Claire de Lune

by Christine Johnson

  Matthew held up a DVD case.

  “Is this okay?” It was some sort of action movie. The cover featured a sports car midexplosion.

  Claire nodded. She didn’t care what they watched—she was too hyperaware of Matthew sitting next to her. As casually as she could, Claire left her hand, palm up, on the cushion between them. The rough nub of the fabric felt good against the back of her itchy hand. Matthew shifted like he was just changing positions, but when he settled back, he was at least six inches closer to Claire than he’d been before. His arm was stretched across the back of the sofa, behind Claire but definitely not touching her.

  Claire’s breath caught, and Matthew looked over at her. She wanted to move closer, to be touching him. But wasn’t he supposed to make the first move?

  Oh my God, this is so stupid. I don’t care who’s supposed to start things. Claire scooted over and leaned into Matthew. He stiffened slightly and Claire’s heart froze in her chest. Oh, crap. Crapcrapcrap. She started to sit up, to pull away.

  “Not a chance.” Matthew wrapped his arm firmly around her shoulder.

  Claire didn’t think he could see the enormous smile that spread across her face.

  Score one for the rule breaker.

  While cars flashed by on the television and police sirens blared from the surround sound, Matthew traced a pattern on Claire’s shoulder with his fingertips, which made her shivery in a distinctly not-cold way. The movie—which she hadn’t really been watching, anyway—became just a blur of images on the screen. All she could focus on was Matthew’s touch.

  When the closing credits popped up on the screen, Matthew turned his head toward her. “Claire?” he asked.

  “Yeah?”

  His face was inches from hers. In the dim light, his eyes flashed. “This is okay?” His voice was low, beckoning.

  Claire swallowed hard. “It’s very okay,” she whispered.

  “Good.” He leaned toward her, his mouth hovering close enough to hers that she could feel the heat of his skin.

  The door creaked open at the top of the steps. Claire pulled away from Matthew, but he caught her hand, keeping her close. The look of pained frustration on his face was so obvious that Claire had to fight back a giggle.

  “Claire?” Matthew’s father called down. “Your—er, someone is here to retrieve you.”

  “We’ll be right there,” Matthew shouted back. He looked at Claire, and a slow smile spread across his tanned face. “This is the only day in a month he’s been home. Next time, he’ll be bugging some reporter, instead of us.”

  “That sounds … better.” Next time! He said “next time”! “Or we could hang out at my house. Lisbeth’s not, like, overly invasive, or anything.”

  Matthew glanced up at the open door and sighed. He reached over and traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “I’ll call you, okay?”

  Claire floated out to the car.

  “I told you nine on the dot,” Lisbeth said. “The sun’s already set.”

  Claire looked out at the streaks of pink and orange spread across the sky like fire. “I know,” she sighed. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

  Lisbeth snorted. “Ahh, young love,” she teased.

  “So, how were your plans?” Claire shot a meaningful look at Lisbeth.

  “Successful.” Lisbeth picked a fragment of dead leaf off her sleeve. A little smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. She obviously wasn’t going to say any more about it.

  “Well, good for you, Miss I-have-a-private-life.” Claire rolled her eyes and turned up the volume on the car stereo. She scratched her hands against the fabric of the car seat, and wished they were home already.

  Late that night, Claire tossed and turned in bed. Her ears and the backs of her hands were driving her crazy, even though Lisbeth had coated them with Calamine lotion after dinner. She dozed fitfully, waking with a start as the door of her room swung open. Her mother crept in, shutting the door behind her. Claire sat up in bed and blinked at the long mane of fine black hair that hung loose and wild around her mother’s face. Her mom never wore her hair down—it was always up in a sleek bun, so that it wouldn’t get in her way when she worked.

  “You’re up,” her mom said as she lowered herself onto the bed.

  Claire nodded. “I guess I had too much Diet Coke,” she said. “And I’m itchy.”

  Her mom smiled, picked up Claire’s hand, and pressed it between her cool palms.

  “I’d forgotten about the itching,” she said in a faraway voice.

