Werewolf Sings the Blues

by Jennifer Harlow

  Kaboom.

  It’s real good I’m sitting because I doubt my legs could support me in this moment as the bottom drops out of my world, sending me into freefall. This is reality. This is happening. It’s true, it’s all true. My father’s a werewolf. My mother lied to me all my life, and I’m being hunted by homicidal supernatural beings who’ve already slaughtered the stepmother and half brother I never knew I had. No calm this time, only literal gut-wrenching fear and panic. The wind is knocked out of me, and I have to force more air in. “Vivian?” Mom asks. “How did you find out? What’s happening?”

  Keep it together, Viv. Falling apart now accomplishes nothing. Not a damn thing. Like the tears, I will keep the fear far enough away so I can speak. “Last night two men, possibly the Federal Marshals who called you, tried to kidnap me. Apparently they were working for another werewolf who wants to kill Frank. There’s a war going on or something, I don’t know all the details. They’ve already killed Frank’s wife and son, I was just next on the list.”

  “Oh, my God,” Mom says. “I knew this would happen. I knew it! I told him. We’d probably both be dead if I’d agreed to go with him. And I was right.”

  I don’t have the energy for the long fight we need to have. Eventually. “Whatever. Mom, are you and Barry still going to Sandals in a week? I think you should, um, take Jessie with you and start the vacation early, alright?”

  “Why? They won’t come after us, will they? I haven’t been in contact with Frank for years.”

  “Mom, neither had I. They already called you, they know you exist. Better safe than sorry.”

  “I don’t … Barry knows nothing about Frank. He won’t agree.”

  “Make him. Lie. You’re good at that. Just get gone. And if anyone calls about me, anyone, say you haven’t heard from me. Just keep your cell with you. I’ll phone when it’s safe to go home.” If I’m not dead.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” she says. “Barry’s going to flip. It’s going to cost so much to change the reservations. And your poor sister. Her internship. And I was supposed to help out at the cancer fundraiser. This is a nightmare.”

  Yeah, they get to fly to a tropical island for a few days, and I get to drive across country with Mr. Congeniality while being chased by homicidal werewolves. My heart’s breaking for them. “Just do it, Mom. I have to go. I’ll call when I can. Bye.” I hang up before I lose my shit. I really want to punch something right now. Standard after a call from Mom. It’s worse today. A hell of a lot worse. Because today her words not only harm, they completely change the course of my life.

  This is real. It’s all real. Good thing I am nothing if not adaptable, even to this.

  After a few breaths to calm myself, I put my shoes on, and get out of the car.

  Hello.

  My shittier-by-the-second life momentarily dissolves as I drink in the sight of my road-trip buddy. Without his shirt on. He must spend every spare moment at the gym. His pecs are bigger than my boobs, he has a perfect six-pack, and the rest of him might as well be chiseled in marble. I don’t think there’s an ounce of fat on him, and his skin’s the color of milk mixed with honey. Yummy. I collect myself before he looks up and catches me. Eye candy fix achieved. “Here’s your phone back,” I say as I walk over. “I believe you.”

  He takes the cell. “Thank you.”

  “And I’m sorry for shooting at you. And biting you. I was wrong, and when I’m wrong, I own it. From here on, I won’t fight you. I’ll … do my best to trust you.” I hold out my hand for him to shake.

  He does. Wow does he run hot. It’s like touching a skillet. “Thank you.”

  I pull my hand away. “So, what now? What’s the plan, Blondie?”

  “Jason.” He puts on a gray v-neck t-shirt. Damn. “We return to the compound as fast as possible. All pack members are assembling there. We’re about forty miles from the Arizona border now. We’ll fly out of Phoenix and be in Maryland by the afternoon.”

  “Except my purse with my ID is sitting in a Ventura parking lot or in police lock-up. I can’t get on a plane, train, or even a bus without one since September eleventh. So unless Frank has a private jet, looks like we’re driving.”

  “That’ll take days.”

  “About three if memory serves. We’ll take shifts behind the wheel.”

  “Sounds fair.”

