Claire de Lune

by Christine Johnson

  No one really cared how it worked, just that it did. Once a werewolf had been treated, it stayed in human form, forever. The Austrian werewolves he had tested it on were left in a permanent coma. They were still in some locked wing at the Vienna University Research Center, but pretty much everyone agreed it was a well-deserved punishment for attacking humans.

  “But the Austrian attacks stopped after he injected the werewolves,” Claire pointed out. She glanced over at the television. Dr. Engle had the same golden-blond hair that Matthew did, but his face was sharper—all planes and angles.

  Marie gripped the doorframe. Tension rippled across her back. “And you assume that there is no other explanation for that?” She spoke without turning.

  Claire swallowed the wad of sandwich she’d stuffed into her cheek. “I, uh, hadn’t thought about it. I guess there could be.”

  “That, my love, is his trap. Many fall into it. I hope that you won’t make the same mistake. I am going to have a bath now. Please put your dishes in the sink when you’re finished.”

  Claire’s mother slipped up the steps while Claire toyed with the crust of her sandwich and listened to the mindless drone of the newscaster. Dark spots the size of pinpricks sprang up on the backs of her hands. She scratched at them with the tines of a plastic fork.

  Claire sighed and trudged upstairs to find the cortisone cream.

  * * *

  A hand shook her shoulder.

  “Claire. Claire!”

  She cracked open one eye.

  “Mrrrhmph,” she mumbled, as Lisbeth shook her again.

  “I brought you up a tray. It’s nearly noon.”

  Claire pulled the covers over her head and nestled farther down into the bed. She heard Lisbeth walk a few steps and waited for the door to close, already sinking back into sleep. That is, until the covers were jerked off her. Lisbeth stood at the end of the bed, her arms full of fabric and a grin spread across her face.

  “Your mom will be home in an hour—you need to be up and dressed by then. She wants to take you shopping.” Lisbeth sat down on the end of the bed and snatched a triangle of toast off Claire’s plate. Claire watched Lisbeth examine it for any sign of contamination from the strips of bacon before she crunched into it.

  “Hey, I thought that was for me!” Claire sat up and made a halfhearted grab for the toast.

  “Hey, yourself.” Lisbeth took another bite. “Cook’s treat. You’re lucky I brought it up here at all, missy.” Her face turned serious. “I figured you’d be tired after the commotion yesterday. I’m sorry your party ended that way.”

  Matthew’s promise to call her echoed in Claire’s memory. Actually, I think it ended pretty well. “Yeah, well, at least everyone came in the first place, right?”

  Lisbeth ruffled her hair. “That’s very positive of you, Claire-bear. Ya gotta go with the flow, right?”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Lisbeth, no one says ‘go with the flow’ anymore. You sound like some long-lost hippy. And don’t call me Claire-bear.”

  Lisbeth stuck out her lower lip and pretended to be hurt. “I bring you brunch in bed, and all I get is abuse. Fine, I’m going back downstairs.” She leapt off the bed.

  Claire threw a pillow at Lisbeth, who ducked it expertly and laughed as she slipped out of the room. Mom will be here in an hour. Claire sighed. Nothing like being at the beck and call of someone who barely remembered you were alive.

  Her mom was gone so much, and even when she was home, Marie spent most of her time locked in her darkroom, or pacing her office while she negotiated an even more astronomical salary for her next shoot. Still, it would be worth getting out of bed if it meant going shopping. Claire picked up a piece of bacon and nibbled at it, then tossed it back on the plate and walked over to her closet. She threw on a pair of shorts and a tank top, then hurried into the bathroom to get ready.

  She was running the flat iron through her hair one last time when muffled music started floating out of her laundry basket.

  “Crap!” Claire yelped. She dug through the pile of dirty clothes until she found the jeans she’d been wearing yesterday morning. Plunging her hand into the pocket, she yanked out her cell phone, glancing at the caller ID. Her heart pounded as she flipped open the phone.

  “Hello?” She blushed at how breathless she sounded.

  “Claire? Sorry, were you still asleep?” Matthew asked.

