by Sierra Storm
Her lips tighten in imitation of a smile. “It doesn’t work like that.”
Vince turns to me. “You need to get out of here.”
“But—”
He points into the woods, in the direction of the old car.
I walk, hating every moment of it. These confrontations never play out the way they do in my head. When I pass the car, I stop and breathe for a minute.
“You shouldn’t have gone out there,” says Vince. He was behind me the whole time, stalking me just like a wolf would.
“I’m not just going to let it happen,” I argue.
“Don’t mess with them.” He pauses. “I’ve been in and out of that group for over one hundred and fifty years, Violet, and I can tell you your failure is guaranteed.”
A hundred and fifty years? I had no idea he was that old. That's harder to believe than the fact that he's a werewolf. I run my tongue over my teeth and wonder if there’s any point in trying to explain myself to him.
Do you see this?” Vince rolls up one of his sleeves, and I see a red mark where a metal cuff must have hugged around it too tightly at some point in the past. "I forged it myself. I need something strong enough to hold me in when I'm having a rough night.”
"When you're a werewolf?"
"Mostly when I'm a human."
I smooth the sleeves down my arms. I have to admit it, this place is beautiful and remote. We could be miles away from town from how quiet and still the air now is. The breeze has vanished entirely, and I can see now that even the tallest branches of the proudest trees stand outstretched and unbent without so much as a breeze to break the stillness. I feel like I stepped into a land of fantasy and wilderness, and Vince feels like a part of that world so far from my own, so distant and so darkly melancholy with his wide gray eyes and cautious expression.
"I first joined these people when I first changed," says Vince. "Back then, this town was nothing more than a settlement at the end of the Oregon Trail. I thought I was attacked by an Indian but, apparently, that wasn't the case."
"Why didn't you join the other werewolves?" I ask.
He smiles. "Because," he says, "every time I see another werewolf, I kill it.”
Chapter 3
Vince steps forward and runs his hand down a severed wolf paw tied to his belt. I recognize it as a wolf skin. A darker idea dawns on me, but I say nothing. "I know what it's like to have friends turn their backs on you," he says. "That's partly how I became a wolf. I could have saved myself. I could have stayed a human and lived a perfectly normal life. But no, when she got bit, I had to run after her."
Her? Suddenly, Vince seems more vulnerable than I realized. I’d always thought he was born a werewolf or maybe his tribe kicked him out. It didn’t occur to me that wolves could be made like that. And I do feel fascinated and awed at the same time because this is cool, despite everything.
Vince doesn’t smile at the words, though his eyes adopt a sarcastic light that contrasts with the bold sunlight shining through the trees around us. I start to understand what he said just now. He was hurt. This whole lifestyle didn’t happen because of his choosing—it fell on him because of someone else. And my heart twists. "What happened?" I ask.
"Do you want me to tell you a story?" he asks, amused.
"I do," I say, plopping down on a bearskin rug and running my fingers through the silky fur. I make myself comfortable on the skin.
“My life is a very long story,” says Vince. “I’ve come and gone and come again and gone again so many times it all blurs together. I’m afraid I wouldn’t know where to start.”
"Start with her name."
“Millicent,” he says. “But we called her Millie. Millie Danielle Christiansen. We got married in the wilderness on Christmas Eve night when we were both nineteen. There was nothing out here back then. This place was just a wilderness. Bears. Wolves. And occasionally, other settlers.
“There was a man who came by named Blake Darwin. He said he was a trapper. He made trips out west to find furs, and then back east to sell them again, or at least that’s what he said. He also agreed to take our mail back home and visit our families for us. It thrilled Millie. She never adjusted to life out here in the end.
“I thought everything was all right. It wasn’t, though. Not by a longshot. Millie started acting strange around me. Summer was ending and she made a big deal about drying flowers for the winter. I guess I thought, I don’t know, that we were going to have a kid. She was moody and flighty, not like herself. I didn’t ask about it. But then I saw the bite marks.
