Bloodborn

by Karen Kincy

  Footsteps slap the pavement. I glance down the road.

  Oh, Jesus.

  Cyn jogs nearer, her hair bouncing in a high ponytail, the white wires of earbuds snaking into her pocket. I quickly glance over her skin, looking for any scratches or bruises, and find a thin slash on her cheek. Oh, shit. Did I do that to her at the bonfire? I look away so she doesn’t think I’m checking her out like a creep.

  Okay. She’s not going to stop. She’s going to jog right past …

  Cyn sees me and slows, tugging the earbuds out. “Brock.”

  I raise my hand in a feeble wave. “Hey.”

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  “Me?” I stand like a criminal in the glare of a cop car’s lights. “When?”

  Cyn gives me a ferocious glare. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” She usually doesn’t swear, so I know she’s really going to rip into me now. “Bonfire, Saturday night. You, smashed out of your mind. Me, followed into the corn maze.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say, even though I don’t know that for sure.

  “Oh, really.” Cyn throws back her head and laughs. “I should have called the cops on your ass. Any other girl would have.”

  I clutch the shovel in both hands and stare at the ground. “Is that … ? The scratch … ?”

  “What?”

  “On your cheek.”

  “From a tree.” Cyn narrows her eyes. “Can you really not remember?”

  I shake my head. My stomach curdles like I’m going to puke.

  “We ran into each other later.” She speaks in an intense murmur. “You were even more smashed at that point. You kept saying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ over and over. I couldn’t get away from you, and then you got even more stupid.”

  I don’t even want to know.

  “You tried to kiss me.”

  A jolt of surprise yanks my gaze back to her face. She’s staring straight at me, her face blazing, her eyes glittering.

  “I was drunk,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “So were you.”

  She jabs her finger into my chest. “Has it occurred to you that even when I’m totally smashed—which I wasn’t—I might not be interested in kissing a disgustingly drunk ex-boyfriend?” She says this all in one breath.

  “Cyn, I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve been taking this drug—”

  “You’re doing drugs now?”

  “No. It’s a prescription.” I heave a growling sigh. “Lycanthrox. Keeps me human, but I’m not supposed to mix it with booze.”

  Her fingers tighten around a fistful of my shirt. “Don’t fuck around with shit like that.”

  I crack a smile. “You must be pissed. That’s a lot of swearing for you.”

  “Don’t think it means I care.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Cyn says nothing, her eyes sharp, her nails pinching me through my shirt. We lock gazes; I can’t look away. Only then do I realize she’s shaking, holding on to me to hold herself upright, and the sharpness in her eyes must be fear.

  I close my hand around hers and gently pry open her grip. “Cynthia.”

  She curls her fingers around mine—involuntarily, it seems—then yanks away with a glare, as if to prove she doesn’t want to touch me. I step back from her like I don’t care, but I know we’re both only pretending.

  “Saturday night … ” I hesitate. “You said you wanted to talk.”

  “About?”

  “Me.”

  Cyn flashes me a burning look, then tucks her earbuds back in. “Maybe later.” With that, she jogs away, her arms swinging, legs pumping.

  It’s all I can do not to run after her. But I don’t know if that’s me, or the wolf.

  I dutifully take my Lycanthrox and avoid looking at the phases of the moon. It works until Wednesday, when the merest glimmer of moonlight sends me crazy with the desire to tear my clothes and leap outside and bite something.

  I lie in bed, sweating, the curtains shut tight. An owl hoot-hoots outside my window, followed by the yip of a fox. I remember a yellow-eyed owl hanging around the werewolves. It always seemed to foretell the arrival of some sort of gick.

  The owl hoots again. It must be in the tree outside my bedroom window.

  “Damn bird,” I mutter.

  I haul myself off the mattress and trudge to the bathroom. It’s darker there. I fill a glass with icy water and swig it down with two more pills of Lycanthrox. What happens if you OD on this stuff? Hell, I don’t even care.

