by Karen Kincy
We’re done with Denver. We hit the highway and drive for I don’t know how long, then turn onto a gravel road that heads through the slumbering prairie. Dad refuses to look at me. He pulls over beside a ditch, beneath a wrinkled old cottonwood.
He grabs a shovel from the back. I shiver. Did he bring it to bury me?
“Help me carry him,” Dad says.
We move Blackjack beneath the cottonwood and take turns digging his grave. Finally, we lower the dog into the earth. I toss a handful of dirt onto Blackjack’s body. Before we leave, I crouch in the ditch and wash the blood from my hands and mouth. I can’t help but think he could have been a good dog.
I can’t help but think I could have been a good guy.
twenty-one
Nine days. Nine days without Chris, but it feels like forever.
Everyone clusters around his grave like a flock of gloomy crows in the rain. When they bury his ashes in the dirt, and when Grandma June gives me a tight hug, amazingly, I don’t shatter and reveal how weak I am. She still smells like oatmeal soap, but when I shut my eyes, I don’t feel like a kid anymore.
“We missed you, Brock,” Grandma June whispers.
I nod, since I have nothing to say to that.
“Your father did, very much. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”
I look at Dad, stone-faced and statuesque, bending over the grave.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You’re coming to my house this evening.” Grandma June straightens my collar. “We’re having a dinner for you and Chris.”
I try to smile past the burning in my throat. She’s so sweet, even if she’s wrong.
Nobody but Dad knows that I’m not staying. Even with Sheriff Royle dead and Cliff Sterling’s promise to wipe our records, going to this funeral is all that I dare. Besides, it’s easier to walk around wearing my best black suit, to use it to explain away my stiff face and scanty conversation. People murmur with sympathetic looks when I pass; maybe it’s because of my brother, maybe it’s because of me.
Then, across the field, I see her.
Cynthia.
She crosses the lawn in ridiculously pointy heels, her ankles wobbling. She’s wearing a black dress that manages to be both sad and pretty. The pink streak in her hair has faded. I swallow hard. Of course she would be here.
What did the faerie wine do to her?
I walk up behind her, hoping she’ll hear, but she doesn’t. I reach for her shoulder, then pull back and clear my throat. “Cyn.”
Her head snaps toward my voice, and she takes a step back. “Brock.”
I stand there, barely breathing, hoping so hard I ache.
“I’m so sorry about your brother,” she says.
I nod. Please, Cyn. Remember.
She leans forward and wraps her arms around my waist. I let out my breath in a shuddering sigh. I slip my hands behind her shoulders, but she stiffens under my touch. My throat tightens, trapping the words I wanted to say.
I missed you. I still love you.
“Brock, please.” Cyn pulls away from me, gently, but she could be shoving me away and it would hurt the same.
My voice sounds hollow. “Do you remember our last conversation?”
“When we broke up?”
Jesus. The faerie wine erased everything. She doesn’t even know I’m a werewolf.
I can’t stand to look at her anymore. “That whole week we spent together … it’s … gone.”
Cyn’s face goes white. “What are you talking about?”
I shake my head and stride away, too pissed to talk. “Fuck!” I kick an iron fence, like that might jar her memories loose.
“Brock!” she hisses. “This is a funeral. Don’t swear.”
I could hate her for not knowing, but I can’t.
“They told me I might not remember,” she whispers.
My head snaps toward her. “Who? When?”
“Brock, were we kidnapped by a pack of werewolves? I know it sounds insane, but that’s what the police told me. They said I had amnesia, and weeks are just gone from my memory.” Cyn presses her fingers to her temples. “The last thing I remember, I was on a flight to Mexico. I don’t remember being in Mexico, and I don’t remember coming back. After that, I woke up in a hospital and my family took me home.”
I touch the back of her hand. “It’s true. You went to Mexico to visit your grandma. When you came back … ”
How am I going to tell her? To make her understand?
She sucks in her breath. “Brock, tell me what happened next.”
“Not here.” I shake my head. “It’s a long story, and not everyone should hear it.”
Cyn opens her purse and pulls out a handkerchief. When she opens it, a tiny red rose falls into the palm of her hand. Maybe its scent is more powerful than the faerie wine clouding her mind. Maybe it will unlock her memories.
