by Karen Kincy
“So what happened with Reagan?”
“We met in high school. She screwed me over. I got into deep shit and left home.”
“Wait, wait, that’s it? No details?”
Randall sighs. “Reagan was one of those naturally gorgeous girls, you know? She knew it, too, and always dressed sexy. But that actually turned me off at first. I thought she was just a one-night-stand kind of girl.”
I nod, thinking of some of the girls at Klikamuks High.
“She was way smarter than that, though.” Randall laughs bleakly. “Really knew how to wrap people around her little finger. I started lusting after her, even though my mom called her trouble. Eventually, she started calling her mardagayl.”
“Huh?”
“Mardagayl. Armenian for werewolf.”
“You’re Armenian?”
“Half. My mom was. My never-present dad wasn’t. My sister really got the looks, though. Olive skin, black hair.”
“Sister?”
His face tightens. “I had a sister. She hasn’t talked to me in years. Neither has my mom.”
“Why?”
“They knew Reagan was going to ruin me, even though I didn’t believe them. There are some old Armenian stories about women whose deadly sins doom them to live as a werewolf for seven years. My mom really isn’t all that superstitious, but after a certain point, even she started looking for Reagan’s wolfskin.”
“So … you hooked up with Reagan, and … ”
“What?” Randall scrunches his nose.
My face flames. “Sex ed. They talked about all sorts of disgusting shit, like herpes and chlamydia. And the werewolf disease.”
“Oh? Werewolves are like chlamydia, now? You sure do know how to be offensive.” He says this like he doesn’t give a damn.
And you sure do know how to be a royal asshole.
Out loud, I say, “You know what I meant. I’m not good with words.”
“Clearly.” Randall snorts. “And no, she bit me first.”
“How?”
Randall’s eyes focus on some distant place. “I asked her.”
“You asked her? But why?”
“She showed me what it was like to be a werewolf. And I was fascinated by how strong and beautiful it could be. I wanted to join her, wanted to know what it was like to be able to run faster and fight harder than any human.”
I’m staring at him, my heart thumping.
“You have to understand,” he says, “that I grew up in L.A. The gangs were awful. Humans versus Others a lot of the time. So when I asked Reagan to bite me, she understood why I wanted to become a werewolf.”
“What happened when you first changed?”
“They hadn’t invented Lycanthrox then. Without it, the virus multiplied to a critical level in a matter of weeks. The first transformations were brutal on me, but I didn’t dare go to any doctors. Reagan tried to help me, for a while, but she got sick of my unpredictability. She didn’t think I’d be so wild. Pretty soon, we were arguing more often than not, and she dumped me for a guy from another pack.”
“Wow. That blows.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Silence passes for several miles. We’re winding along switchbacks now, climbing higher into the mountains. I steal glances at Randall, trying to imagine what he was like as a human, and as a new bloodborn. Reagan must have really been something, to be able to make werewolves look beautiful to him.
“I need to teach you,” Randall says, “how to be a werewolf.”
“What does that mean?”
He gives me a piercing stare. “First, how to change.”
An invisible fist tightens around my ribs. “It’s not the full moon anymore.”
“Oh, come on. You already know we don’t need that to change. Besides, it’s better to do it now, rather than have the full moon forcing you.”
I swallow hard and say nothing.
“I know you’re scared. I don’t think I’ve ever known a bloodborn who wasn’t.”
A dozen comebacks spring to my tongue, but I grimace instead. “When?”
He meets my eyes. “When do you want to?”
Spiders of fear skittle down my spine, because yeah, I’m scared. I’ve spent all my time as a bloodborn trying not to change, and now he’s asking me to willingly shove aside Brock the Human and unleash Brock the Beast.
At last, I say, “I don’t.”
Randall just sighs.
We stop in Skykomish, a tiny town that’s mostly a few stores strung along the weed-choked tracks of an old railroad line. Cloudy mountains and tree-furred foothills slumber in the background. Logging trucks brake at the one and only intersection before rumbling on. The buildings look old, two centuries old, with peeling paint, boarded-up windows, and dead grass drying beneath the autumn leaves.
