Wolves of Mercy Falls 03 - Forever

by Maggie Stiefvater

  This was why he was so happy? Because he and Landy and Mom were going to get cozy and devise a plan to kill the wolves? I couldn’t believe he thought that was going to make Jack’s death any better.

  Grace was in those woods, right now. He didn’t know it, but he was talking about killing her.

  “Fantastico,” I said. “I’m out of here.”

  “Where are you going?” Mom asked.

  “Madison’s.”

  Mom stopped midway through ripping open a bag of chips. They had enough food to feed the entire U.S. Congress. “Are you really going to Madison’s, or are you just saying you’re going to Madison’s because you know I’ll be too busy to check?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m going to Kenny’s and I don’t know who I’m going to get to come with me. Happy?”

  “Delighted,” Mom said. I noticed, suddenly, that she was wearing the shoes that I’d bought her. It made me feel weird for some reason. Mom and Dad smiling and her wearing new shoes and me wondering if they were going to blow my friend away with a large caliber rifle.

  I snatched my bag and went outside to my SUV. I sat in the stuffy interior, not turning the key or moving, just holding my phone in my hands and wondering what to do. I knew what I should do; I just didn’t know if I wanted to do it. Six Tuesdays since I’d talked to him. Maybe Sam would pick up the phone. I could talk to Sam.

  No, I had to talk to Sam. Because Congressman Marshall Landy and my dad might actually figure something out in their little potato-chip-fueled war council. I didn’t have a choice.

  I bit my lip and dialed the number for Beck’s house.

  “Da.”

  The voice on the other end of the phone was endlessly familiar, and the whisper of nerves in my stomach turned into howls.

  Not Sam.

  My own voice sounded unintentionally frosty. “Cole, it’s me.”

  “Oh,” he said, and hung up.

  CHAPTER THREE

  • GRACE •

  My growling stomach kept track of time for me, so it seemed like a lifetime before I came to a business. The first one I came to was Ben’s Fish and Tackle, a gritty gray building set back in the trees, looking like it had grown out of the muddy ground that surrounded it. I had to pick my way over a pitted gravel parking lot flooded with snowmelt and rainwater to get to the door. A sign above the doorknob told me that if I was dropping off keys to my U-Haul truck, the drop box was around the side of the building. Another sign said they had beagle puppies for sale. Two males and one female.

  I put my hand on the doorknob. Before turning it, I fixed my story in my mind. There was always a chance that they’d recognize me — with a little jolt, I realized I had no idea how long it had been since I’d first turned into a wolf or how newsworthy my disappearance might have been. I did know that in Mercy Falls, clogged toilets made headlines.

  I stepped in, pushing the door behind me. I winced; the interior was incredibly hot and stank like old sweat. I navigated the shelves of fishing tackle, rat poison, and bubble wrapping until I got to the counter at the back. A small old man was bent over behind the counter, and it was clear even from here that he and his striped button-down were the source of the sweat smell.

  “Are you here for the trucks?” The man straightened up and peered at me through square glasses. Racks of packing tape hung from the Peg-Board behind his head. I tried to breathe through my mouth.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m not here for the trucks.” I took a breath, looked slightly tragic, and proceeded to lie. “The thing is, me and my friend just had a giant fight and she made me get out of her car. I know, right? I’m sort of stranded. Is there any way I could use your phone?”

  He frowned at me, and I allowed myself to wonder, briefly, if I was covered in mud and if my hair was a mess. I patted at it.

  Then he said, “What, now?”

  I repeated my story, making sure I kept it the same and continued to look tragic. I felt relatively tragic. It wasn’t difficult. He still looked dubious, so I added, “Phone? To call someone to pick me up?”

  “Well now,” he said. “Long distance?”

  Hope glimmered. I had no clue if it was a long distance call or not, so I replied, “Mercy Falls.”

  “Huh,” he said, which didn’t answer my question. “Well now.”

  I waited an agonizing minute. In the background, I heard someone barking sharply with laughter.