“I dreamed that you gave this to me.” Her forehead furrows. “Was that a memory?”
“Yes.” I try not to hold my breath, try not to hope.
“You told me I could have the rose, because you wouldn’t need it where you were going … and I was afraid for you, and wished you would stay … ” She looks away, her gaze trailing over the tombstones. “And is it true? About you?”
I have to tell her again. I wish it didn’t have to be like this.
“Yes. I’m a werewolf.”
Her eyes widen, sharp with fear, and she says nothing.
I sidestep around her and stride into the evening. I’ve done this before—standing at the edge of a lawn, yearning to run into the woods. But this time I do it. I kick off my shoes and jog into the trees, needles beneath my bare feet.
“Brock?” She follows me. “Where are you going?”
“Away,” I say.
“But there’s so much you haven’t told me.”
I stare at her as I unbutton my shirt. “I can tell you I used to hate Others. Thought they were all just gicks and weren’t people at all.” I clench my thighs against a shudder of transformation. “And I used to hate myself.”
“Brock … ” Emotions tangle on Cyn’s face. “I don’t know you anymore.”
I look up through the needle-sharp trees, at the dying sun. A cutting wind raises goose bumps on my arms, and my pelt begins to grow. She watches me with saucer eyes. I can’t tell whether she’s horrified or amazed.
“This is who I am now,” I say.
I’m a werewolf. I’m never going to be able to go home with you, Cyn.
Already halfway on the way to wolf, I strip away my jeans and the last remnants of my humanity. The change sweeps through me from nose to tail. I stretch my long legs and yawn, feeling Cyn’s stare on my fangs.
I trot to her and lower my head to her hand. She yanks it away with a sharp gasp. I look up at her, trying to tell her not to be afraid. Slowly, I touch my muzzle to her fingers. Trembling, she strokes the fur between my eyes. I lick her fingertips. Not the way I wanted to kiss her, but it will have to work for now.
She smiles, only the shadow of a smile. “You’re scary big, you know?”
I whine and wag my tail. Don’t look at me like that. She falls to her knees, hugging me the best she can. I rest my chin on her shoulder and breathe in deep, holding her bittersweet smell inside me until I have to exhale.
But I know that this is impossible. I can’t be with you.
Cyn withdraws, tears streaking her face. “You need to go, don’t you.” It isn’t a question.
I wag my tail again, then glance at the wilderness, where I belong.
She climbs to her feet and dabs at her smeared mascara with a tissue. “Come back, okay? For me. I want to know what I’ve lost.”
I dip my head in a nod.
“Goodbye, Brock.” She smiles through her tears.
; In some ways, it’s easier being a wolf and not having the words to say goodbye. I want to howl at how this hurts, but I know I can’t, not here. So, with a last look at Cyn, I turn from her and lope into the woods alone.
Wind hisses through the pines, masking the sound of my footsteps. The spicy-amber smell of sap twitches my nose. Ahead, I hear rushing water. Trees thin until I see a snowmelt river, swirling down from the mountains, foaming into white rapids, reforming into still, blue-green pools so clear I can look six feet down and count the pebbles.
I change back to human. I’m naked, and I’m shivering, but I don’t care.
That water’s got to be as cold as hell is hot. I poke the shoreline with my toe, then run into the water until I’m in up to my waist, and yeah, it’s testicle-shriveling cold. My breath comes in quick gasps as I wade deeper into the water, then dunk my head.
I surface with a gasp. “C-Christ!”
Teeth chattering, I swim toward a half-sunken cedar log and climb onto it. My skin tingles, almost warm now. I stare at the log’s split wood, bright red against the blue water, and run my hands over its silky grain.
Why didn’t I come out here earlier? It’s beautiful. I wish Chris could have seen it.
A knot tightens in my throat, but I frown at myself. Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean I shouldn’t still be alive. I slip into the numbing water again and float on my back, staring at the sky. Twilight creeps into the clouds, like purple and blue watercolors on white paper. A deep calm settles in the marrow of my bones.
It’s over. Chris is gone.