“Why are we stopping?” I say. “Aren’t we supposed to be hightailing it out of here?”
Randall says nothing.
Outside a gas station, there’s Winema’s silver sedan. Guarded by Charles, she drops quarters into a rusty blue pay phone. And there, just round the back, the cherry-red convertible. Jessie and Isabella sit watching Cyn.
Randall gets out and opens my door. “Winema might need you.”
I frown at him. What are they going to do?
“Hello?” Winema says. “Is this the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office?”
Oh, shit.
“Yes, I’d like to report something.” Winema leans against the wall, her eyes heavy-lidded. “About the kidnapping of Cynthia Lopez. I have information.” She beckons for Jessie and Isabella to bring Cyn closer. “If the police continue to pursue the Bitterroot Pack, they will only endanger the girl.” She pauses. “What do I mean by that?”
Jessie smiles a cruel smile, enjoying this little act.
“The Bitterroot Pack is tired of being hounded by the police.” Winema’s voice is soft and dangerous, like steel hidden in velvet. “They want to be left alone. If the police leave the pack alone, then the girl will be safe.”
Cyn stares straight ahead, her lips thin, her eyes glittering.
“How do I know this?” Winema laughs quietly. “How do you think?” Her face sobers. “She’s here right now. Cynthia.”
I step toward them, handcuffed, useless.
“I can prove it.” Winema shoves the phone into Cyn’s face. “Take it. Tell them.”
Cyn’s cheeks flush, and she dares to glare at Winema, if only for a second. Her fingers shake as they curl around the phone. “Hello?”
You don’t have to help them, Cyn. Don’t make this easy for them.
“Yes, this is Cynthia Lopez.” She has the nerve to use her singsongy telephone voice. “Yes, I’m all right. The pack hasn’t harmed me, but you should do what they say. I—” She frowns, her face even redder now. “Can you do that?”
“Careful,” Winema murmurs.
“Mom?” Cyn’s voice wobbles. “Yes, it’s me.” Her eyes glitter. “No, they haven’t hurt me. No, Mom. Mom!”
Winema rests her hand on Cyn’s shoulder with gentle menace.
“Mom.” Cyn’s voice catches. “Please, let me talk. You can’t send the police after me, okay? I’m safe so long as the werewolves are safe. They just want to be left alone. As soon as they get away, they’re going to send me home, but there can’t be any police. Mom, listen to me. There can’t be any police. I have to go. Goodbye.” She says this last part very quickly, then hangs up, the glittering in her eyes nearly tears.
“Good,” Winema says.
Cyn brushes the werewolf’s hand from her shoulder, then gives me a stare that twists my guts. Why me? I’m not the bad guy here.
But I don’t manage to get any of the words out.
After making the call to the police, we vanish from Skykomi
sh and hurry east.
We cross the mountains and drive through endless fields beneath a sky so blue it doesn’t look real. I stare at the mashed-potato clouds, and despite knowing who I am and where I’m going, I feel a sort of calm settle in my stomach. I keep thinking of Cyn, and wishing we could walk together. I would point to the crops and tell her the name of each, and how my mom knew how to cook delicious food from every vegetable.
If I ever get out of this, that’s what I’m going to do.
It’s late when we stop at a pitiful excuse for a town, just a few buildings at the crossroads and wheat fields whispering around us. Crickets chirp beneath the darkening purple sky. A cantaloupe moon glows orange above, about as bright as the old streetlights with moths swirling around them—waning, but still three-quarters full. A shiver trickles down my shoulders, nothing more. When will the Lycanthrox finally wear off?
Randall parks outside a café and checks his watch. “Time for dinner.”
I nod, and my stomach rumbles in agreement.
We walk into the café. Inside, it looks kind of like an old diner, kind of like a rustic restaurant. On one of the tables, there’s a half-finished, thousand-piece puzzle of a train. The place seems abandoned.
“Hello?” Randall calls.