  “No, I’m up. I just couldn’t find my phone.” Oh, way to go, Claire. Now he thinks you’re a ditz.

  “Cool.” He paused. “So, I was wondering—do you maybe want to come over later? We could hang out here and watch a movie or something.”

  Claire bit her lip to keep from squealing.

  “Yeah,” she said, “that sounds good. What, uh—what time?”

  She did a celebration dance around the room while they made plans. As soon as they’d hung up, she tore down the stairs and slapped, barefoot, across the marble floor into the kitchen.

  “Lisbeth!” She called.

  A blond head peeked around the corner. “What? You’d better be ready, your mom’ll be here any minute.”

  “You have to drop me off at Matthew’s house later, okay? I mean, I can go, right? To watch a movie?”

  Lisbeth grinned, but a little worried line appeared between her eyebrows. “Matthew? Isn’t he older than you are?”

  “Only by a year.”

  Lisbeth put her hands on her hips and cocked her head at Claire. “Isn’t he a Pisces? They’re not very compatible with Geminis, you know.”

  Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh my God. Enough with the astrology crap. Just—can I go, or what?”

  “Okay, you can go, but when he gets all emotional, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Lisbeth shook her head. “Now go upstairs and”—she stopped midsentence—“hey, why are your hands so red?”

  Claire shoved them deep into her pockets. Overnight, the pinprick rash had gotten worse—it was on her ears, too. The scratchy denim hem rubbed against her wrists and it felt like heaven. “I think it’s poison ivy. I already put some stuff on them.”

  The back door swung open. Claire’s mother stepped into the house, her satiny-dark hair damp with sweat. “It’s scorching out there, again.” She looked at Claire. “Are you ready to go shopping?”

  Claire nodded, kissed Lisbeth on the cheek, and hurried into the cool interior of her mother’s waiting Mercedes. “Thanks for taking me.”

  “Of course,” her mother said. “Your sixteenth birthday—it’s important. A mark of change. We should celebrate.”

  Chapter Two

  THREE STORES AND four big shopping bags later, Claire and her mother slid into a booth at one of the restaurants attached to the mall. It was like the world’s most upscale diner—hamburgers and tuna melts, but made with Black Angus beef and ahi tuna, served on ultramodern plates. The waitress took their order—two hamburgers, rare, with fries—and glided back to the kitchen.

  Under the table, Claire scratched furiously at her hands.

  “So, do you have any plans this weekend?” her mother asked, sipping at a glass of iced tea.

  Claire played with the straw that the waitress had set next to her Diet Coke. She’d nearly told her mom about going to Matthew’s—no less than five times since they’d left the house, but her mom hated Dr. Engle so completely. …

  Lisbeth’ll just tell her if I don’t. Claire swallowed hard.

  “I’m going to Matthew’s later to watch a movie,” she said as casually as she could.

  The waitress appeared next to their table and slid two plates in front of them. Her mother looked at the food in silence. To stop herself from saying anything else, Claire stuffed a huge bite of hamburger in her mouth. She couldn’t bring herself to look at her mother’s face. Instead, she stared at the hamburger bun, watching as the juices from the meat turned the bread rose-pink.

  “Claire.” Her mother sighed. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. The Engles—”

 
; “Mom!” Claire interrupted her. “Matthew’s not like his dad, okay? You don’t even know him. What about what you said last night? All that giving-people-a-chance-to-prove-themselves junk?”

  Her mother dipped a French fry into a tiny dish of gourmet ketchup. “I see you feel strongly about this, chérie. Fine, then, you may go this time. But if you see Matthew’s father, I want you to keep your eyes open and your mouth closed. And I will warn you—we must have a very serious discussion when you get home. Now, eat your lunch before it gets cold. I have film that needs to be developed this afternoon, and the day is slipping away.”

  Claire nodded and bit into her hamburger, smiling as she chewed. In a few hours, she’d be with Matthew, and right then that was all she really cared about.

  Emily sat on Claire’s bed, pawing through the shopping bags that Claire had tossed on top of the covers. Claire had called her the minute she’d walked in the door, and as soon as Emily heard the words “Matthew Engle” and “date” in the same sentence, she’d hurried over. Claire had heard Emily’s car start before they even hung up.

