in. It’s moving then and harder to hit, but at least you know where it is. These ain’t the kind you seek out.” He put the .45 down to his side, shrugged, and rolled his shoulders. “Sometimes they like to play that waiting game in the beginning. Try to psych you out.”

  “Well, it worked.” Kitty swallowed her embarrassment and whispered, “Sorry.”

  “You picked things up so fast sometimes I forget you’re new at this.” He raised the .45 back into position. “Don’t worry. It’ll come back around.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. The trees remained lifeless and no sound resumed. The stench had receded, rolling back into the night with the creature that created it. It was back soon enough, creeping in to gag Kitty where she stood. She heard the harsh rattle of Phinney breathing through his open mouth.

  “Here it comes,” he said in an undertone. “It’s just a question of which way.”

  Side by side, they stood facing the clearing. Kitty strained her ears, trying to hear anything over the sound of her breath. When it came, it was so soft she nearly missed it. A dull hollow thud, as if someone had rapped a ripe watermelon.

  It was behind her.

  She rotated slowly on one foot. To speak meant taking the chance of masking any further sound. Phinney didn’t turn around with her but moved to the side just enough that they were back to back. If she was wrong, at least their front would be covered.

  The moon’s rays slanted in from the side so there was no shadow cast out ahead, and she would have to move a fair distance out of their nest to see any shadow stretching sidelong. Phinney was motionless so she knew he didn’t see anything out front either. The stench was growing, slithering down between the tortured spikes of the oak’s roots. Now she knew for sure.

  The werewolf was up on the trunk. It would come fast when it came. That much she knew from experience.

  A bead of sweat trickled down her neck, sliding down the hollow of her collarbone. It tickled unbearably. She longed to swipe at it, but she wasn’t about to take a hand off the carbine. She knew Phinney would never move for something so inconsequential as sweat.

  The punji sticks pointing backwards over the trunk went flying sideways with a great swipe. Still there was no sound, not even a snarl of warning. The great head appeared, fangs glinting palely, followed by the bulk of its shaggy shoulders. It floated out toward her in slow motion, although afterwards she knew it had only taken the span of a second or two.

  Phinney had been right to do the constant drilling. Not a thought entered her head. She could feel the hard stock pressed under her cheekbone, feel her eyes squinting in the dim shimmer of the moon. She found the wolf, or at least the near vicinity of it, in her sights and pulled off a tight three-shot burst. Her shoulder jerked backward into the old man at her back.

  The body fell nearly at her feet with a thump. Its strange metamorphosis began almost immediately.

  Phinney spun around and gave a whoop. “You got it. Geez, it’s a big one. Good job. So much for them never coming up the back way.” He called for her, even as the body crumbled and whirled away. “Kitty?”

  She was on her knees outside of the deadfall, retching. A dribble hung off her lip, and she swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, trying to work up enough saliva to spit. Phinney came to stand behind her. He dug around in his pocket, then dangled one of his red bandanas over her shoulder. Grabbing it, she rubbed at her face.

  Afterward, she had to give him credit. He never uttered some platitude about how brave she had been or how it was all okay now. He only placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’ll get easier,” he said.

  Small comfort.

  Chapter Eighteen

  July came roaring in the next week, all ninety-degree temperatures and popping firecrackers. Kitty hadn’t seen Phinney since they parted ways at the lane near her house after she killed the werewolf. He’d walked her home, the way he did after the first one. Only this time was so different. The first time she had been raw, jumping at every rustle in the undergrowth. This time she had been numb, replaying things over and over in her head. A herd of wolves could have stampeded over her, and she would have missed them coming and going. She didn’t know if Phinney had gotten home safely or not; she hadn’t cared. Not then.

  She lay on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge to rest on Maddie’s fat warm back. She knew she had to go back up to the cabin. She’d checked the calendar twice already today, counting up the squares until another full moon. She had a little over three weeks and she needed to start working with the .45. I don’t want to, she thought, and the voice in her head whined like Sam when he was hungry. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t Phinney’s fault that she had gotten tangled up in all this, but still she wanted to blame, or maybe punish, somebody for it.

  “Are you coming down with something?” Anne walked over and laid her small hand on Kitty’s forehead. “You seem so tired.”