“She said she wanted to spare me the pain. Me, as if I needed to be spared when she was already taken from me like that.” Here Vince smiles darkly. “I decided to take care of Darwin. I went out through the woods. It was night. Pitch black, I couldn’t see anything at all. I couldn’t see Darwin either until it was too late. It didn’t make any difference, but I took both of them out before the night was over and then tried to take out myself. It turns out that werewolves are remarkably good at healing.”
He turns back to the pelt. I have a haunting feeling that the pelt might belong to someone in his faraway story.
"Pain can make you do crazy things," Vince concludes. "And I don't want you to be another victim. Tell me what you want, and I'll see if we can maybe work something out between us."
It's an offer I have trouble refusing. I need help, and I think Vince might be the one. I remember the look on Tristan's face when he got sick after being bit—when he realized what happened and told me about it several weeks ago, desperate and well-meaning. I need him back. I need to show him I won't give up and that I have what it takes to keep our friendship alive. I know what I need to do.
“I want to join the Exigency,” I tell him.
“What?” I love the shock that exudes from his voice. For once, I think I’m taking things in the right direction.
“That’s right,” I say.
Vince shakes his head. “They can’t allow you. You’re. . . not one of them.”
“Neither are you,” I say. “If Tristan can come here and join them out of nowhere, then I’m going to follow him. Or you’ll have to expel him from this place.”
“He was serious about joining,” says Vince. “And even if he weren’t, he knows too much. They wouldn’t let him—ah—walk out in one piece.”
“What if I turned into a wendigo?” I ask. “Or tell them I did? Would anyone know the difference?”
He almost snarls at me. “What do you think that would even accomplish? I know what you’re after, Violet. Tristan isn’t coming back to you no matter what antics you try.”
“This isn’t about Tristan liking me,” I say. “Maybe I’m just interested in this place for my own sake. Maybe I simply want to join?”
“You think you can walk in here and disrupt everything your pretty little hand touches,” says Vince, narrowing his large gray eyes. “Do you think we have it easy out here? Do you think I came in and joined this place because I thought I’d have a good time here?”
“No,” I say.
“I don’t think you understood everything I just told you.” I can practically feel him bristling.
“I want to join the Exigency,” I repeat. “And I can handle it.”
“You don’t look the part. You’d need to drain the color from your face.”
“I’m good with makeup.”
“And what will you tell them? You got a poisoned splinter in your finger and it contaminated you?”
I dig one of my feet deeper into the dirt. “I’ll come up with something.”
Vince shakes his head. “No. You can’t do that. I won’t let you.”
I turn and walk past him, starting right back to the clearing he drove me away from. I can feel his eyes bore through me as I walk and blink the stubborn tears from my eyes. I don’t know how things could have turned out so wrong. I don’t know how I could have gone from feeling so sure of myself to questioning my every breath. Maybe Vince is righ
t, and I need to leave. Or maybe I need to try the opposite approach.
By the time I reach the edge of the clearing, tears are burning my eyes. I can hear Tristan and Natasha talking to each other nearby; I can see their forms clinging so close together, but I don’t care. I stand and take a deep breath and ignore my eyes stinging like mad.
“Vi?”
Tristan straightens and approaches me. I sniff and try to regain my composure. “I want to join the Exigency. I don’t know what it takes. You can. . . bite me. . . or initiate me. . . or whatever it is you do.”
“Vi, no, you don’t want that,” says Tristan. “Take my word.”
“I know what I want,” I respond. “I’ve thought about it. If you’re not going to leave this place, then I’m going to join it myself.”
“No, no,” says Tristan.
Natasha reaches us at last. She looks from me to Tristan, and back to me. “I totally get it,” she says.
For the first time, a surge of fear fills my heart. I want to take the words back. I can’t believe any of what I just said. The conversation with Vince must have hit me harder than I thought, or maybe I’m only hesitating at the thought of Natasha becoming my sire, or whatever. I’d much sooner Tristan initiate me if he can.
