Thorne Bay

by Jeanine Croft

  I remembered the voice in the parking lot, a worried female voice that had seemed incredibly familiar to me, but I’d been so far gone by then that I couldn’t, even now, recall the woman’s identity. Only that she had sounded concerned. A friend maybe? Was it my mother?! Had I, in my lunacy, killed her? The thought sent terror shooting through my gut.

  After a quick search of my hiding spot, I was forced to accept the fact that I was naked and alone. There was no phone and no crime scene hereabouts either. Whatever I’d done, I’d likely done it in the parking lot outside the cafe. Fuck!

  Desperate to get home, I scrambled through the Burma reed, eyes flitting furtively along the empty shoreline. Once I was sure there was no one around, I darted into the water and washed the blood off, distraught and trembling, until I’d nearly scraped the skin from my bones with abrasive handfuls of sand. After a while, once I’d snuck away from the water, I managed to pilfer an abandoned towel on someone’s lawn chair. Thievery was, after all, just a lesser offense to add to my growing list of heinous crimes. Like possible matricide. By the time I’d run home in my ‘borrowed’ towel (the long walk of shame to trump all walks of shame) the sun had already been up three hours. Whatever odd looks I’d attracted from joggers and fisherman along the way, I barely noticed, my eyes had been too dimmed with tears. Barely sensate at the time, it was only much later that I thought to question how my mother’s borrowed car had returned itself to the driveway.

  It was with tears of relief that I heard her singing in the shower from down the street. I slipped in through my bedroom window and I bolted to my bed, messed the covers up, and then escaped to the bathroom to shower. But no amount of soap and water would ever wash the sins from my soul. Not even acid could strip that from me. The water was scalding as it sluiced over me, but I didn’t care. I burned with guilt already. When I emerged from the bathroom, in a cloud of steam, Mom was just opening her door, still clad in her pajamas. Briskly I readjusted the towel up to cover the scars that might be peeking over my shoulder. T-shirts with higher necklines had been a must since coming home even though the scars were silvery and faint.

  “Morning, Ev.” Her eyes shifted from me to my room and the rumpled bed visible from the hallway. “Late night? I didn’t even hear you come in.”

  “Yeah,” I croaked.

  “Coffee?”

  “Please.” I had no appetite, even for coffee, but she knew I never turned coffee down in the morning. Act natural. Now I knew exactly how a criminal might feel—the need for normalcy and routine to throw the dogs off the scent, so to speak, was paramount. My sanity was crumbling and this small bubble of surreality (in which I was an innocent human just going about my day) was all I had to cling to. I needed every bit of normality I could grasp at the minute before my bubble burst its mayhem over me forever.

  Mom kissed my cheek, nodded, and headed downstairs. “On it.”

  Once in my room again, I began shaking. But panic hadn’t saved me back in Red Devil, and it wouldn’t save me now, so I swiped the tears off my chin and got dressed. Prosaic routine was what I needed to calm me. My clothes were hanging off me these days, I’d lost too much weight lately. Dean had warned me to keep my strength up. The stress and lack of appetite might have contributed to my loss of control last night. Had I heeded his warning—stayed in Thorne Bay and fed myself properly—I might not now be in this horrifying predicament. Might not now be a murdering bitch. Literally.

  “You’re gonna get yourself killed. Or worse, kill someone else.” How his words haunted me now.

  I pulled a chunky sweater over my shirt, the better to cover my weight loss from my perceptive mother, and then went down to join her at the breakfast table. I made a point of eating two full bowls of oatmeal, even though my stomach was still unnaturally full from…whatever (whoever) I’d eaten.

  “Wow, someone worked up an appetite in the night,” said Mom, heading over to the TV to grab the remote.

  So much for acting normal, Evan.

  “Active dreams?”

  “I guess.” Yawning, I rubbed at my temples. My periphery flashed and I stilled with horror as rain and sand cut across my eyes and thunder roared brightly overhead. A sudden full-blooded swell of excitement flitted across my memory as arteries burst between my teeth and something large struggled in my jaws. Nothing I remembered came in any rational order.

  “Holy shit!” Mom gasped.