  “I’ve been sleeping great,” Kitty replied and she wasn’t lying. The nightmares stopped the night she’d killed the werewolf—no more caskets hanging around in the yard. She should enjoy it while she could; the dreams would probably show up again before the next full moon.

  “Why don’t you do something tomorrow?” Anne asked, shoving Kitty’s legs over to make room for her to perch on the edge of the couch. “I have the day off, so you can too.”

  “What’s tomorrow?” Kitty crooked her arm behind her head.

  “The Fourth. You’ve been checking the calendar all morning.”

  Yup, but that wasn’t what I was checking for.

  Anne reached over, grabbed the cordless off the base, and tossed it onto Kitty’s stomach. “Give somebody a call.”

  Kitty propped herself up on her elbows and watched her mom head into the kitchen. She eyed the phone lying on her belly. It might be nice to try for normal.

  Jenna answered on the second ring.

  “Jenn?” Kitty asked even though she knew her friend’s voice by heart.

  “Hey Kitty.”

  Jenna’s voice wasn’t quite frosty, but it was far from the old bubbly welcome. Kitty debated finding an excuse to get off. She could tell Jenna her mother was calling or maybe Sam had bashed his finger with a rock. The longer she waited, the more stupid she looked; she decided to plow on. “What’s going on? I’ve been pretty busy here at home.”

  “I guess so. Not much going on here.”

  It was usually impossible for Jenna to answer a yes or no question with less than fifteen or twenty words. Asking her how things were going could bring on a ten-minute answer. This new restrained girl on the phone was a bad sign.

  Kitty took a deep breath and kept going. “I know it’s kind of late, but I was wondering if you were doing anything tomorrow. Mom has the day off, so I don’t have to watch Sam.”

  “Hmmm.” Jenna said.

  Kitty pictured her tapping her fingers on her chin and calculating how best to make Kitty pay for being less than attentive the last few weeks.

  After a long pause, Jenna finally said, “I guess we could meet up at the carnival downtown after the parade. The dance team has a truck in it.”

  “Sure,” said Kitty trying to inject some enthusiasm since there had been none in Jenna’s voice. “That’s great that you get to be in the parade. Afterward we could do a few rides, hang out and see some people we know, stuff like that.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Jenna answered, a thaw creeping into her voice. “Deb could probably come along with us since we’ll be together on the truck. The three of us can do the rides together.”

  Kitty deflated. She wished she’d never even called Jenna. All of the carnival rides had seats built for two. Jenna and
Deb had spent the last month together, and Kitty was pretty sure they weren’t going to split up tomorrow just for her. This had been a stupid idea. “I guess I’ll see you there.” She started to say goodbye, then added in a rush. “Hey listen, Jenn, if I don’t show, do your thing. It’s been crazy here, and Mom’s schedule changes all the time.”

  Jenna took it at face value. “I’ll look for you tomorrow, girlie. It’ll be like old times.”

  Pondering that, Kitty dropped the phone into her lap. Old times? Doesn’t something have to end before you start calling it old times?

  She felt her disappointment start to percolate into annoyance. Two could play at this game. She looked at the receiver for a minute, picked it up and dialed Joe’s number.

  * * *

  Joe met her at the corner of Spruce and Division toward the front of the parade route. He carried two lawn chairs slung over his shoulder and two bottles of water.

  “Wow. When did you become a boy scout? ‘Cause you’re prepared.” Kitty held out her hands for the chairs and stretched them out on the little green spot between the street and the sidewalk.

  He plopped into a chair and stretched his legs out. “Yeah, I’m just good that way.”

  Kitty giggled and dropped into the other chair. She took the sweating bottle from Joe’s proffered hand.

  He scanned the crowd.

  “Looking for Jenna?” Kitty asked. “We won’t see her until the truck goes by. She isn’t going to like it when I’m a no-show afterwards.”

  “Then why be a no-show?”

  Kitty looked at him like he was crazy. “She’s going to ditch me anyway.”

  Joe turned and looked at her, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. He leaned forward, hands dangling between his knees. “I think it’s one of those weird girl things with you and Jenn. She’s fine when I talk to her on the phone.” His eyebrows arched over the dark plastic frames. “When was the last time you called her?”