by Karen Kincy
“Fuck,” I gasp.
I stare at the moon. She isn’t full. She shouldn’t have that much power over me.
“Cyn!” calls a girl. “Hurry up!”
I grit my teeth and sprint toward the voice. I’m going to catch them. My blood rushes through my veins, as hot as lava. My eyesight sharpens, focused by adrenaline. I cut the corner, leaves slapping and stinging my skin.
There. Cyn stands at a dead end, a moonbeam upon her like a spotlight. Got you.
The prickling excitement in my gut grows until it’s humming through me and I’m triumphant and thrilled by pursuit. Cyn steps back, then stops as if her legs have locked. I’m barreling down toward her.
“This isn’t funny!” she says, her voice high and sharp, her face pale in the moonlight.
I jog to a halt, then pace across the path, back and forth before her only escape. I’m breathing hard. I’m shaking.
“Cyn,” I say. “Why are you running from me?”
She narrows her eyes. “Wouldn’t you run if a werewolf came barreling after you?”
“I’m not.” My voice roughens into a growl, betraying me. “I haven’t changed yet.”
“After a whole month? I’m sure there was at least one full moon in there somewhere.”
“Don’t you believe me?” I advance on her, resisting the urge to bare my teeth like a caged beast. I’m the beast doing the caging. “I’m not a liar.”
“Let it go. Let me go.”
“Who do you think I am?” I’m backing her into a corner now, getting closer and closer. “Come on, Cyn, you know me better than that.”
She shakes her head, her eyes glassy. “Stop it. You’re drunk.”
I hate the fear in her words. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I say.
I try to reach for her, to touch her shoulder and convince her that everything’s all right, but she staggers away from me.
“Brock!”
You think I’m the big bad wolf. You think I’m going to eat you up.
A tightening ache inside my throat makes it hard to breathe. My hands shake, my skull throbs, and I wonder if this is it, my first transformation. Cyn stares at me, then looks over my shoulder and throws up her hands.
“Beth! Hey!”
One of her friends has come to save her? I turn to face this Beth girl, but see only a long stretch of dark path. Then Cyn sprints past, her hair flying behind her like a comet’s tail. I’m going to chase her—no, I won’t—catch her—let her go. I clench my fists, a burning coal stuck somewhere near my Adam’s apple.
And then she’s gone.
I turn and plod through the corn, stalks drooping in my wake, the moonlight chilling me until I don’t feel anymore. God, I’m such an ass. Why did I even show my face tonight? Back at the bonfire, I snag another beer and try to drink myself into oblivion, so the laughing voices and faces of the girls blur and fade away.
Cyn, why do you have to hate me? Who do I have to be, for you to care?
The night rises around me, drowning me in darkness.
Crows caw hoarsely. An earthy smell fills my nostrils. I fidget and feel cool mud streak my naked chest, then yawn and curl into a ball.
Naked. Fuck.
My eyelids spring open. White clouds blind me. I squint, eyes watering. A headache hammers inside my skull. Each time I move my head, a fresh wave of nausea rises in my throat. I gag, clench my jaw, then give up and vomit. On my hands and knees, I realize I’m still wearing jeans, but my shirt is long gone, and I’m covered with mud all over. From the brightness of the overcast sky, I’m guessing it’s early morning.
Last night flickers in my mind like a bad dream. I’ll remember pretty soon, I think.
I crawl to the ditch, swill gritty water in my mouth, spit. I taste blood, and my heart thuds to a halt for a second—no, I didn’t. I couldn’t have. I took my meds … but then I got shitfaced. What does alcohol do with Lycanthrox? Why can’t I remember? Those doctors didn’t tell me. Or maybe it was on the bottle, in tiny letters.
Jesus Christ. You knew this was going to happen, but you did it anyway.
I stagger to my feet, clenching my leg muscles so I stay upright. Crows flap into the trees. I feel like a herd of rhinoceroses stampeded over me. Maybe this is what it feels like after you transform—but no, I’m still wearing my jeans. Maybe I didn’t change all the way: a wolf-man, half-furred, half-naked, stalking his prey.