“I don’t bite,” the girl says then, so casually I almost wonder if she will. “If you want me to conduct the ceremony, I could do it with a single hair.”
“Violet, you can always come back here,” says Tristan. “Don’t do it. It isn’t worth it. You’ll get sick. You’ll. . .”
“You’ve been fine,” I say to him.
“Yeah, so far,” he scoffs. “But June 12, after graduation, I’m getting out of this place. Maybe sooner. I’m not above faking my death. I’m not above running. I’ve heard Detroit has a healthy wendigo population, and I’ve decided I want to give it a try.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t want to be a monster.”
“You’re not a monster,” I say. “They’ve put that fear in your head, but it isn’t you. I know you. You wouldn’t do that.”
He lifts a finger and points it at my head. When he speaks, his voice is no more than a whisper. “You have no idea,” he says. And then his eyes shift. My skin prickles in a chill. Maybe there is something to all of this, after all. Vince no longer looks like himself. He is a monster in full form. Dark red veins spread around his irises and then dive inwards to murky pupils. His face breaks out in a layer of sweat and veins. I suck my breath in and tense, but I don’t leave. I don’t let myself leave. Then, slowly, the veins lower and disappear, and his eyes return to normal. “Why do you want this?” he asks.
“Because I’m not going to lose you to this,” I say. “Whatever this is. I’m going to go right in after you. That’s the way it’s always been.” It’s true. There was a time years ago when Tristan was grounded after getting into a fight. I had nothing to do with it, but I waited in his old yard outside of his bedroom window silently every afternoon until he came back out. He hadn’t even known I was there at the time. Loyalty’s just a curse I have to live with.
“You really shouldn’t,” says Tristan.
“I say she’s earned it,” says Natasha.
I’m surprised that Natasha is so seemingly all right with my joining up. She doesn’t appear to view me as a threat anymore but almost more as someone she wants to see more of. This could also be a part of a larger and far more sinister plan. Maybe I’ll be more vulnerable if I open up to this. Maybe she’s looking for a weak spot, and maybe that will be it.
“You’ve always gone too far,” says Tristan, but he’s done trying to turn me away.
I swallow and rise to my feet, strengthening my resolve. I remember again my mom’s tattoo, and again hear a soft voice in my head whispering for me to be courageous.
“Come by here tomorrow,” says Natasha. “And make sure you bring your best scissors.”
Chapter 4
I show up early to American history class the next morning, only half ready to take a quiz about the conquistadors and meso-America. Secretly I hope that Tristan is there and that we can talk and maybe figure a few things out, but there's no trace of him today.
I start pulling my books out of my backpack when someone taps me from behind. It's Natasha. She's not smiling and bubbly like she was yesterday, but my guess is that she's still looking forward to what’s supposed to happen tomorrow.
“Do you have the scissors?” she asks.
I look at her like she just requested an ingredient to a magic spell.
“I set everything up last night. They told me I shouldn’t, but I decided to screw with them anyway,” says Natasha. “Don’t worry. They don’t actually mean a lot of what they say.”
I pull out my book and turn to the page marked on the whiteboard.
“You’re still up for it, right?” asks Natasha, blocking Clyde from taking his seat behind me.
“Shush,” I say.
“I mean, we don’t have to. Tristan said you were just being emotional. But I think having you around would be a great deal of fun.” She stakes her claim with a serious face.
“Why are you so all right with this?”
“Hey, can I get through?” Clyde mumbles loudly at us.
Natasha barely shoots him a glance. “Because—because I need help. And you’re the only person I know who won’t try to screw me over.” She smiles lightly. “Anyway, I might be a little late to the party later. I have cheerleading tryouts!”
Natasha needs help? I watch the back of her dark curls as she retreats to her seat and Clyde walks by with a buck-toothed sneer. Then I comb a strand of hair before my ear and breathe as the class starts. Natasha has always been confident before, even catty. I think back to all the times I’ve run into and seen her before. If she’s in trouble, it would be big trouble. I don’t know how equipped I am to deal with it. I also know for a fact that she likes Tristan and wants him for herself. That would absolutely interfere with things.
