by Amy Star
Her gaze landed on the piano on the far side of the room, tucked against the wall. It was an unassuming vertical piano, its wood stained a reddish-brown color. Its bench was unpadded, and it looked ancient, but she had seen Branson playing it a few times, so she figured it was safe to assume it was well tuned.
She heaved herself to her feet and fetched her laptop from the library where she’d left it. There were tutorials online for how to do anything from making a hardboiled egg to hiding a body. She was pretty sure she could find music lessons without much of a hassle.
*
When Lydia eventually peered into the living room again, Casey didn’t bother to look up and was only actually aware of her by the sound of her footsteps. She needed to focus. She had never played a piano before, and even just holding her hands in the proper position made her feel as if she was going to mess everything up.
Lydia made no comment on it. She didn’t say anything about it as Casey rewound the tutorial she was watching to replay the same part half a dozen times in a row. She didn’t say anything about how Casey only hit the proper note or played the proper chord with about thirty-three percent accuracy.
It was a start, at least. She could, presumably, just look for a new venture a day until she had enough things she wanted to stick with to keep a day filled.
*
If Lydia and Branson thought Casey’s shopping lists were odd, they made no comment on it. Lydia just dutifully supplied her with a large spool of hemp twine, beading wire, and enough beads to make an entire dress out of them. That wasn’t the plan, of course, but she appreciated the variety.
Her first attempts were simple as she figured out the various knots and weaves and braids for turning the twine into bracelets and necklaces. After that, they only got a little more complicated, as she simply put a single bead in the middle. Her first un-botched attempt, with a bead like a pastel-colored owl in the center, and fitted around her neck like a choker. Maybe it was a silly thing to be proud of, but fuck anyone who wanted to laugh.
Atticus did seem slightly bewildered when he got home and immediately Casey accosted him to fasten a similar bit of jewelry around his wrist, though it had a simple metallic sphere rather than an owl.
And from there, it felt pretty natural to use the beading wire to make slightly more traditional, non-twine-based jewelry. She set the first attempt that she was proud of aside for Annie, the metallic, slightly iridescent dark beads gleaming in the light. They complimented the larger, triangular shaped purple bead that dangled from the center well. Her sister didn’t get nearly enough good things, and Casey was more than happy to try to rectify that.
(She contemplated making something for Jason, but then she decided she was still annoyed with him, and he could just live without any presents.)
*
Branson supplied her with her eclectic list of baking ingredients. Baking was something she had always had some idea of how to do; if she wanted baked goods, it was easier to just mooch ingredients from her friends and neighbors or buy them in bulk and then make the treats herself. It made more sense than buying a single cookie from a bakery for the price of an entire bag of flour, after all.
She wanted to expand her horizons, though. Why limit herself only to chocolate chip cookies when she could make basically whatever she wanted? And if she accidentally set a few of the more bizarre attempts on fire the first few times, well, no one needed to know about that.
(“Why do I smell burning?” Branson wondered several hours later, because of course he could still smell it. Casey ushered him from the room to let her work.)
The first time she presented Atticus, Lydia, and Branson with a finished product that she was enthusiastic about—some sort of tart filled with custard and stewed berries with a layer of powdered sugar on top—and they nearly went into raptures over it, she considered it a job well done and added it to her mental list of things that she had to make again in the very near future.
*
It was late. Atticus had gone to bed a few hours ago, but Casey couldn’t sleep. She had been nauseous on and off for most of the day, and the feeling hadn’t gone away just because she had decided it was time to go to bed. She paced through the house, up and down the stairs, in and out of rooms. Every so often, she poked her nose into a corner out of curiosity, just to see if she could find anything interesting hidden away.
She was getting ready to turn in, resigned to a night of just staring at the ceiling while her stomach roiled uncomfortably, when Branson padded past her, paws nearly silent on the floor. She hadn’t even known he was still at the house, but she supposed she wasn’t surprised. He and Lydia hardly ever seemed to leave if they weren’t at work.
She made to follow him, only to grind to a halt when he peered over his shoulder at her and shook his head once. Slowly, Casey pointed towards the nearest window, her expression questioning. Branson nodded once and trotted towards the stairs. Casey followed him at a small distance, stopping halfway down the stairs to watch him push the knob of the front door down with one paw, until the door clicked and swung open. He shouldered it open further, stepped out, and grabbed the knob in his teeth to pull the door closed behind him.
Silently, Casey sat down on the stairs and waited, watching the door as she waited for Branson to come back and give whatever news he was going to give. She wasn’t actually sure what was going on, so she couldn’t even be sure how long she could expect to wait.