  A spasm in my gut doubles me over. I gasp and clutch the sides of the counter. The pain fades, and I blow out my breath. The bathroom doesn’t seem so dark anymore. I can see myself in the mirror. I tilt my head and my eyes flash orange.

  Shit. Got to get out of here.

  I pace in the bathroom, my bare feet slapping the tiles. Maybe the cellar? No, that would mean walking through moonlight. The roots of my teeth itch, ready to become fangs. Bones in my fingers and toes have been aching for a while now.

  Two full moons. I can do this. I can totally beat this transformation.

  I stride into my bedroom and yank open my curtain. The full moon sails high, ruling her queendom of sky. I lock my legs to keep them from shivering. I slide open my window, and the sweet, sweet perfume of the night nearly undoes me.

  The owl sits in the maple outside my window. Gray-feathered, with big yellow eyes.

  I bare my teeth. “Get off my property, gick.”

  The owl floats from the maple on wide wings and perches on a low cedar branch, its talons crunching bark. It swivels its head toward me.

  “You here to spy on me?” I say. “You work for the werewolves?”

  A red fox trots from the bushes and glances at the owl. The owl looks at me and shakes its head. I knew it. Definitely a gick.

  “What do you want?” I growl.

  The moon presses on my bones, bending them out of shape. I clench my abs and grab the windowsill, keeping myself together. The owl blinks slowly. The fox sniffs the air, one paw raised, then snarls and paces beneath the owl.

  I lunge and clap my hands. “Scat!”

  The fox narrows its eyes, giving me a very human look of contempt. Also a gick.

  “Leave me alone,” I say.

  The owl screeches, then pumps its wings and scoops higher into the sky. The fox trots after the owl’s shadow, leaving me standing by the window, my hands limp and useless by my sides. What does everyone want from me? Are they here to deliver the killing blow? Or welcome me to my new life as a gick?

  Moonlight burns my skin like cold fire. I’m panting now, breathing shallowly.

  I glare at the moon. “You think you can win, bitch?” I snarl. “I’m too strong.”

  Clouds drift across her facelessness as she stares down at me. I climb through my window and lower myself to the roof. I stand, shaking, my eyes on the moon. She can’t stab me in the back if I’m watching her. I’m as rigid as a figurehead, withstanding the waves of moonlight and shudders that crash over me.

  I laugh, and it sounds harsh, a barking cough. “I was a good boy. I took my medicine.”

  The moon burns brighter. She is determined to pierce my flesh and make me hurt. She whistles softly to the wolf inside me, urging it to claw free from my rib cage. The owl is back now, perched in the maple, watching me.

  “I’m not a gick,” I tell the owl as I gasp for air. “I … am … a human.”

  The owl fidgets its feet, inching farther along the branch.

  I yank off my shirt just to let the moonlight pour over my shoulders and trickle down my back, just to prove that it can’t touch me. This silver glow, the opposite of sunlight, bathes me in coolness I never felt before, when I was human.

  A cramp rips through me and brings me to my knees. I stumble down the slope of the roof an
d grip shingles to keep from falling. My vision swims, sharpens, the night snapping into focus, clearer than it ever should be.

  “No.” I spit the word.

  I grit my teeth and squint. Moonlight sweeps over me, leaving cool tingling in its wake. I steal a glance at the sky and see clouds advancing across the face of the moon. She vanishes into the darkness, veiling herself from my eyes.

  I straighten, witnessing my salvation, then stagger inside. I fought the wolf and won.

  Two moons down, forever to go.

  In the morning, I ache like I got tackled by every player on the football team, but I feel fucking awesome. Of course, that doesn’t mean it won’t happen again. I’m a walking time bomb, and there’s no way to defuse this disease.

  I’m in my bed, reading the book on werewolves, when someone knocks on my door. I clap the book shut and dump it into the crack between my bed and the wall, like I was caught reading some really bad porn.

  “Yeah?” I call.

  Dad opens the door, his head bowed. “Brock.”

  Shit. My gut tightens. What did I do now? Dad’s got that granite look to his face and a dangerous softness to his voice.