No. Hell no. Don’t even think that.
I’m a little bit lucky when I find my bike in the bushes, not stolen, and manage to get on and start pedaling home. A pickup passes me, and the driver’s head swivels in my direction. I know I must look like shit. I keep my face stony.
Got to go faster. Got to leave last night behind.
Back at the dairy, Dad’s pickup is gone. I know—I hope—he’s out milking the cows. I ditch my bike and let myself inside, quietly. The kitchen floorboards creak beneath my feet. I kick off my shoes and tiptoe upstairs, even though I’m way too big and bulky to be sneaking around. In the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. Blood crusts my chin. I wash it off, then see I’ve bitten my lip. Okay. Maybe I didn’t bite anything else last night. I get in the shower and try to scrape the sweat and mud and memories from my skin.
Somebody pounds on the bathroom door.
“Just a minute!” I call.
An icy fist clenches my heart. I gag again, then hunch, my hands on my thighs, my hair dripping into my eyes. Bile rises in my throat. My mouth waters, my stomach clenches, and I hope I’m not going to throw up again.
The pounding on the door gets louder. “Brock!” Dad bellows.
I kill the water, grab a towel, and yank open the door a crack. “What?”
Dad’s glaring at me. “Where were you last night?”
Shit. He checked. But he never checks.
“Uh … what do you mean?”
“Your room was empty. You left your phone behind.”
So he cares where I go at night, now that I’m a gick? Does he think I’m going to prowl around and eat bunnies and little girls?
“What are you smiling for?” Dad pushes the door open. “Get out.”
“Let me get dressed.”
He tilts his head away, his arms crossed, a vein in his forehead bulging as he clenches his jaw. I yank on my jeans and shoulder past him. Dad beats me to my bedroom door and stands in my way, his stance wide.
“Answer my question,” he says in a soft voice.
“I went out for a ride,” I say. “On my bike. I got tired of being cooped up inside.”
Dad’s eyes glitter, dark in the shadows of the hallway. “The mud?”
“I, uh, kind of crashed into the ditch. I’m fine.”
“Liar.” Dad’s voice is even softer. He’s going to start yelling soon, I know.
I have nothing to say, so I stare him in the eyes with no hope of staring him down. Even though I’m taller than him, I feel smaller.
“What’s your excuse for the beer on your breath, huh?”
I narrow my eyes. I won’t blink.
“What’s your excuse for drinking?” Dad’s voice rumbles from a whisper to a shout. “You haven’t got one, have you? You know goddamn well you’re not supposed to touch alcohol, you idiot. How could you be so stupid?”
My eyelids flinch, and I look away.
“You know what Lycanthrox does when you drink?” He waits for me to reply, but I won’t. “It stops working.”
Vomit rises in my throat. I press my lips together.
“You’re hopeless,” Dad says. “You’re going to throw your life away. You’re going to fucking get yourself killed.”
I turn my back on him and run for the bathroom, my throat burning with acid. I don’t make it to the toilet in time, and my puke splatters on the floor. I stare at it, my face
flaming with shame, Dad’s voice following me.
“Clean it up,” he says.
Mute, I grab a towel and start to mop up the vomit.
“How much did you drink?” Dad says.
I rub the towel over the floor, soaking up the puddle, then drop it into the shower to rinse.
“How much?”
His voice sounds far away; my ears are buzzing. I turn on the water. Dad hits the back of my head, and I stumble forward into the chilly spray.
“Answer me, dammit.”
“I don’t know!” My voice sounds like a rusty screech. “A few beers, maybe.”
Dad exhales in a hiss. “Where at?”
“Behind the corn maze at Bob’s. I got drunk with some friends, okay? That’s all.”
But I can’t remember, and so anything I say is no better than a lie.
“Friends?” Dad pounces on the word. “Who?”
I shrug. “Josh, and some guys from school.”
“You’re not allowed to drink with them again. Period. Is that clear?”