A white-bearded guy who looks as rundown as the town shuffles out of the back room, drying his hands on his pants. “Evening! My name’s Ford.”
What, like the car? I glance at Randall, but he doesn’t offer our names.
“What’ll it be?” Ford says.
“What do you have?” Randall asks, settling in a chair.
“Well … ” Ford squints as if remembering. “We have the bacon and cheese sandwich, the grilled cheese, the eggs and ham … ” He rambles on for another minute or two while Randall gazes out the window.
Outside, Isabella and Jessie’s red convertible cruises up, top down, Cyn in the back.
I clear my throat. “I’ll have the bacon and cheese, the Reuben, and some curly fries. Oh, and a slice of blackberry pie with vanilla ice cream, please.”
Randall glances at me, his eyebrows raised. “You got money?”
“Uh … ” I reach into the pockets of my jeans, but of course I don’t have my wallet.
Randall grins, his teeth bright. “It’s on me.”
“All right, then,” Ford says. “And you, sir?”
“Biscuits, gravy, sausage. Thanks.”
Ford nods and shuffles off again. I joggle my leg while we wait, and Randall reads a yellowed brochure on tractors. The bell on the door jingles and in walk Jessie and Isabella, followed by Cyn. They stop when they see us.
“Oh,” Cyn says, “they beat us to it.” Her cheeks look flushed from the convertible ride.
My stomach tightens when I see her looking so windswept-beautiful like that. There’s a wild glint in her eyes, what she likes to call adventurous.
“That’s all right,” Isabella says. “Not enough of us here for Winema to worry.”
Cyn drifts toward the opposite side of the café, sitting in a corner booth. Isabella glances at us, her eyes slightly narrowed.
“Hey,” Randall says, waving.
Isabella approaches him. “We’ve got about an hour, and then we’re moving out. Winema doesn’t want us staying still for too long.”
“Makes sense.”
Ford reappears. “It’ll be a minute,” he says to us. “Got to wake the cook.”
Isabella clears her throat, and he looks at her as if he just noticed.
“Evening! My, we don’t get this many visitors usually! What you would like?”
“A menu, please.”
Ford rummages behind a counter. “Those are a little … outdated … ”
“Well, then,” Isabella says with a smile, “we’ll have your special of the day.”
“Sounds good.” Ford glances between Isabella and Jessie—I’ll bet their dark skin looks foreign to him—and then his eyes settle on the fading streak of flamingo pink in Cyn’s hair. “Where are you folks from? Down south?”
“Why, yes.” Isabella gives Ford a sweet smile. “And we’re all very famished.”
Nodding to himself, Ford disappears into the back again. He shouts something, though I can’t make out the words.
“Wow,” Cyn murmurs. “I didn’t think towns like this still existed.”
Isabella chuckles. “This one is only barely existing.”
From the kitchen, I hear bacon sizzling, followed by the aroma of crispy-smoky deliciousness. My stomach rumbles like thunder. I start dreaming about how my sandwiches are going to crunch between my teeth.
After a couple of minutes, Randall clears his throat and shuffles his feet. “This is going to take a while, isn’t it?”
I shrug.
“I’m going to make a call, all right?” He stands. “Stay out of trouble.”
I shrug again. Randall strides out the door. I pick up the tractor brochure he left and pretend to be interested while I eavesdrop on Jessie and Isabella. They aren’t talking very loudly, but my hearing is sharper than it used to be.
“Have you ever met Cliff Sterling?” Isabella says.
“No,” Jessie says. “Why?”
“They say he never goes anywhere without a gold-and-blue lily pinned to his lapel. It’s a gift from the Faerie Queen. His lover.”
Jessie rolls her eyes. “Why would she fool around with a werewolf?”
“Think about it.” Isabella arches her eyebrows. “His pack has a monopoly on bootleg faerie wine. And he looks a whole lot younger than his age, thanks to being one of the Faerie Queen’s favorites. Her magic rubs off on him.”