  My head spun around to where she stood in front of the TV watching the news. “What is it?” I asked, my stomach dropping out from under me. Mom never swore!

  “There’s been an attack”—her mouth was solemn and drawn as she turned around to face me—“at the cafe.”

  “What?!”

  Mom turned the volume up as I joined her.

  The newscaster’s voice was like a discordant buzzing as I stared with horror at the screen. The cafe parking lot was cordoned off with yellow tape, police cars and news vans blocking the activity from view.

  “And to think,” Mom whispered, shuddering, “you were there only a few hours ago!” She pulled me against her suddenly. “That could have been you, baby!” She hugged me tightly while I stood peering, still paralyzed, over her heaving shoulder.

  “Florida Fish And Wildlife are investigating the animal attack,” the reporter was saying, almost relishing the drama, “but residents are advised to keep vigilant until the animal has been seized. Authorities all agree, from the bite marks sustained by the victim, that the animal responsible is likely a bear, but FWC has not yet confirmed that.”

  “A bear?!” Mom turned back to the TV. “This far east?” She shook her head, nonplussed.

  “Did they…has the…” The saliva had dried from my mouth. I tried again. “Did they say…was it a fatal attack?”

  Even as I posed my stuttered question, prerecorded footage appeared onscreen as if to taunt me with the critical answer—the coroner’s van leaving the scene earlier. That could mean only one thing…

  “Yes,” mom affirmed unnecessarily. “A man. Found dead.”

  I barely heard her, because suddenly I was staring at Mario’s pallid face, his voice shaking as he faced the cameras.

  “I got here early this morning,” he was saying gravely, “around five thirty.” He dragged his trembling hands through his hair. “And there was Andy—“ his eyes shifted to the side, ostensibly to where he could still see the body in his mind’s eye “—lying over there.” He covered his face with his hands, overcome with emotion. “I can’t believe it, man. He was alive only a few hours ago, you know?” He lifted teary eyes to the reporter. “Last night he told me to head home. That he would shut the place up since we were short-staffed. He knew I’d be opening this morning.” He began sobbing. “If only I’d stayed…” He was clearly too distraught to continue talking.

  It didn’t matter, I’d heard and seen enough. My heart was battering like a suffocated fish against my breast as I sank to the floor. “Oh my God!” I whispered disbelievingly. “Andy.” I’d killed Andy!

  “His poor mother.” Mom paced the carpet, distraught. Unexpectedly, she collapsed against me, sobbing again, carrying on about how it could have been me in that parking lot.

  If only I had died in Red Devil. Then Andy would still be alive. He was a jerk, sure, but death was hardly retributive justice. Had my rage really been that intensely focused that I’d premeditated my ambush? That I’d purposefully waited in the shadows for his friends, and Mario, to leave Andy to his undeserved doom? Evidently, I was two very different creatures—one of which was a cold-blooded, psychotic killer.

  It took almost the entire day to convince Mom to stop hovering over me. I needed space to think and agonize in private. Only after she’d made me promise not to leave the house, Mom finally left to take my grandmother to the hospital. There’d been complications with Gramps’ hip and he was still convalescing his curmudgeony ass in that room of “commies”. Anyway, Mom was taking the “animal attack” seriously, and taking no chances
with my life. Little did she know that the monster she feared was right under her nose. Tonight was a full moon, but there was no way I was going to stay in the house and endanger my beautiful mother. I knew where she kept her pistol. If I started to change, or felt the first pressure of that sinister migraine, I’d gladly shove that gun barrel into my mouth. End it all tonight. Just not where Mom would find me. I’d do it in the swamp and let the gators have my sorry carcass.

  Where was my phone? Where were my clothes and purse? What if the police had found all my stuff at the scene? I’d be implicated somehow, I just knew it!

  Call Tristan! The voice of logic was unequivocal and firm. Insistent. It was with a surprisingly steady hand that I grabbed my mother’s cell phone (she’d left it at home for me since I’d lost mine) and dialed the number I knew off by heart. He’d know what to do. But, of course, there was no answer. Straight to voicemail.