I nod. It’s not like I haven’t already learned my lesson. Dad hesitates, as if he expected me to fight back. He stalks away, his elbow knocking a glass onto the floor. It shatters into glittering shards. Dad glances at it, then slams the door, done being a father for now. A bitter taste on my tongue, I sit on the cold tile floor and stare at nothing. Dad’s shouts echo in my ears, louder and louder, until I clutch my head and growl.
I try to remember how I used to live, but the old Brock is all in pieces.
I can’t stand staying inside the cocoon of my bedroom, so I slip out the back door and stand outside the kitchen, in Mom’s old garden. Wilting leaves hang from the thorny black skeletons of roses. A miniature rose, the toughest of the lot, raises a rosebud high like a signal flare. I stare down at it, my fists tight.
If Mom were here, she would know how to step between Dad and me. She was always the cool water on ground scorched by anger. If Mom were here, she would know how to help me, how to save me from becoming a beast.
She lies stone-still, her face as beautiful as a statue, and just as dead.
I blink, memories of the funeral still too raw to touch. A green-and-gold hummingbird whirs into my vision. It hovers in front of the rosebud, dips its head, and tries to drink from the clenched petals. Failing, it flies away.
Stupid bird. There’s no nectar here. Hasn’t been for two years.
I fall to my knees and tear a hunk of weeds out of the earth, toss them over my head, grab another bunch. I break the spines of dead rosebushes and throw them onto the growing pile of useless plants. Thorns snag my skin, stinging, drawing beads of blood. I dig my nails into the pelt of grass and rip it away, baring the cool soft flesh of earth. Sweat trickles down my face; it feels good. I breathe deep, tasting green in the air.
I work until twilight purples the sky. The garden looks naked, but clean.
“Hey.” Dad’s voice makes my back stiffen. “You hungry?”
I face him, streaked with dirt and sweat, and nod.
We walk into the kitchen in silence, both too stubborn to say anything. There’s a stack of frozen Hungry-Man TV dinners melting on the counter. Dad throws one into the microwave and punches some buttons, then heads for the TV. A loud commercial blares to life, filling the space where our conversation should be. I don’t care.
The microwave beeps, and I hesitate until Dad hands me the steaming tray. I tear off the plastic wrapper covering the food. Barbeque pork, chicken, mashed potato. Supposed to be one of those XXL-size dinners, but I know we’re going to go through at least two apiece. They taste kind of shitty, but I sit on the couch and eat. Dad joins me soon after, and we slurp and smack together. The commercials end.
“And now, back to the evening news,” says a too-tan guy with brilliantly white teeth. “Earlier this week in Tacoma, Washington, police raided a warehouse suspected of housing illegal drugs and discovered faerie wine. The total value of the drugs recovered is estimated at just under one point three million dollars. No suspects have been arrested yet in connection with this drug bust, but police are continuing investigations.” While he’s talking, they show a short clip of police unloading crates of wine bottles.
“Well, they’re fucked,” Dad says.
I gnaw on a chicken wing. “Who? The cops?”
“Yeah. Faerie wine? That’s got to be Zlatrovik property.”
Zlatroviks. The werewolves everybody talks about on TV, but nobody even thinks about badmouthing in public. They’ve got faerie connections, and give “protection” to those smart enough to take it. The dumb ones end up dead.
I grunt. “Don’t even know why the cops bother.”
The camera moves from too-tan guy to the blond news lady. “Closer to home, residents of Klikamuks continue to be alarmed and disturbed by the close proximity of the werewolf pack in the Boulder River Wilderness Area.”
A shot of a fat guy with a pasty-scared face. “ … It’s really scary to think that these werewolves, these Others, live so close to our homes and children. And after the recent murders here, anything could happen. It’s really scary.”
Back to the blond news lady. “Canadian officials have informed local police that many members of the werewolf pack are fugitives, wanted for multiple counts of attempted murder, aggravated battery, mauling, firearms violations, carjacking, felony resist and obstruct, failure to appear, and flight to avoid prosecution.”