  “My wife is on the phone,” he said. “But when she’s off, I suppose you can use it.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Where are we at, by the way? So I can tell my boyfriend where to pick me up?”

  “Well now,” he said again. I didn’t think the phrase meant anything to him — he just said it while he was thinking. “Tell him we’re two miles outside of Burntside.”

  Burntside. That was almost a thirty-minute drive from Mercy Falls, all twisty two-lane road. It was unsettling to think that I’d made my way all this distance without knowing, like a sleepwalker.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I think you have some dog shit on your shoe,” he added, kindly. “I can smell it.”

  I pretended to look at my shoe. “Oh, I think I do. I wondered about that.”

  “She’ll be on for a while, now,” he warned me. It took me a second to realize that he meant his wife and the phone.

  I got his point. I said, “I’ll look around,” and he looked relieved, as if he had felt compelled to entertain me as long as I stood by the counter. As soon as I wandered to look at a wall of lures, I heard him go back to shuffling whatever he’d been shuffling behind the counter. And his wife kept talking and laughing her weird barking laugh, and the store kept on smelling like body odor.

  I looked at fishing rods, a deer head wearing a pink baseball cap, and fake owls to scare birds away from your garden. There were containers of live mealworms in the corner. While I stared at them, my stomach churning with either squeamishness or the distant promise of the shift, the door opened again, admitting a man wearing a John Deere cap. He and the sweaty old man exchanged greetings. I fingered the edge of a bright orange hunting dog collar, most of my mind on my body, trying to decide if I was really going to shift again today.

  Suddenly my attention focused on what the men were talking about. The man with the John Deere cap was saying, “I mean, something ought to be done. One of them took a bag of trash off my step today. The wife thought it was a dog, but I saw the print — it was too big.”

  Wolves. They were talking about the wolves.

  Me.

  I shrank, crouching as if I was looking at the bags of dog kibble on the lowest metal shelf.

  The old man said, “Culpeper’s trying to get something together, I heard.”

  John Deere guy made a noise that sort of growled out both his nostrils and mouth. “What, like last year? That didn’t do jack shit. Tickled their bellies is all it did. Is that really the price of fishing licenses this year?”

  “It is,” said the old man. “That’s not what he’s talking about now. He’s trying to get them like they did in Idaho. With the helicopters and the — assassins. That’s not the word. Sharpshooters. That’s it. He’s trying to get it legal.”

  My stomach turned over again. It felt like it always came back to Tom Culpeper. Shooting Sam. Then Victor. When was it going to be enough for him?

  “Good luck getting that past the tree huggers,” John Deere said. “Those wolves are protected or something like that. My cousin got into a heap of trouble for hitting one a few years ago. About wrecked his damn car, too. Culpeper’s in for a climb.”

  The old man waited a long time to reply; he was making some sort of crinkling noise behind the counter. “Want some? No? Well now, but he’s a big city lawyer himself. And his boy was the one that got himself killed by the wolves. He just might now, if anyone can. They killed that whole pack in Idaho. Or maybe Wyoming. Somewhere out there.”

  Whole pack.

  “Not for taking trash,” John
Deere said.

  “Sheep. I reckon it’s a lot worse, wolves killing boys, instead of sheep. So he might get it through. Who knows?” He paused. “Hey, miss? Miss? Phone’s up.”

  My stomach lurched again. I stood up, arms crossed over my chest, hoping and praying that John Deere didn’t recognize the dress, but he only gave me a cursory glance before turning away. He didn’t look like the kind of guy that normally noticed the finer points of what women were wearing anyway. I edged up next to him and the old man handed me the phone.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” I said. The old man didn’t even acknowledge I’d said anything, so I retreated to the corner of the store. The men continued talking, no longer about wolves.

  With the phone in my hand, I realized I had three phone numbers I could call. Sam. Isabel. My parents.

  I couldn’t call my parents.

  Wouldn’t.