  “No!” I threw the phone at the couch and slipped to the floor in a panicked and dejected heap, my knuckles white as I gripped my knees. “Fuck!” Why was this happening to me?!

  Being bitten, and the awful aftermath of that attack, had been literally the darkest and lowest point of my life. Or so I’d thought then. I was willing to reassess that because I now knew better. There was nothing in this life worse than knowing I was responsible for stealing an innocent life. Nothing worse than robbing someone’s son or daughter from them. Those tears that fell in that moment, there on my mother’s spaghetti-stained living room carpet, were the most pitiful I’d ever shed. The most guilt-ridden and miserable. And I was completely alone. Yet again. Always alone.

  About an hour later I woke with a start, hearing Mom’s Nissan pull into the driveway. Hurriedly I rubbed the traces of dried tears from my eyes and headed to the front door to meet her. I’d been so caught up in my own misery (and rightly so) that I’d not stopped to consider what she was going through. She knew something was up with me—something deadly serious that I was being uncharacteristically taciturn about—and probably kept imagining my mangled body in that parking lot. I, however, couldn’t even begin to imagine the worry of a mother. I’d have to do better by her, I decided. And then I’d somehow figure out what I was going to do to save myself. Because if she lost me…! God, I couldn’t let that happen. I would live, if only just for her. I’d stolen Andy from his parents, but I wouldn’t rob Mom of her only child.

  Just on the other side of the door, I heard her, an uncharacteristically high pitch to her voice as she chatted in the driveway to my gran.

  Feeling a little more comforted by my newfound determination, I pulled the door open, never in a million years expecting to see my wayward boyfriend on the other side. Yet there Tristan stood like a guardian angel at my threshold. I gaped at him as fierce emotion swept through my body in trembling waves of shock and immobilizing relief.

  He and Mom were standing on the porch, Mom’s key poised at the door. “Look who I found in our driveway!” she said brightly, her anxious smile notwithstanding.

  “I came here straight from the airport,” he said, thumb gesturing to the black rental on the curb.

  It was all I could do not to pounce on him like a starved kitten, but I was very aware of Mom’s probing eyes and I suddenly had no idea how to act. I sensed the same churning emotion in Tristan, though. After a tense pause, and without warning, he pulled me into a fierce hug (disregarding my mother’s keen regard) and pressed an unyielding kiss to the side of my head. “I tried to call you last night,” he murmured in my ear. “And again this morning.” He leaned away and fixed me with a dark look. “Does no one answer their fu—“ he threw a sidelong look at my mother and hastily aborted that particular expletive “—their phones anymore?”

  My sentiments exactly!

  “I’ll just give you two a minute,” said Mom, brushing past us with a mischievous curl of her lips, dragging my clueless grandmother in behind her.

  “It was nice meeting you both, Mrs. Spencer.” Tristan’s brow unfurled a small degree as he glanced first at my mother and then, with a civil nod, at my gran. “Ma’am.”

  “You too, Tristan. And please call me Aloma.” Mom paused under the lintel a moment, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Are you staying for dinner?” she inquired with a wink at me.

  Tristan, in turn, looked to me for an answer, his head cocking adorably to the side. Well, as adorable as a stormy werewolf could look. Although I’d never been happier to see him, it was disconcerting the way his black brows sat severely over his eyes.

  Did he know about Andy? Did he hate me as much as I already hated myself? Just like that, the fleeting moment of relief and solace I’d found in his arms (thinking I was now saved and could possibly allow myself a moment’s peace and happiness) disappeared with a splash of proverbial ice water. These extreme ups and downs of werewolf emotions would be the death of me.

  Mom cleared her throat expectantly.

  “Evan?” Tristan prompted me. “Am I staying for dinner?”

  “Yes.” I turned to look over my shoulder at my mom’s knowing grin. “Yes, he’s staying.” Forever. I needed him. I was never leaving his side again.

  Once Mom had closed the door behind her (both to keep the air-conditioning in and to give us some privacy) Tristan instantly stole my breath with a kiss so passionate that it momentarily stilled my heart and muted my brain. His one hand was splayed on the side of my jaw as his teeth grazed my lower lip. The other hand was pressed firmly to my back. “You haven’t been eating properly,” he said, his tone gruff. “I can feel your bones sticking out.”