Damn. I’m not even sure what some of those crimes are.
“Snohomish County police are working to apprehend the fugitives and extradite them to Canada. Officials warn that these suspects are considered armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend them. If you have any information regarding these suspects, contact your local police station immediately.”
Dad grunts and switches to another channel. I unclench my muscles. For a second, I thought he was going to start yelling about how me and Chris attempted to apprehend the werewolves earlier and failed so bad. I glance away from the TV, my gaze snagged by movement outside the living room window.
Holy shit.
In the shadows of the trees, hiding in the twilight, stands a silver wolf.
five
The wolf swings his head low, staring directly at me with intelligent yellow eyes. A wind ruffles the thick fur around his neck. He’s long-legged, rangy, with powerful jaws and a granite-gray pelt tipped with black.
“Dad,” I say in a strangled voice.
He glances at me, then follows my gaze out the window. His eyes spring into surprised circles. He bolts from the couch and into the garage, the door slamming behind him. I’m halfway onto my feet by the time he’s back inside, carrying his favorite shotgun, slipping rounds into the magazine with a silky clicking noise.
“Damn gick,” Dad mutters, as if he’s talking about nothing more than a pesky dog.
He racks the shotgun, and my heartbeat jumps at the cha-chink.
“Dad,” I say, but before I can say be careful, he’s out the door.
I glance out the living room window. The silver wolf pricks his ears. Our eyes meet, and then he turns tail and melts into the trees. I run outside right as a shotgun blast shatters the evening. Birds cry out and flutter skyward.
I stand beside Dad, breathing a lot harder than I should be. We stare into the forest.
Finally, Dad says, “Go back inside.” He racks the shotgun again.
I stare at the spent shell on the ground. “Where are you going?”
“The barn. Check on the cows.”
“Dad.”
“Inside. Now.”
I grab his elbow. “Don’t go out there alone. That’s the wolf who bit me.”
He stares at me, his blue eyes as sharp as ice.
“I’m going with you,” I say.
I don’t flinch under the chi
ll of his gaze, and at last he nods. We walk together as the sky darkens, our shoulders bumping. I grit my teeth and keep scanning the shadows, but I see no sign of werewolves. When we reach the old red barn, Dad unlocks the door and peeks inside. The cows shuffle and moo, their hooves kicking up sawdust.
“Hmm,” he says softly, lowering his shotgun.
I retreat from the open door, knowing my scent will scare the cows. I turn my back on Dad, facing the darkness. The moon rises like a rotten silver fruit, oozing juice onto the land. A shiver scuttles down my arms. A wind blows my way, filling my nose with the scent of arriving rain, lichen, leaves … and the faint, wild, musky smell of wolf. I clench my toes inside my shoes, tense but unsure where to go or what to do.
A hoarse whisper, close to my ear. “You know you don’t belong here.”
My head snaps to the right, and I’m staring into the dark eyes of him, Randall, the werewolf. A fist clenches my guts. Words choke my throat. You want to fight? You here to kill me? Get off my land, gick. Get out of my life.
Randall jerks his head in the direction of the moon. “It’s almost time for you to go.”
I glance up and the cold light stabs me, shivers me. Randall stands and watches.
“Brock? I think the cows are all right.” Dad’s voice, close behind me. “Brock?”
I look over my shoulder, at Dad stepping out of the barn, and look back at Randall. He’s gone, vanished like smoke in the wind.
“Yeah.” I cough. “Good.”
Dad squints and scans the moonlit forest. “See anything?”
I open my mouth, shut it, shake my head.
Dad holds his shotgun at his hip and ruffles his hair with his free hand. “Inside.”
I wait until he starts walking before I head toward the house. Randall’s whisper echoes harshly in my ears. You know you don’t belong here. It’s almost time for you to go. I slam the door as if I can shut my fears outside.
Monday afternoon, I shovel rotten leaves from the clogged ditch beside our driveway. Wind rattles the trees, sprinkling new leaves onto me. I grimace and keep digging, but I’m liking the sweat and hard work.