  I punched in Sam’s number. For a moment, before I hit SEND, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes and allowed myself to think about how desperately I wanted him to pick up the phone, more than I could let myself truly admit. My eyes pricked with tears, and I blinked fiercely.

  The phone rang. Twice. Three times. Four. Six. Seven.

  I had to come to grips with the idea that he might not pick up.

  “Hello?”

  At the voice, my knees felt wobbly. I had to crouch, all of a sudden, and put one of my hands on the metal shelf beside me to steady myself. My stolen dress pooled on the floor.

  “Sam,” I whispered.

  There was silence. It lasted so long I was afraid he had hung up. I asked, “Are you there?”

  He sort of laughed, a weird, shaky sound. “I — didn’t believe it was really you. You’re — I didn’t believe it was really you.”

  I let myself think about it then: him pulling up in his car, his arms around my neck, me being safe, me being me once more, pretending I wasn’t going to leave him again later. I wanted it so badly that it made my stomach ache. I asked, “Will you come get me?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Ben’s Tackle. Burntside.”

  “Jesus.” Then: “I’m on my way. I’ll be there in twenty. I’m coming.”

  “I’ll wait in the parking lot,” I said. I wiped away a tear that had somehow managed to fall without me noticing.

  “Grace —” He stopped.

  “I know,” I said. “I do, too.”

  • SAM •

  Without Grace, I lived in a hundred moments other than the one I currently occupied. Every second was filled with someone else’s music or books I’d never read. Work. Making bread. Anything to fill my thoughts. I played at normalcy, at the idea that it was just one more day without her, and that tomorrow would bring her walking through my door, life going on as if it hadn’t been interrupted.

  Without Grace, I was a perpetual motion machine, run by my inability to sleep and my fear of letting my thoughts build up in my head. Every night was a photocopy of every day that had come before it, and every day was a photocopy of every night. Everything felt so wrong: the house full to the brim with Cole St. Clair and no one else; my memories edged with images of Grace covered in her own blood, shifting into a wolf; me, unchanging, my body out of the seasons’ reach. I was waiting for a train that never pulled into the station. But I couldn’t stop waiting, because who would I be then? I was looking at my world in a mirror.

  Rilke said: “This is what Fate means: to be opposite, to be opposite to everything and nothing else but opposite and always opposite.”

  Without Grace, all I had were the songs about her voice and the songs about the echo left behind when she’d stopped speaking.

  And then she called.

  When the phone rang, I was taking advantage of the warm day to wash the Volkswagen, scrubbing off the last of the salt and sand painted on from an eternity of winter snow. The front windows were rolled down so that I could hear music playing while I worked. It was a thumping guitar piece with harmonies and a soaring melody that I would forever associate with the hope of that moment, the moment that she called and said, Will you come get me?

  The car and my arms were covered with suds, and I didn’t bother to dry off. I just threw my phone on the passenger seat and turned the key in the ignition. As I backed out, I was in such a hurry that I revved the engine up high, high, high as I shifted gears from reverse to first, my foot slipping on the clutch. The ascending engine note matched the beat of my heart.

  Overhead, the sky was huge and blue and filled with white clouds painted with thin ice crystals too far above the earth for me to feel, here on the warm ground. I was ten minutes down the road before I realized I had forgotten to roll up the windows; the air had dried the soap on my arms to white streaks. I met another car on the highway and passed it in a no passing zone.

  In ten minutes, I would have Grace in my passenger seat. Everything would be all right. I could already feel her fingers laced in mine, her cheek pressed against my neck. It felt like years since I’d had my arms wrapped around her body, my hands pressed up against her rib cage. Ages since I’d kissed her. Lifetimes since I’d heard her laugh.

  I ached with the weight of my hope. I fixated on the incredibly inconsequential fact that for two months, Cole and I had been living on dinners of jelly sandwiches and canned tuna and frozen burritos. Once Grace was back, we would do better. I thought we had a jar of spaghetti sauce and some dried pasta. It seemed incredibly important to have a proper dinner for her return.