  “So, um—I’m sorry your party ended the way it did. That was pretty awful. Are you doing okay?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m doing great.”

  “I figured that Matthew asking you out would make up for everything else. How did it all happen, anyway?”

  “Matthew sort of caught me while everyone else was making a run for it. And then he called this morning and asked me to come over and hang out.”

  Emily grinned at her. “See, I told you things would work out. I knew he liked you—I knew it! Oh, I’m so excited for you.” She pulled a bottle of pink nail polish off the bedside table and held it up to her toes experimentally. “So, what are you going to wear?”

  “I don’t know.” Claire leaned against her closet door and kicked at a pile of shoes. “It’s gotta be something with long sleeves, since I’ve got this stupid rash on my hands that I do not want him to see. What do you think?”

  “It needs to be something sexy but not obvious. I mean, it should make him want you without being sure that he can have you, right? What about … hmm …”

  Emily hauled herself off the bed and walked into Claire’s closet, flicking through the tops that hung near the back.

  “What about this?” She held out a red scoop-necked shirt. “You could wear it with that pair of jeans with the rip in the knee? That would be perfect, as long as you won’t die of heatstroke.”

  “You’re a genius. I totally forgot I even had that top. And I don’t think heatstroke’s much of an issue in the Engles’ basement.” Claire rummaged around in her closet, digging out the right jeans from a pile on the shelf. “Any other advice, oh-dating-guru-who-is-also-my-best-friend?”

  “Don’t chew gum. If he tries to kiss you, then you’ll just have to swallow it, and that can get really awkward. Put some mints in your pocket instead and you can pop them if you need to.”

  “Mints. Got it.”

  “Oh, and one other thing …”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s not actually a god, Claire. He’s a cute guy. And he’s lucky that you’re coming over. Just relax and have a good time, okay?”

  Claire groaned. “I’ll try, but I’m not making any promises. Listen, I’m actually leaving in about an hour, so—”

  “Then why am I still here?” Emily interrupted. “Go finish getting ready—I’m already gone. God. Matthew Engle. Do you swear to call me tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” Claire grinned. “I’ll give you the complete rundown.”

  Emily gave her a hug and headed downstairs. Claire went into her bathroom, hoping a shower would calm her down. Emily mentioning the possibility of Matthew kissing her had made her all jittery.

  “Ow! Crap!” Claire jumped as the searing-hot plate of the flat iron grazed her neck. She pulled back the silky-smooth section of hair and inspected the damage. A tiny pink mark rose on her neck—not too bad. Not nearly as bad as the forest of red pinpricks that dotted her ears. At least her hair would hide them. Her hands were a whole other problem. Claire pulled on the Emily-endorsed red shirt. The ends of the sleeves came nearly to her knuckles, and she’d coated her skin with concealer and powder, which made the itching worse, but they looked a lot better. If Matthew notices this stupid rash, I’ll die.

  “Claire?” Lisbeth’s voice echoed down the hall. “We’re going to be late!”

  “I’m coming!” Claire grabbed her cell phone, shook her hair back over her ears, and licked her lips. She hurried into the car. Lisbeth was already there, dressed in a sparkly purple tunic. Silver bangles chimed against one another on her wrists, and her lips shone with gloss.

  Claire looked her over. “You’re dressed up.”

  Lisbeth shrugged. “I have some plans.”

  Claire climbed into the car. “Fine then, be all mysterious.”

  A peony-pink flush spread across Lisbeth’s cheeks. “I am allowed to have a private life, you know.”

  “Okay, okay. Sheesh. Don’t smear your lip gloss.”

  When Lisbeth pulled up in front of the Engles’ house, Claire tried not to notice that it was smaller than hers. Then again, most houses were smaller than the Benoits’. Claire’s mother liked privacy as much as she liked nice things, and their huge house perched on several acres of land.

  Matthew’s house was the picture of normal—cutesy garden in the front, shutters painted, and a stained glass oval with a cross hanging in the front window. Claire leapt out of the car.