  “Okay then. First things first though.” I smirk. “You’re taking me shopping, Blondie.”

  _____

  Even in the middle of a desert a gal expects to find a damn Target. This is America after all. We have more strip-malls than trees. Not today though. We’ve been driving for over half an hour and nothing. Not even a damn Wal-Mart. My chauffeur doesn’t say a word as the miles pass, and his face remains unreadable. I wonder if he has any other expression. I did see another look last night when he was listening to me singing, happiness mixed with awe. Wonder how to get that to resurface. He’s making me uncomfortable just staring out at the road, thin lips set in a straight line. He’s so still I can barely tell he’s breathing. Maybe it’s a werewolf thing.

  Whatever it is, it’s driving me nuts. The stillness, the silence, I can’t take it another fucking second. I might begin to think. Can’t have that. “We live in a country besieged by strip malls, but there’s never one around when you need one, huh?”

  “We’ll stay on the interstate. There’s bound to be one sometime.”

  That’s it. That’s all he says for two damn minutes before the silence gets to me again. This is going to be the road trip from hell, I can tell already. “So, Blondie—”

  “Jason,” he corrects.

  “Why’d you draw the short straw?” I ask, ignoring him. “Piss off the old man or something?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, glancing at me.

  “Princess guard duty. I can’t imagine there were a whole bunch of your people jumping at the chance to sit in a car for days on end watching me pick up dry cleaning. Especially when there are people back home who are actually in danger. Not that I’m not grateful you’re here. Vultures would probably be picking at my corpse right now if you weren’t.” A stab of fear clenches inside my stomach, even sending its army of bile up my throat, as I realize this is a hundred percent true. The man beside me saved my life last night. Most guys don’t even put the toilet seat down for me. “Thank you.”

  He glances at me again, and for a split second I see a glimmer of that previous happiness cracking through those chilled eyes, but if it was there, it vanishes as quickly as it came. “I was just following orders.”

  “Do you always follow orders? Even ones that can get you killed? For a stranger no less?”

  “Yes. I trust your father with my life. Whatever he instructs me to do, I do. Without question. I know everything he does or says has a purpose. For the good of the pack.”

  “So, you’re a foot soldier?”

  “I’m your father’s Beta. Second in command,” he clarifies. “He gives an order, I carry it out.”

  “You’re his enforcer,” I say.

  “I’m his Beta,” he says with an edge of bite.

  I can absolutely see this guy beating and killing people. Hell, I’ve seen just that. “Call it what you will, I am not judging. As I said, you saved my life. You get a free pass from me for-fucking-ever vis-à-vis questionable behavior. And based on last night, I’m sure whoever you, you know, betaed, they probably deserved it.” I shrug. “Some people just do.” Blondie stares at me with two actual clear emotions. Confusion and apprehension this time judging from the narrowed eyes. “What?”

  His gaze whips back to the road. “N-Nothing.”

  “What? You don’t share the sentiment?”

  “No. I … do. I’m just surprised you do.”

  “Well, I am full of surprises, Blondie. One of my many considerable charm
s,” I say with a seductive smile.

  He doesn’t smile back, just stares straight ahead with his mask on. “I’m sure.”

  We drive in silence for thirty seconds until it gnaws at me again. “You never answered my question.”

  “Which was?”

  “If you’re his second-in-command, and it’s the middle of a crisis, why’d he send you for little old me?”

  “You’re his daughter. You’re family. And I’m the one best equipped to protect you.”

  “Once again. Why?”

  “That’s a question for your father,” he says in an almost menacing tone.

  Civilization rolls into view, saving him from further interrogation. He’s keeping something from me, that much I know. I’ll wrench it out of him. It is three thousand miles to Maryland after all. Project.

  We pull into the Target parking lot, which is surprisingly busy for a Sunday morning. Even the Linens ‘N Things is bustling. All the families in the lot stare as we walk toward the store. Guess they don’t see many redheads in cocktail dresses and fake fur or musclebound blondes in this neck of the world. At least the handcuffs are gone. He had a spare key in the duffel bag. My wrists are red and raw, which can’t help matters. Inconspicuous, we ain’t.