  “Dad?” I keep my face blank.

  He grabs my bedpost and leans forward. “Last night was the full moon.”

  What did he see? I didn’t lose it. I stayed human.

  “Well, last night … your … ” Dad clenches his jaw, the muscles in his temples moving. “Your brother didn’t make it.”

  “What?” I feel like I’ve jumped into a cold pond, only I’m not sure whether it’s relief or fear. “You mean the Lycanthrox didn’t work?”

  Dad nods.

  “And he turned into a wolf? Holy shit, that must have scared the nurses and—”

  “Chris didn’t make it.”

  “You already said that.”

  Dad just stares down, his gaze moving over the pattern of the floorboards.

  Chris. Didn’t make it.

  “I don’t get it,” I whisper.

  Dad swallows hard. “Chris passed away last night. His body couldn’t take it anymore.”

  Chris, convulsing on the bed. Fur bristling from his skin. A tail wriggling from his spine, claws curving from his fingertips, teeth erupting into fangs, yellow eyes rolling back. His body tearing apart from the inside out. Blood. Silence.

  “Brock?” Dad’s kneeling in front of me, his eyes on mine.

  “How did it happen?” I hear myself asking, sounding normal.

  “He didn’t turn into a wolf. Not all the way. His heart just gave out.”

  “Just gave out.”

  “Yes.”

  Chris’s heart, beating fast, faster, then stuttering to a halt.

  I realize I’m clutching my shirt over my own heart, my nails digging into my skin. I pry my hand away and flex my fingers.

  “So he’s gone.”

  “Yes.” Dad’s voice sounds croaky. “He’s gone.”

  He leaves. I’m staring at my fingers, wondering what just happened, wondering what I should be feeling right now.

  Chris is gone. He passed away. He. Is. Dead.

  I run the words through my head, testing the newness of them. I’m never going to see him open his eyes again. Never going to talk to him. Never going to have a brother. My family is almost gone. It’s just me and Dad now.

  I want to quit and start over, but yeah, life doesn’t have a reset button.

  I slam the door so hard it rattles on the hinges, then claw at the wall, my nails shredding curls of wallpaper. A high, keening whine escapes between my clenched teeth. I’m going to kill Randall. I’m going to fucking tear his throat out.

  The werewolves howl that night, taunting me in a triumphant chorus. Dad doesn’t hear them—he’s passed out drunk on the couch after a day talking to the hospital and the funeral home. I’m not going to any funeral, period.

  I go downstairs like a walking statue, unfeeling, unthinking. In the garage, the musty, mousy smell twinges my supersensitive nose. I can hear a rodent scratching in the wall, even the high squeaks it makes to its mate. I grab my coat, two boxes of rounds, and Dad’s favorite shotgun. I’m more than a match for the werewolves.

  I slip outside, shadow-quiet, and lock the door behind me. Darkness shaved a sliver from the moon, but she still has power over me. I grit my teeth and stride straight through her light. My skeleton creaks and stays human.

  The silver glow erases all of the deadness from Mom’s garden. Grounded leaves shine like a windfall of faerie coins. The single bud of the miniature rose blossomed into a tiny, perfect, blood-red flower. I twist its stem from the branch and bring the flower to my nose, the perfume tied to memories of Mom. I’m glad she never had to know what happened to her sons. I tuck the rose into my breast pocket, trying not to bruise its petals.

  I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment, Mom. I’m going to fix things now.

  The werewolves are howling again, their ghostly voices drifting over the sea of trees. I stop at the edge of the lawn, my head tilted in their direction. They can’t be more than a mile or two away. I enter the forest, passing through puddles of moonlight and a shimmering rustling of ferns, all shadow and glow.

  I’m coming for you. No one will have to hear your howls again.

  The farther into the wilderness I go, the faster I walk, until I’m running, my arms swinging, boots pounding the dirt. I clutch the shotgun so it won’t slip out of my sweaty hands. I can’t hear the werewolves anymore, but I’m going to find them. My calf muscles burn from the effort of sprinting. My breath comes in quick gasps.