  Claire frowned. “You—what?”

  Her mother let go of Claire’s hand and pushed back her hair.

  “Oh, chérie, I’m not even sure where to begin.” Her mom sighed, staring out the window at the wide expanse of moonlit lawn spread out below. “Now that you’re sixteen, things—things are going to start changing. I—I have been waiting a long time to discuss this with you.”

  Claire felt hot blood rush into her cheeks. Oh, God, she thought, she wants to have The Talk. Ew. What does she think happened at Matthew’s, anyway?

  “Mom, it’s okay,” she mumbled. “We already did all this in Health class.”

  Her mother’s eyes flew open wide. “What? How—oh. Oh.” She began to laugh. “No, Claire, that’s … that’s not what I meant.”

  Claire drew her knees up into her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. “What, then?”

  Her mother leaned back against one of the big carved posts at the end of the bed and smoothed the collar of her shirt. Claire stared at her mother. A middle-of-the-night, mother-daughter chat was way out of character for her mom. Something was definitely up.

  Her mother sighed. “Our family is not like other families. Your history, your lineage—it’s something I want you to be proud of.”

  “What, because you’re French?” Claire struggled not to laugh. “I guess we could start celebrating Bastille Day.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Her mother’s voice was sharp. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Man, it’s easy to push her buttons, Claire thought.

  “You come from a long line of proud women. Women who have survived, who have passed down a secret from mother to daughter.” She twisted the sheet around her fingers.

  Claire crossed her arms and waited.

  Her mother’s eyes darted up to meet Claire’s. “Like me, like your grandmother before me, and her mother before her, you are what we call loup-garou.”

  Claire cocked her head to the side. She hated it when her mother slipped back into French.

  “A werewolf, chérie. You—we—are werewolves.”

  Chapter Three

  CLAIRE’S MOUTH FELL open, then snapped shut as she hurtled off the bed and headed for the door. She’s insane, she thought. It’s not true. It can’t be.

  Her mother caught her by the arm and whirled her around, her gray eyes sparking.

  “Claire, I know this is difficult news. But it is the truth—that is why you have been itching, your hands, your ears. It is the beginning of your transformation.”

  Claire sank down onto the carpet, rocked herself into a tight ball, and covered her prickling ears with her hands. “You’re crazy! You’re wrong—there’s no way I’m a werewolf ! I would know—I would have known.” She dug her fingernails into her earlobes so hard that her eyes watered from the pain.

  “I wanted to tell you all along, but no one is ever told before her sixteenth birthday. Take a deep breath, Claire, breathe! It’s going to be okay.”

  Claire inhaled sharply. “It’s just not true. Werewolves, they kill people and I—I don’t want to hurt anyone.” Her voice rose.

  “Sssshh!” Her mother cautioned her. “You mustn’t wake Lisbeth.”

  She scooped Claire up, lifting her easily onto the bed. How can she be strong enough to lift me? Claire’s teeth chattered.

  “Why not us? It must be someone. Think about it, Claire. Why do you think we have always had an au pair? Someone to care for you
when I am not here? Sometimes I am gone for work. But I sometimes leave for other reasons. One truth hides another. I know it’s hard to accept—I know, I remember.”

  “But I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t,” Claire whispered, her knees hugged against her chest.

  “The television news is not always right, Claire. We prey upon other animals, yes, but so do most men. Killing humans for sport is not allowed.”

  “So why does everyone say that werewolves kill people?” Claire challenged.

  Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line. “One of our kind sometimes strays from our laws—the same way men stray from theirs when they kill one another. But it is not our nature. It is not our way. Those loup-garou who kill humans are shunned by the rest of us.”

  “I don’t believe any of this. If I, if we were werewolves, you would have told me before now!”

  “No, I wouldn’t have. I couldn’t. Children are never allowed to know. They don’t understand the danger involved. They are unable to keep their identity secret. Not revealing the truth until a child begins to change has been our tradition for many generations. Before we began doing it this way, many more of us were caught. And killed.”