I can't focus in class. My notes turn into abstract doodles that form detailed puddles around the perimeters of my page, and my thoughts turn to wendigos and werewolves. I should be disturbed about this. What I saw Tristan turn into feels more like a weird dream than something that actually happened, but my dreams are never that strange. I can’t picture that transformation happening to me. I guess deep down I don’t think anything will. This whole thing feels like pretend.
For the rest of the school day, Natasha manages to act surprisingly normal. She's friendlier than she was yesterday, almost to the point where I can enjoy her company. I show her around and give her the run-down on the teachers while she asks about extracurricular activities and high school culture in general.
It isn't until later that my anxiety levels start rising. This is permanent—but then, so are tattoos. I'll still have a life after this. Just a different kind of life.
I'm supposed to meet her in the clearing by the cave when I'm ready. I go home for a while, first. I lie on my bed and review everything I know about wendigos. There isn't much. My family will never need to know. I think I’m better at acting than Tristan. There's no reason to feel so guilty. . . but I can't help it. Am I moving too quickly?
I walk to the clearing in a dust-colored brown tunic and leggings, my hair hanging loosely down my back. This is going to be a special night, so I figured I might as well dress for the occasion.
Natasha is waiting for me already, with Tristan and a slightly older blonde woman at her sides. She has a fast food burger at the ready.
“And there she is,” says the blonde. She crosses the clearing to me and lifts my chin with a finely manicured finger. “My name here is Comet. I am Natasha’s mentor, and she said you were the closest thing she had to a friend.”
My eyes dart to Natasha, who nods at me to affirm the claim.
“We’ve known each other ever since she transferred to the school,” I say in an effort to hide dubiously that I barely know Natasha.
“Why do you want to join us for the sake of a friend?”
Several possible answers fade into oblivion, and Comet removes her finger. “I’ve been watching you all day, Violet Miller. You impress me. You have a strong work ethic in the face of obvious distractions, and you consistently put the needs of others ahead of your own. We can use people like you. Lately, Lucius, our leader, has spoken to me of retirement. If that day comes, we will all move someplace where no one has heard of us and gained a fresh start. Are you serious in your desire to join us, Violet?”
“I am,” I say, vaguely feeling like I’m taking part in an ancient cult ritual.
“All right, Natasha?”
“Sorry,” says Natasha. “I’ve never turned anyone before. I don’t even know how this works, not all of it. Have a seat.”
I sit near the drums on a stone. "Will it hurt much?"
"I can't say. Not much," she says as she unwraps the burger. "At least not at first. Then you’ll get sick in a couple days while the venom takes effect. I was born a wendigo, not converted. They say it makes me more ruthless."
"Oh," I say, nodding. I don't know what to make of her words. “So what do we do. Are you going to bite into me or draw blood, or. . . ?”
"I'm not a vampire, Vi," says Natasha. “I’ve never had blood.”
“We really don’t do that here,” says Comet.
“I’m just going to take some hair and put it in the burger. I shouldn’t even taste it,” she says.
I nod. This is too easy. Comet plucks a single strand of hair and coils it under the bun. “There are reasons we keep to ourselves, Violet,” she says. “Our life is a hard one. We try to keep in touch with our humanity, but many say that wendigos have no soul. And those many are absolutely right.”
I can’t turn back at this part.
“Do you need to lie down?” asks Natasha.
The sound of chewing has always bothered me. Now I feel like each one of my senses are heightened with anxiety, drawn-out and emphasized with each passing second Comet explains that she reviewed the ceremony with Natasha last night. I don’t need to do anything, it turns out. I only needed to show up. Natasha didn’t realize when she turned Tristan. I don’t know the full story behind that, or how she could have turned him accidentally. How many of these people are converted by accident? What about those who might not have ever known why they felt ill like they did or what caused them to transform.