  The moon sweeps across the sky, dressed in a ragged ball gown of clouds. Electric-shock excitement worms its way deeper into my chest. I charge up a hill and sprint down, feet skimming the ground. I feel fast enough to outrun any werewolves, tough enough to fight the whole pack, even if I have to take them down with me. A log juts from the ferns and sends me flying. I tumble into a ravine, the shotgun spinning from my hands.

  I spit the dirt and leaves from my mouth. “Fuck.”

  Lightning crashes in the mountains, followed by the pattering of rain. Rounds flew from my pockets and now lie, glinting in the moonlight, scattered all over the forest floor. I scramble to pick them up and return them to their boxes.

  A growl rumbles from the darkness.

  My breath sticks in my throat. I ditch the rounds and grab—no wait, where is it? What happened to the shotgun?

  Ferns rustle. Two eyes flash yellow. Randall. I know it’s him.

  “Hey, gick,” I say, bravado steeling my voice, even though my knees feel like water. “Stop cowering in the shadows.”

  A black nose pokes through the ferns, followed by the massively muscled head and body of the silver wolf. He’s got to weigh between a hundred-fifty and two hundred pounds. Real wolves don’t get that big. He bares wicked fangs.

  Where the hell is the shotgun?

  “I was looking for you,” I say, stalling for time. “You following me?”

  The silver wolf cocks his head.

  “Can’t talk, huh?” I sweep the leaves with my gaze. Every stick and log looks like the barrel of the shotgun. “Guess it’s just barking.”

  A louder growl rumbles from the wolf’s throat. He stalks toward me, bristling. Then I see it, wedged between a fern and a boulder. The shotgun. I dive for it just as the wolf lunges, quicker than me but farther away, and I—

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  I’m staring right into the green-gold eyes of a soot black wolf. It lifts its lip and snarls. I freeze in a crouch, my hand halfway toward the shotgun, but also very close to the black wolf’s jaws. Behind me, I hear the silver wolf pad closer. Movement flickers in the corner of my eye, and I glimpse yet another wolf circling me.

  I withdraw from the black wolf guarding the shotgun. I stan
d.

  I am surrounded by wolves.

  six

  Twining between the trees and shadows, the wolves circle me like a tightening knot. Suddenly there’s no air in my lungs and no spit in my mouth. I’ve walked right into the middle of the werewolf pack.

  Well, this was what I was going for. Right? But I can’t say I’m not scared shitless.

  The silver wolf, Randall, breaks free from the swirling pack and stands before me. He bares his teeth in what may be a snarl, or a smile.

  You killed my brother. You took my life away from me.

  I lunge at the silver wolf. Surprise in his eyes, he leaps aside, but my boot connects with his ribs. He yelps. I laugh. Randall flattens his ears and snaps at me, his teeth clicking. I grab a stout stick off the ground and raise it high.

  A woman’s voice cuts through the night. “Enough!”

  Randall lowers his head and retreats from me. The swirling wolves halt, their ears pricked, paws raised questioningly. A tawny-skinned woman with a long mane of black hair strides into the circle of wolves. She’s wearing ragged jeans and a loose shirt that doesn’t conceal that she’s pregnant. Silver bracelets glint on her arms.

  “You found the bloodborn,” says the black-haired woman. It isn’t a question.

  Randall dips his shaggy head in a nod.

  “I want to talk with you,” says the woman, her gaze still on Randall.

  He closes his eyes for a moment, with the slightest of sighs. Then the fur melts from him like candle wax, baring naked skin. His skeleton grinds and clicks as it reshuffles into the shape of a man. The yellow fire in his eyes dies to dark coals. Randall shudders with the final stages of transformation, then stands.

  “Winema,” he says, avoiding her stare. “Forgive me. I didn’t plan to—”

  “I can see this wasn’t your plan,” says the woman, Winema. She eyes the shotgun rounds scattered at my feet. “What was the bloodborn doing?”

  “Me?” My voice sounds hoarse, and I cough. “You gicks killed my brother.”