  Her mother threw open the walk-in closet and strode to the back. “Get dressed,” she said. “Something dark-colored. We’re going out.”

  “O-out wh-where?” Claire stammered. She caught the pair of black pants her mother tossed at her.

  Her mother turned to face her. “We’re going to the woods. I didn’t believe my mother until I had seen it, either.” Her voice softened. “I will explain everything to you, when the time is right.”

  “When the time is right?” Claire squeaked, the edges of her vision growing fuzzy. “You’re telling me we’re going into the woods so that I can turn into a wolf, but it’s not the right time to talk about it?”

  “Not tonight. It takes three moon cycles for a New One to transform fully. I, though—I must transform. Do not be frightened, Claire. Nothing tonight will hurt you, I promise. You need to trust me now, and do exactly as I say.” She pressed an old shirt into Claire’s hands. “We must hurry. It will look bad if we are late.”

  Claire pulled on the shirt and crept down the hall behind her mother. She wasn’t sure what scared her more—the idea that her mother had lost her mind or the possibility that she was telling Claire the truth.

  They went out the side door, sliding into the empty night. Her mother moved so quickly through the shadows that it was all Claire could do to keep up. A painful stitch knotted her side. God, I’ve never seen anyone move this fast.

  When her mother came to a sudden stop, Claire nearly collided with her. In front of them was an ivy-covered patch in the wall that separated their land from the forest.

  “Here is the entrance,” Marie whispered. She nodded toward the top of the wall. “That chipped brick up there—it marks the spot.” She knelt down and pulled aside the ivy, revealing a large hole in the bricks. She eased herself through the hidden opening.

  The woods were inky black, and Claire stopped just inside the brick wall, unable to see anything. She felt totally numb—no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make herself move forward into the darkness.

  I wonder if I’m going into shock.

  “I can’t see anything. Maybe I should go back.”

  “Your eyes will change soon enough,” said her mother. She gripped Claire’s hand and began to pull her along through the trees.

  Twigs and leaves crunched under Claire’s feet as they rushed through the woods. Something crashed through the underbrush on Claire’s right, and her mother yanked her behind a tree, pulling her down onto the mossy forest floor.

  Claire crouched behind the tree. Her mother made a warning noise, a low rumble that echoed deep in her throat. She sounded like an animal.

  “What was that?” Claire whispered.

  Her mother sighed. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Perhaps it was one of the others.”

  The others? Before Claire could force the question out of her mouth, Marie jerked her to her feet and took off through the forest, her hand an iron band around Claire’s wrist. Far ahead, in the deepest part of the woods, a dull orange light flickered. Claire blinked hard, trying to see through the thick branches while she ran. Her lungs burned as she gasped for air. They drew closer to the light, which waved and flickered. It’s a fire, Claire realized. Her skin crawled when she saw the five figures surrounding it, their shadows coal-black in the fire’s glow.

  Five of them. Oh, God. She yanked her hand out of her mother’s grip, shocked and sickened by her own sudden strength. Her mom grunted in surprise.

  “There—there are six of you? Here, in Hanover Falls?” Claire stammered. She shivered hard in spite of the heat.

  Her mother caught Claire’s face between her palms. “Seven, chérie. There are seven of us. Come. I will introduce you.”

  Claire slunk into the circle behind her mother. The five sharp-eyed women seated around the fire stared at her. Marie pulled her forward, into the bright, hot light of the fire.

  “This is Claire,” she said. Marie turned to the old woman sitting on the ground near Claire. “Beatrice, I greet you.”

  The old woman smiled, her face cracking into a web of wrinkles beneath her cloud of frizzy gray hair. “Marie, I greet you,” she replied. Her bright eyes raked over Claire. “Happy Birthday, little Claire,” she added.

  Claire stared at her, dazed. It was too much to take in all at once. She still hadn’t seen anything that proved that her mother was telling the truth, that they really were werewolves—but the possibility made her legs wobble underneath her.

  Claire felt her mother’s elbow dig into her side. “Um, thanks,” she said to Beatrice, who sat with a patient smile on her face.