The crescent moon hangs above me like a crooked, sad smile. First frost glitters on the forest, making ordinary firs and pines look crisp and otherworldly. My muscles ache, at first, when I run, but then they warm and I fly through the woods as a wolf. My blood pumps through my veins, and my head feels clearer than it has in days.
Between the bars of the trees, I glimpse a flicker of silver.
I slow to a trot, then stop. My heartbeat thunders inside my chest.
No … I was just seeing things. Hoping things.
I huff to clear my nose, then trot along, sniffing the wind—a tantalizing blend of sweet night rain, grassy ferns and lichen, and sap seeping from the trees. Then, a hint of fur. Again, I stop, my breath snagging in my throat.
Moonbeams slice between the black trees ahead. Among them, like a dream, walks the silver wolf. Wind ruffles his fur, and I can see scars crisscrossing his skin. He limps, also, and that is how I know he is real.
Randall. My tail wags a slow, hopeful rhythm. He comes to me; we touch noses.
Then, Randall withdraws and begins to change. It’s slow, halting, and his face twists with pain. It hurts me to watch him. I wait until he is human, then make my own quick transformation. We stand opposite each other and try to speak.
“Hey,” I say finally, my voice rusty. “You’re alive?”
“Yes.” A corner of Randall’s mouth curves in a smile. “As you can see.”
“What the hell happened back there?”
He rakes his fingers through his thick hair. “I survived. That’s one advantage to being a werewolf: you heal fast.”
“I know. But Jesus, those dogs chewed you up.”
“They did.” His voice catches, and he clears his throat. “But I’m alive.”
“Jesus,” I say again.
Randall just stands and watches me, his face betraying nothing but fatigue.
It’s hard to say what I have to say. “I’m sorry. I know I failed you as a bloodborn.”
“Brock.” He smiles, and it’s the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. “I bit you.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You’re always going to be my bloodborn.”
“Well, yeah. I just know I’ve been a total traitor.”
He folds his arms. “I saved your ass, you saved mine. We’re even now.”
“Sure.” I clear my throat. “What happened to the rest of the pack?”
“We were outnumbered by the police, and it got pretty bloody until Cliff sent some Zlatroviks to bail us out.” He laughs bitterly, then grimaces. “Hope that doesn’t mean we’re even more in debt to him.”
“And Winema?”
Randall’s face darkens. “Winema went to an emergency room, for her baby’s sake.”
“Her baby … ?”
“Made it. Barely. He was born almost two months premature, but Cliff pulled some strings to find a hospital with paranormal specialists who deal with babies.” His face softens. “I think he’ll survive. He’s a fighter.”
I look away, feeling that this is somehow my fault.
“Are you ready to go?” he says.
“I belong here,” I say. “And I don’t.”
“I know.”
Slowly, I inhale and square my shoulders. “Give me a little time here. To say goodbye.”
He nods. “Good luck, Brock. I’ll see you again soon, I’m sure.”
“Yeah.” My voice sounds hoarse. “Try not to get yourself killed first.”
He laughs, flashing fangs, his pale pelt already cloaking his skin. I don’t want him to become a wolf again, because then I know he’ll leave me, but then I do, because I know he needs to run. I’ll follow him soon enough.
Randall—the silver wolf—stares at me, nods, then disappears into the darkness.
I watch him go. The wolf inside me scrabbles against my ribs, aching to follow him, but the human in me still craves the touch of Cyn. I hate goodbyes, and I hate starting over. But at least I have a second chance to live.
Can’t wait too long. Don’t have much time.
I start to run, not toward Cyn, not toward Randall, but into the unknown night. I want to savor this moment before I must go, a stillness trapped in moonlight, where there’s only me and the endless miles ahead.
I am Brock. And I am bloodborn.
Karen Kincy
About the Author
Karen Kincy (Redmond, Washington) lives among countless trees, some of which—her pet kumquats and oranges—have lovingly invaded her apartment. Unlike her characters, she has never been on the run from the law or bitten by a werewolf, though she has been known to howl at the moon. Karen has BA in Linguistics and Literature from The Evergreen State College and is studying toward a Master’s in Computational Linguistics. Visit her online at www.karenkincy.com.