  Since I’m not footing the bill, and I need one of everything, I go a little crazy shopping. Enough clothes for a month, toiletries, munchies, and soda to feed us for a week, magazines and CDs to keep me occupied as Blondie has proven himself a lousy conversationalist, pillow and blanket for napping, and a huge suitcase. Basically, anything I saw that I wanted, I threw in the cart. All he contributed was a first-aid kit, a thousand Slim Jims and protein bars, a map, and Gatorade. He doesn’t say a word as I keep adding items. A whole new wardrobe. Thank you, Daddy Dearest.

  After the teenager rings up a few items, I take them—khaki shorts, cerulean t-shirt, flip flops, hairbrush, and deodorant—into the restroom to clean up while he pays. It’s no wonder Blondie was immune to my flirting, I’m a mess. Makeup smeared or gone, hair a rat’s nest, dress so wrinkled it could double as an accordion. I do my best to reassemble myself, changing my clothes and brushing my hair. Have to do. Blondie waits beside the restroom door when I step out. My improvements go unnoticed as he never unglues those eyes from the man with a headset who keeps glancing over. “What?” I ask.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jason says. He looks back at the man as we hurry toward the exit.

  “What? What is it? Who is that guy?”

  “Manager. My card was rejected. Had to use the pack business one. Then that man came over.”

  “Forget to pay your bill there, Blondie? Don’t be embarrassed. My cards are always being rejected.” We walk out of the store into the scorching day. “You should at least pay the—oh, fuck.”

  We stop dead when we spot the police cruiser beside our Mustang with an officer reading the license plate into his radio. Guess someone got the plate last night as we made our getaway. “Now we know why your card was flagged,” I offer.

  “Shit,” Jason says.

  “Yeah, we have about a minute before they get word you just tried your card inside. We have to get out of here.”

  “My weapons are in there. My clothes.”

  “Forget them. Come on.” I tug on his shirt. He snaps out of his fog and follows me away from the police, blending in with the happy families. We need new wheels. Lucky for us I’ve known some colorful characters through the years, including a car thief. He dated one of my roommates in New Orleans. Always liked the guy. Today more than ever. I push the shopping cart toward the back of the lot.

  “Where are you going?” Jason asks.

  “Employees have to park far from the store. If we’re lucky, we’ll boost one of theirs. It’ll be hours before they report it.” We have a winner. “Here. This one,” I say with a grin.

  A Honda Civic, one of the most nondescript, widely bought models around. There are two in this row alone. It’s white as well, the most popular car color. It’ll do the job. My smile drops at the sound of a police siren. I glance back at the Mustang and spot an officer walking into Target as another cruiser pulls up beside the Mustang. Shit. I reach under the back wheel of the Civic. Nothing.

  “What are you doing now?”

  The front right wheel. Nothing. Front left … yes! I yank off the magnetic key box with a triumphant grin. Thank you, Bubba. The corners of Blondie’s mouth twitch in what I think is his version of a smile. I unlock the car. “Hurry!” We quickly toss all our bags into the backseat and climb in the front. Jason starts the car and pulls out, away from the swarm of police.

  “Marshal Donovan’s been a busy boy,” I say.

  “All my guns. All my ammo. Clothes. Emergency cash.”

  “Speaking of cash, the card that went through at Target, they’ll probably pull the number. If you use it again, they’ll track us with it.”

  His scowl deepens along with the creases in his forehead. “We need money.”

  I think for a second. “ATMs. We find another shopping center, hit all the ATMs in the stores, get the limit from each. Use cash for everything. Untraceable. We need to change the license plates on this car anyway.”

  “We do?”

  “Yeah. We find the exact same model and color, then switch their plates for this one. That way if someone runs them, the car doesn’t come up stolen. No one ever notices their plates are different.”

  He glances over at me, confusion overtaking his face again. “How do you know all this?”

  “How do you not, Blondie?” I ask with a proud smirk.