  How did she know it was my birthday? Marie’s elbow stayed planted in Claire’s ribs. “I, uh, I greet you, too, Beatrice.”

  The old woman clapped her hands delightedly. Claire’s mom turned to a much younger woman, sitting with her arm around Beatrice.

  “Victoria is the daughter of Beatrice,” she said to Claire. “Victoria, I greet you.”

  Victoria smiled, tossing her straw-colored hair over one shoulder. “Marie, I greet you. Claire, I greet you, too.”

  Without thinking about it, Claire smiled back, calmed by how bright and normal Victoria seemed. “I—I greet you,” she said.

  “Say her name,” hissed her mother.

  Claire winced. “I greet you, too, Victoria. Sorry.”

  “S’okay,” Victoria said. “It’s a lot to learn all at once. You’ll catch on.”

  Claire’s mom pulled her around to face the next woman in the circle. She was pale and thin, with coarse, iron-black hair.

  “This is Zahlia. Zahlia, I greet you.”

  “And I greet you, Marie.” She licked her lips and nodded at Claire. “Claire, I also greet you.”

  “I greet you, Zahlia,” Claire said, more smoothly this time.

  They went through the same ritual with the last two women, Judith and Katherine, two middle-aged women who both greeted Claire without even really looking at her. Claire’s mouth went nervous-dry at the same time that her jaw clenched in irritation. It was like being paraded around in front of some of her mother’s important clients—their eyes skimmed over her politely, but it was obvious that they couldn’t care less about meeting her.

  It’s not like I asked to be here.

  The dark-haired woman—Zahlia—caught Claire’s eye and gazed pointedly at Judith and Katherine before rolling her eyes. Claire fought to keep the smile off her face. Okay, so not everyone thought she was just some dumb drag-along of her mother’s.

  Marie caught sight of the amused expression on Claire’s face and gave her a sharp look.

  “Sit.” Her mother pointed to an open space next to Victoria, the blonde. “And listen.”

  Claire sank down onto the dirt next to Victoria. She wrap
ped her arms around her legs and squeezed out the desire to run back through the woods, go home, crawl into bed, and pretend none of this had ever happened.

  Beatrice stood up and shuffled close to the fire. She raised her arms and began to chant in a clear, youthful voice that surprised Claire. This can’t seriously be happening. Maybe it’s just some really screwed-up dream I’m having. Claire pinched her palm with the nails of her left hand. Crap. Not a dream. Victoria scooted closer and grabbed Claire’s hand, making her jump.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered. “I was scared at first, too. Don’t worry.”

  Claire’s mom shot them an impatient look and Victoria fell silent. Claire couldn’t understand most of the chant, and it seemed to go on forever. She heard something about the wind and the Goddess, and heard Beatrice calling each of their names … except for Claire’s.

  “Close your eyes,” said Victoria. “It’ll be easier.”

  Claire shut her eyes and leaned forward, resting her forehead on her knees. The crackle of the fire filled her ears. A low moan moved through the circle. It changed and grew until it became a howl—no, Claire realized, six howls. She opened her eyes with her forehead still on her knees. On the ground next to her, she saw two brown paws, bigger than any dog’s, in the exact spot where Victoria’s sandaled feet had been. A cold, wet nose nudged Claire’s ear.

  Claire lifted her head and jumped when she saw the enormous, mottled brunette wolf in front of her.

  An anxious whine rattled the wolf’s throat, somewhere just above Claire’s head.

  It’s okay now. It’s over.

  As a wolf, Victoria was bigger than Yolanda Adams’s St. Bernard—almost the size of a pony. Everyone knew that werewolves were larger than regular wolves, but Claire hadn’t really grasped just how big they really were. Claire spun around. In the spot where her mother had been stood a silvery-gray wolf. She was a little taller and darker than the two next to her, who must have been Judith and Katherine.

  “Mom?” she squeaked.

  Yes, Claire? The silvery wolf’s mouth stayed shut tight, even as her mother’s voice rang in Claire’s ears. Claire blinked.