Jessie laughs. “Oh really? I should find myself a faerie, if it’s better than Botox.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s got to be the Faerie Queen.”
Jessie grimaces. “Never mind.” She pauses. “What about sleeping with Cliff? Would that work? I hear he’s real handsome.”
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a reply,” Isabella says.
Cyn’s gaze flicks between the two women as they talk. She’s obviously curious. Hopefully not about meeting Cliff herself.
Jessie grabs a menu from another table. “Lord, nothing is cheap anymore. We can’t afford all this.”
“I’m not that hungry,” Cyn says.
Jessie smiles wickedly. “Oh, but we’re going to fatten you up, little girl.”
Cyn returns her smile. “I think that’s Hansel and Gretel, not Little Red Riding Hood.”
“Fairy tales.” Jessie snorts, but she can’t help looking amused. She leans back and crosses her legs. “Maybe you can help us.”
“Help?” Cyn says. “What sort of help?”
“You’ll see,” Jessie says.
Isabella gives her sister a look. “We’re talking financial help?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Jessie says, and she stands.
Shit. This doesn’t sound good.
“Excuse me, sir!” Jessie calls through the back door. “Could I ask a question?”
In a muffled voice, Ford calls, “Yes?”
“Do you have any gluten-free foods? My cousin is allergic.”
He pokes his head through the doorway, a puzzled scowl on his face. “Gluten?”
“Wheat products.” Jessie waves at the fields outside with a sigh. “No?” She glances at Cyn. “I guess we’ll just have to go back to that gas station and try to make a dinner out of snacks. Sorry, hon.”
Cyn frowns, but she has no allergies that I know about.
“Just a minute,” Ford says to Jessie, and he turns to Cyn. “What can you eat?”
“Um … ” Face red, Cyn glances at Isabella, then shrugs.
“Let me see,” Jessie says, “what you’ve got round back.”
She’s already walkin
g behind the counter, hips swaying in an I’m-in-charge-here way. Ford runs his hand over his thin white hair, waves his arm as if it were his idea to let Jessie into the back, and then follows at her heels.
As soon as they’re out of sight, Isabella stands. “Wait there, Cynthia.”
And Cyn doesn’t say anything, just nods.
Isabella ducks behind the counter next, but she doesn’t follow Jessie into the back room. Instead, she slides over to the cash register and smiles. She hits a few buttons with expert speed, and the till clanks open with a ring.
Cyn sucks in her breath, her eyes bright.
Isabella scoops all of the money out of the register, unzips her purse, and drops the bills in. Then, she shuts the cash register and steps away just as Jessie and Ford walk out of the back room. The smallest of nods passes between the sisters.
“Find anything?” Isabella says, her hand on her hip like she was waiting there.
“No.” Jessie shakes her head. “Don’t want to risk it.”
Cyn’s sitting bolt upright, her fingers gripping the edge of her seat. But she still isn’t saying anything. Dammit, do I have to talk?
Just then, Randall walks back in, sliding his cell phone into his pocket.
Isabella taps him on the shoulder. “You might want to get yours to go.”
“To go?” A shadow of understanding passes over his face. “Now?”
“Yes,” she says. “Unless you just want to come with us.”
Randall’s hand closes around the door handle. “We’re coming with you.”
“But … ” Ford looks between them, confusion in his watery eyes. “I can make you something special, without any of that gluten stuff … ”
This is ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous.
I shove my chair away from the table and lumber to my feet. “Excuse me,” I say. “But could I have a word, sir?”
Ford frowns and rubs his nose. “Sorry?”
Randall’s hand clamps on my biceps so hard it bruises. “It’s not worth the trouble.”
“But—”
“Have a nice night,” Randall says to Ford, as he steers me outside.
Isabella and Jessie stroll out after us with Cyn. Isabella squeezes her plump purse, then vaults over the closed door of the red convertible and lands in the driver’s seat, laughing. Jessie shushes her, but she can’t help smiling too. Cyn looks somewhat dazed, a pink flush in her cheeks—what’s she thinking right now?