  “I’ll pick you up at nine,” Lisbeth said. “And I mean on the dot—I don’t want to be out after dark!”

  Matthew opened the door before she could knock.

  “Hey.” He stepped aside and motioned her into the house. “C’mon in.”

  “Thanks,” Claire said.

  “My dad made popcorn.” Matthew rolled his eyes. “Why don’t we go grab the bowl and some sodas? Then we can escape to the basement.”

  “Sure,” Claire said, tugging her sleeves as far down over her hands as they would go. She could see the kitchen from the front hall, and it was bright enough to do surgery in there.

  Matthew’s dad was leaning against a counter in the kitchen, drying his hands on a paper towel. He looked just like he did on the news, only he wasn’t wearing a tie, and the sleeves of his dress shirt had been rolled up.

  “You must be Claire.” He extended a damp hand in her direction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Claire shook his hand as quickly as she could, then tucked her itching fingers behind her back.

  “Your mother is a remarkable photographer,” Dr. Engle said.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Claire said. Something about the look in his eyes—and her mother’s warning: mouth closed, eyes open— kept her from saying anything else. It was like he was saying one thing but meant another, and Claire couldn’t figure out what he was actually thinking.

  “Marie Benoit … such a fascinating woman. Unique. And very outspoken, as I recall.”

  “Uh, I guess.” Claire looked over at Matthew. He yanked open the fridge and grabbed two cans of soda. With the bowl of popcorn balanced on top of one of the icy cans, he jerked his head toward the stairs.

  “If we don’t start the movie, we won’t have time to watch it before dark,” Matthew said. “Thanks for the popcorn, Dad. I’ll, um, let you know if we need anything.”

  “You do that.”

  Dr. Engle didn’t take his eyes off Claire. She quivered under his unblinking gaze and followed Matthew down the carpeted stairs.

  “Don’t pay any attention to my dad. He’s just weird like that.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Claire said, looking at the shelves of books that lined the basement walls. The thick spines were covered with gilded letters. Titles like Vivisection and the Human Condition and Lunar Phase Sensitivity glimmered at her in the dim light. Spending all your time reading that kind of stuff would make anyone weird.

  “Your dad’s rea
lly into his job, huh?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  Claire looked over at Matthew and raised her eyebrows. He’d gotten touchy when the topic of his dad had come up at her party, too. “Touchy subject?”

  “Kind of.” Matthew sat back on the couch and cracked open one of the sodas. “It just gets old. Everyone else only sees one side of him. They get so excited because he’s on TV so much. But he can’t talk about anything except his ‘cure.’ He didn’t even make it to a single one of my soccer games last season, you know?”

  “Really? That sucks.” Matthew was an incredible midfielder. Claire had heard someone saying he’d already been offered a bunch of college scholarships because of it. “Sometimes I think it’s better, for me at least, when my mom’s not noticing me—like when she’s gone.”

  Matthew looked at her, surprised.

  Claire shrugged. “I mean, that’s when things seem normal. Lisbeth and I just—are. But when Mom’s home, everything’s all about her and when she needs to work or what she wants to eat, and Lisbeth tiptoes around the house like she’s hiding from a burglar or something.”

  “Huh. Actually, that makes sense. My mom and I are the same way—when Dad’s home, everything’s about not bothering him. We practically can’t breathe without it interrupting his thought process or whatever. I never thought about it that way, but you’re totally right.”

  The intrigued look in his eyes made Claire’s palms damp. She shrugged.

  “Of course, my dad’s not out-of-town gone like your mom is. I mean, he deals with werewolf attacks all over the world, but mostly he just does that over the phone from his lab, like consulting with other governments and scientists and stuff, trying to get them to try his cure. He’s having an easier time talking people into things, now that he’s on the FHPA. Anyway, enough about my dad. He’s not half as interesting as you are.” Matthew dragged the popcorn closer to the couch and put one of the sodas on Claire’s side of the bowl.

  His words sent a sudden rush of heat through her that made it hard to talk. Claire sank onto the couch, leaving a half-cushion length between her and Matthew. Close enough that he can reach me but not close enough to look desperate.