  Every minute closer to her. In the back of my head, nagging concerns pressed, and the biggest ones involved Grace’s parents. They were certain that I’d had something to do with her disappearance, since she’d fought with them about me right before she shifted. In the two months that she’d been gone, the police had been out to search my car and question me. Grace’s mother found excuses to walk by the bookstore when I was working, staring in the window while I pretended not to see. Articles about Grace’s and Olivia’s disappearances ran in the local paper, and they said everything about me but my name.

  Deep down, I knew that this — Grace as a wolf, her parents as enemies, me in Mercy Falls in this newly minted body — was a Gordian knot, impossible to untangle and lay straight. But surely if I had Grace, it would work out.

  I nearly drove by Ben’s Fish and Tackle, a nondescript building mostly hidden by scrubby pines. The Volkswagen lurched as I pulled into the parking lot; the potholes in the gravel were deep and filled with muddy water that I heard splashing up on the undercarriage. Scanning the lot as I pulled in, I slowed. There were a few U-Hauls parked behind the building. And there, beside them, near the trees —

  I pulled the car to the edge of the lot and climbed out, leaving it running. I stepped over a wooden railroad tie and stopped. At my feet, in the wet grass, lay a flowered dress. A few feet away from me, I saw an abandoned clog, and another yard beyond it, lying on its side, its mate. I took a deep breath, then knelt to pick up the dress. Balled in my hand, the fabric was scented softly with the memory of Grace. I straightened and swallowed.

  From here, I could see the side of the Volkswagen, covered in filth from the parking lot. It was as if I had never washed it.

  I climbed back behind the wheel, laying the dress in the backseat, and then I cupped my hands over my nose and mouth, breathing the same breaths over and over again, my elbows braced against the wheel. I sat there for several long moments, looking out over the dash at the left-behind set of shoes.

  It had been so much easier when I was the wolf.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  • COLE •

  This was who I was, now that I was a werewolf: I was Cole St. Clair, and I used to be NARKOTIKA.

  I had thought there’d be nothing left of me, once you took away the pounding bass of NARKOTIKA and the screams of a few hundred thousand fans and a calendar black with tour dates. But here it was, months later, and it turned out that there was fresh skin underneath the scab I’d picked off. Now, I was a fan
of the simple pleasures in life: grilled cheese sandwiches without black flecks on the crust, jeans that didn’t pinch the better parts of me, an inch of vodka, ten to twelve hours of sleep.

  I wasn’t sure how Isabel fit into this.

  The thing was, I could go most of my week without thinking about grilled cheese and vodka. But I couldn’t seem to say the same thing about Isabel. It wasn’t like fantastic daydreams, either, the good sort of tease. It was more like jock itch. If you were really busy, you could almost forget about it, but then when you stopped moving, it was murder.

  Almost two months and not a breath from her, despite a number of extremely entertaining voicemails on my part.

  Voicemail #1: “Hi, Isabel Culpeper. I am lying in my bed, looking at the ceiling. I am mostly naked. I am thinking of … your mother. Call me.”

  And now she called?

  No way.

  I couldn’t stay in the house with the phone looking at me like that, so I got my shoes and headed out into the afternoon. Since I’d taken Grace away from the hospital, I’d started digging further into discovering what made us wolves. Here in the bush, there was no way to look at us under the microscope and get real answers. But I’d planned out a few experiments that didn’t require a lab — just luck, my body, and some balls. And one of said experiments would really run better if I could get my hands on one of the other wolves. So I’d been making forays into the forest. Actually, reccies. That was what Victor used to call our late-night convenience store runs to buy hasty meals constructed of plastic and dried cheese flavoring. I was performing reccies into Boundary Wood, in the name of science. I felt compelled to finish what I’d started.

  Voicemail #2: The first minute and thirty seconds of “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You” by the Bee Gees.

  Today, the weather was warm and I could smell absolutely everything that had ever peed in the woods. I struck off on my usual path.

  Cole, it’s me.