  Was that what had put the frown on his brow? “I’m sorry.” He had no idea just how sorry I was.

  “I should have come sooner,” he murmured against the corner of my mouth. “I’ve missed you.”

  I breathed his woodsy scent deep into my lungs to steady myself. “I tried to call you!” I dropped my forehead on his chest.

  “When did you call?” He lifted my face, studying my features gravely. The bruises and scratches had healed completely from his face except for one almost imperceptible scar below his chin.

  I knew now that he’d probably been in the air when I’d called earlier. Feeling self-conscious, I only shrugged.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to call me for weeks,” he said pointedly. “Trust me, I’d have known if you’d tried. Remember, you wanted space. Not me.”

  I shook my head. This was all beside the point. “Tristan I…I need to tell you something.” My throat thickened with misery.

  “You’re worried about tonight. I know.” He kissed my temple. “Don’t be, I won’t let anything—”

  “No!” I ripped my chin from his fingers. “You don’t get it.” With a furtive look at the door, I lowered my voice so that only he could hear me. “It happened already.”

  Tristan stilled, eyes narrowing. “What?”

  “Yeah. Last night.” My words were almost inaudible, my voice quavering.

  “Fuck.” Jaw clenching, he dragged a frustrated hand roughly down his face before scrutinizing me again. “Did anything—”

  “I killed someone.” Abruptly, I threw myself against his chest, my words muffled against his shirtfront so I wouldn’t have to see his disgust. Beneath my fingers, his muscles were tensed with shock. “I killed Andy!”

  39

  Harvest Moon

  “Evan.” Tristan’s hands gently, yet firmly, pushed me back so that he could search my face. “Are you sure?”

  Hiccuping miserably, I nodded. “I was furious at him. I remember leaving the cafe. My blood was boiling. Literally. And then”—with effort, I swallowed the rising panic back down—“I changed. It wasn’t supposed to happen so soon!”

  “Do you remember the attack?”

  “No. Should I?”

  His palms moved to knead roughly at his eyes. “Sometimes. You become more aware as you mature. I just thought maybe you’d recall something.”

  “I woke up covered in blood. A lot of b
lood, Tristan.”

  The skin at his eyes tightened frighteningly. He swiped at his phone screen and then lifted it to his ear, hand grasping anxiously at the back of his head. However, there was no answer. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Does no one answer their fucking phones?” He then began texting hurriedly.

  The gravity in his tone, and the fucks that had ensued, horrified me as not even his blackest rage would have. “I thought I only had to worry about changing on the full moon. Why—”

  “You’ll be volatile for some years, Ev.” He looked up from his phone, a broody set to his jaw. “Add stress or temper to the mix and you’d easily undergo an early change if the moon’s full enough. It won’t take much to set you off…” Not once had he said I told you so, though it was implied in the silence that followed. He’d warned me more than once not to leave Thorne Bay. So had his brother.

  Who the hell was he texting? I peeked at the screen. Alex? “What now?”

  “Hell if I know.” But he bent his eyes to his phone again and began scrolling the favorites list. “You need to tell your mom you want to head back to Alaska. Tonight.”

  “What? No! My Mom—”

  “Evan.” His expression turned thunderous. “We are in a whole hell of a lot of shit, don’t you get that? You can’t stay here! We’re both leaving. Now. Non-negotiable.”

  He’d never spoken to me this way. At first, I was too shocked to move, too taken aback by his fulminating glare and harsh tone.

  “Am I or am I not your alpha?” he asked with deceptive quietude.

  A thrill of alarm and adrenaline-soaked lust swelled suddenly in my core. I’d never seen this side of him. Or if I had, that glint of warning, of wrathful heat, had never been directed at me. Not until now.

  The acquiescence in my gaze was answer enough. He gave a curt nod and then pressed his phone expectantly to his ear, the ringing sounding discordant somehow. A motorcycle sped by and a dog barked nearby, but I stood impotently beneath that intense chartreuse glare, deaf to all else but him. “Dean,” said Tristan when his brother answered, “we have a problem.”