  He doesn’t answer. He just returns his attention to the road. Think I offended him. This time we don’t have far to go for another strip mall or another white Civic, only about a mile. I wait anxiously in the car, scanning the highway for police, as Blondie hits the stores with an ATM sign in the window, all four of them. He returns after the second, a hardware store, with my requested screwdriver. He continues on our funds run as I take care of our other problem. My heart pounds as I remove the license plates from the cars. The few times people pass by, my throat closes up as I pretend to tie my flip flops. If they don’t believe my pantomime they don’t say a word or stop walking. Thank God for modern apathy. Blondie returns as I screw in the back plate on our new car. “We need to hurry,” he says.

  I give it two more twists. “Done.” Like a gentleman, he holds out his hand to help me stand. “How much you get?”

  “Thousand.”

  Should be more than enough—shit. Sirens. My protector and I exchange a glance before rushing into the car. I barely get the door closed before he pulls out. As he drives out of the lot, I start rooting around in the bags in the back for the maps. “Drive about five above. Do the limit or below, it’s suspicious. Above five, risk a ticket.” Oh, my sunglasses. I retrieve them and the map book before plopping back down in my co-pilot chair. “We can’t take I-40 anymore,” I say as I open the book to California. “They know we’re using it. Plus you have to stop at the California border to check for vegetation if memory serves. We have to assume if they have the Mustang’s description out, they have ours out as well. Our best bet … yep,” I say, reviewing the map, “is to backtrack to I-15 then take I-70 through Utah, Colorado, so on. Other option is I-80 through Wyoming, Nebraska, etc. 80 is farther so probably safer, but it’ll add half a day. My vote’s still for 80 though. What?” I snap. He’s been glancing at me damn near slack-jawed through my instructions. It’s making me self-conscious.

  “N-Nothing. Just … surprised.”

  “By?”

  “How good you are at this.”

  Oh. Huh. A satisfied smile crosses my face. “Well, Blondie,” I say, kicking up my feet on the dash, “I may have barely passed high school, but I have a damn Ph.D. in street smarts and survival. Stick with me, handsome.” I slip on my cat’s-eye sunglasses and sta
re at the wide open road. “Might just learn a thing or two.”

  And I settle into the seat of our stolen car. I may have just committed a felony, I may be on the run from both police and homicidal werewolves, I may be riding shotgun with a killer, but damned if I’m not enjoying myself a little. Just hope this walk on the wild side doesn’t end at a cemetery.

  three

  The enjoyment doesn’t last long. The thrill of our escape wanes within the hour, giving way to boredom. Massive boredom. I talk for almost an hour straight when I can’t take the five minutes of complete silence a second longer. I tell Blondie about my career, all the places I’ve lived, and I think he listens. Can’t be sure. He doesn’t say a word, just nods. I feel like I’m talking to myself, so I shut up after my life story’s complete. He doesn’t offer one fact about himself in return. Guess sharing and conversation aren’t his forte.

  After my monologue, I spend my time fiddling with the radio, staring out the window at the desert, or biting my cuticles. Thrilling. I almost wish we’d get into another car chase just to break the monotony. Still Blondie doesn’t utter more than ten words in seven hours and most of those were to the drive-through attendant at McDonald’s when we buy lunch. The man scarfed down five Big Macs like he was in a competition. I can add “almost only eats meat” to the werewolf file growing larger in my brain. Went through an entire box of Slim Jims too. I pity any cow that crosses his path.

  We make it over the Utah border and have to fill up. I leap at the chance to take over driving duty when he suggests it. His eyes have been drooping since Vegas, where he refused my first offer to switch. Control freak. Blondie’s snoring by the time we’re back on the interstate. Cruise control does my heavy lifting. We haven’t passed a single speed trap, but I still only keep it five above. People, even trucks, pass us once or twice with a rude hand gesture, but probable cause trumps rudeness in this case. An hour into my shift, Jason moans in his sleep as if in pain and flips over to face me. His brow is furrowed again, and his face is scrunched up as if he’s smelled something foul, but a second later he relaxes. Bad dream.