Ten minutes passed, and then fifteen. As the twenty-minute mark approached, she heard a sharp bang and a high-pitched, canine shriek from outside. She shot to her feet, only to grab the banister in a white-knuckled grip to ground herself. What was she expecting to do? She had no idea what was going on.
She turned around, intent to head up to Atticus’s room to wake him up, but she only made it up two steps before Lydia turned the corner at the top of the stairs and bolted past her. If she listened, she could hear rustling coming from Atticus’s room as well.
Turning around once again, Casey watched as Lydia made it to the front door and wrenched it open, only to nearly leap out of the way as Branson barged past her. He kicked the door shut with one large hind paw, stumbling slightly, as it appeared that one of his front legs was slightly out of commission.
Atticus announced himself by demanding, “What the fuck is going on?” as he stormed down the stairs.
Branson spared a moment to growl at the door, his ears pinned back and his hackles standing on end from the base of his head all the way down his back to the base of his tail. When nothing attempted to burst through the door, he gradually relaxed and sat down, though his ears remained flattened against the top of his head and he still vibrated with tension.
He transformed without any pomp or circumstance, as worrying about the fact that he was naked seemed a little uncalled for just then. Still sitting on the ground, though now cross-legged, he cradled one arm to his chest and turned to try to get a look at the bleeding gash on his shoulder.
Jerking back into motion, Lydia turned and headed for the nearest bathroom, presumably to get a first aid kit, and Branson didn’t answer immediately, instead silently stewing in the events that had just come to pass, whatever they were.
He waited until Lydia returned with a first aid kit before he said anything, and when he did, he sounded more offended than anything else, as if he couldn’t quite believe the gall of what had just happened.
“The bitch shot me.”
C HAPTER 12
Branson waited until Lydia was done cleaning, stitching, and bandaging the gash (and he was provided with a pair of pants) before he explained what had actually happened. He grumbled the entire time, like a toddler sitting on a doctor’s exam table, and Casey half expected Lydia to present him with a lollipop when she finished.
It wasn’t a particularly serious injury, thankfully. All joking about his grumbling aside, Casey wished no ill will upon Branson, and she was glad that he was largely okay and in one piece.
> “I smelled her a while ago,” he explained, once they all gravitated into the living room. “All the footage we’ve got so far has sort of implied that she only sticks around for, what, a few hours at most? So, I figured I waited plenty long enough for her to be gone, and I could go out and see what she had been up to. But she was still there, and she heard me coming, I guess, and she took a shot at me.” He gestured to his arm, slightly unnecessarily. “And I guess she’s either a really lousy shot or I startled her, since she only managed to graze me, and then she probably bolted because she figured my racket was going to wake up everyone else.”
“She wasn’t wrong,” Atticus pointed out drolly. “Did you see what she was up to that it took her so long?”
“I think,” Branson continued carefully, “she was setting up a nest of some sort. Some place to hide out.”
“For what?” Casey wondered, brows furrowing in confusion. “Why would she suddenly decide she needs to stick around for a while?”
“The full moon is in two days,” Lydia answered. “The one night a month when hunters can kill us without worrying about us turning back into people and saddling them with murder charges.”
Atticus sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “I got this house so I wouldn’t need to pick up and go somewhere else for the full moon,” he grumbled, though his irritation was short-lived.
“So, what does this mean?” Casey wondered, fidgeting back and forth in her seat. She had been vaguely aware that they were forced to transform on a full moon—they had alluded to it a few times—but they had never actually talked about it before.
Atticus shrugged in a manner that seemed like a silent “what can you do?” and answered, “We go somewhere else for the full moon. It’s not as if we’re short on options; I just liked the convenience of being able to stay in my own backyard.”
Casey nodded, slightly distracted. After a moment, she asked slowly, “Can I come, too?”
They were all going to object. She could tell immediately by the looks on their faces. She opened her mouth, voice raising as she carried on before any of them could get their objections out.
“She won’t know where we are, so it’s not like I’ll need to worry about Georgia just swanning on up to us. And besides,” she added with a careful lilt, preparing to break out the big guns, “do you really want me here by myself if she realizes none of you are on the property and tries to come inside?”
There was silence for a moment as they all pondered that thought. Atticus caved first, shoulders slumping. He lifted a hand and dragged it down his face. “Alright,” he sighed. “You can come. I’ll fill you in on anything you’ll need to know in the morning.”
Casey nodded quickly in response and let the topic drop, determined not to push her luck. Besides, it was late enough that it was early, and she was pretty sure she would finally be able to get some sleep.
It was only another twenty minutes before they all trailed off to bed. It was a fitful night, but Casey did manage to fall asleep eventually, and while it was nothing particularly restful, she supposed that was better than nothing. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, as the saying went.
*
Casey decided in the morning, very quickly, that she should not have agreed to have the conversation in the morning. Atticus had to work. Which meant it was an early morning for him. Which meant he had to wake Casey up at the crack of dawn again in order to talk to her about the full moon field trip.
“On the whole, we shouldn’t be much different than any other night. Some were-animals can go a bit feral on full moons, but it seems to affect certain species more than others. Lydia and I are generally no different than any other night,” he explained as Casey yawned and blinked at him. “Branson will probably go off in his own direction early in the night, but if he doesn’t, I would advise you at least keep a healthy distance from him. Usually, he’s fine, if a bit testy, but if he’s startled or taken off guard, he may very well try to take your hand off without even thinking about it.”
“Fun,” Casey returned in a deadpan. “Is it going to be some, like… super gross, gory transformation?”
Atticus gave her a slightly perplexed look, head cocking to one side slightly. “You’ve seen me transform before,” he reminded her.
“That wasn’t during a full moon,” Casey protested, folding her arms over her chest. “I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t be any different.”
“Ah, no, the transformation part remains fairly standard,” he assured her wryly.
“Where are we going, anyway?” she asked, running a hand through her hair and glancing at the clock. It was so early.
“There’s a state park an hour and a half or so away,” he answered. “I imagine we shouldn’t run into any trouble if we head there, and there will be more than enough space for Branson and Lydia to go their separate ways. Would you like to go back to sleep now?” The last was asked with a fondly exasperated smile.
“Yeeeeessss,” Casey replied, drawing the word out with something like desperation.
Shaking his head, Atticus gestured grandly to the bed. Casey toppled back down onto her pillow, and she was pretty sure Atticus laughed at her, but she wasn’t entirely sure, since she fell back to sleep basically instantaneously.
*
It wasn’t until later that day that it really sank in that she had willingly volunteered—nay, demanded—to follow her husband and his friends into the woods while they were forced to turn into animals for several hours. It was a strange thought, and it took a few minutes for her to convince herself that she hadn’t dreamed the conversation or imagined it in some sort of half-asleep stupor.
But Atticus mentioned it at dinner that night, so presumably it had actually happened. It was surprisingly easy to let it slip from her mind, though. She finally had other things to keep herself busy, and on the whole, it wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened. And given all the movies she had seen about werewolves needing to transform on the full moon (even if they neglected to mention that they could also just transform whenever they felt like it), she couldn’t even say it was a huge shock.
The conversation that morning seemed to be all anyone had to say on the topic, and Casey couldn’t think of anything to ask about it, so she saw no reason to bring it up again. It seemed like the sort of thing that could only really be done justice to with firsthand experience.
Of course, with that in mind, time seemed to crawl. Casey threw herself into her newly accumulating hobbies until she had a slightly worrying collection of jewelry and no idea what to do with it, there were three kinds of muffins in the kitchen, and she could play her way through “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” on the piano.
*
When the day arrived, the four of them piled into Atticus’s car. Branson almost looked offended when Casey shouted, “Shotgun!” and claimed the front passenger seat, but Atticus did not contest her claim, and so Branson climbed into the back with Lydia.
Considering she didn’t have a car and rarely left the area, an hour and a half in a car seemed like a long time to Casey. Thankfully, clothes that were comfortable for trekking through the woods in for hours on end were also comfortable when sitting in a car.
The drive was quiet, though not uncomfortably so. Branson played on his phone while Lydia stared fixedly out the window, daydreaming about who-knew-what. Atticus’s attention stayed focused on the road, and Casey braided twine together in her lap. All in all, the hour and a half felt reasonably short.
Which was likely a good thing, considering everyone else seemed antsy by the time the car was parked again and they were all spilling out of it. Casey wondered what it felt like, but she kept the question to herself.
There was no one else there, or at least no one else in the parking lot. So, there was no hesitation before the three of them began to strip down, tossing their clothes into the car again. Casey sort of preferred it when Branson and Lydia still felt sort of modest around her. She figured there was supposed to
be a limit on how many naked people who were not her husband that she was supposed to be exposed to. And really, that was not a problem she ever expected to have before this entire fiasco began.
When they transformed, though it was true that it was the same as last time, it was still strange to see the way they warped and shifted, like they were being shaped by a sculptor who couldn’t quite decide what it was that he wanted to do.
Casey followed them into the trees afterwards, and just as Atticus had predicted, Lydia spiraled into the air and took off, and Branson broke into a sprint almost immediately and bolted away.
After a moment, watching Branson disappear into the underbrush, Casey wondered, “Will they remember where the car is?”
Atticus huffed out a breath that was maybe supposed to be a laugh, or as close to one as he could get just then, and nodded his head once before he carried on. Casey loped after him for the first few steps before slowing to a more leisurely pace once she caught up.