Badass and the Beast: 10

by Shrum, Kory M.

  “Wait! What do you mean he’s coming with me?” She ran after him, exiting the room, and entered what looked like a long hallway illuminated with lights that were too bright. She shielded her eyes with the back of her hand.

  The Controller didn’t turn around. With his back to her, he raised one hand and waved. “What I just said.”

  The full moon arrived and Laura spent the whole afternoon looking outside the window in her new room at the shelter. Three weeks had already passed since she and Black moved there. The people working at the shelter were nicer than she had expected, and the accommodation was regal compared to the hole she had called home for so long. Food was fresh and never from the trash. Definitely a bonus. She shared a room with a girl her age, Luisa. Luisa was a werewolf, but she was a mellow one with a sometimes sad, but sweet disposition. Plus, Luisa loved dogs. So Black, who slept in the were-dog boys’ dormitory on a low bed with a soft mattress, spent the majority of his time in Laura’s and Luisa’s room. When he wasn’t running around with the boys.

  “Are you worried about tonight?” Luisa had been rearranging a pink beret on her shaved head for the last twenty minutes. Felting was one of the activities offered at the center, and Luisa seemed to need the diversion.

  When they were first introduced, Laura had asked Luisa about her cropped hair and the girl answered with a cryptic, “It got me the wrong attention,” leaving Laura with tons of questions. The sadness in Luisa’s eyes had prevented Laura from probing further and the topic never came up again.

  “I’d like to see him.” Laura had told her new friend that Black was a boy. Besides Black, she had never had anyone to confess her worries or joys to and it had felt good to talk to Luisa, a girl.

  “Do you know why he can’t transform back?” Luisa stilled her hands on her lap.

  “No. Caelum explained to me that sometimes shifters get stuck in their animal form when they’re traumatized. They feel safer that way.” She had thought about what could have forced Black into his dog form, and all sorts of horrible scenarios had run through her mind and made her sick.

  Luisa shivered. “Well, he’s safe now.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  She had missed him that afternoon. The boys had taken him for a walk and Black had seemed eager to get out and run in the Reserve. Laura wanted to object, but the park was the safest place for a shifter—hectares of natural reserve the werewolf community made available to the shelter that bordered it. She hugged him and kissed his fur, hoping he would be back before her panther came to claim her night of freedom.

  “It’s getting late.” She hadn’t moved from the bay window’s bench. In her brief sojourn at the shelter, she had come to love that corner. Before leaving the Promenade, she asked permission to go one more time to the lake and grab her books from their hidden spot. Now, they were piled under the seat. She had read them cover-to-cover so many times, and yet she still liked to peruse them, sitting on that comfortable bench, while looking at the wild expanse of the Reserve. Tonight, her panther would be running among the other panther shifters in their fenced area.

  “I’m sure they’ll be back on time.” Luisa sat by her and patted Laura’s leg.

  Laura smiled, but she didn’t feel like smiling. She turned her gaze once again outside, but no black Newfoundland was in sight. The rest of the afternoon proceeded slowly until the sky became as black as her thoughts and the first pangs of the shifting began. The boys had come back too late and were sent to their rooms. She followed Luisa to the first floor where all the shifters were gathering and the adults were trying to corral them into separate lines, according to the species their animals belonged to. Laura walked to the were-panther group.

  “See you tomorrow!” Luisa waved from the werewolf line.

  Laura mimed her friend’s gesture while looking for Black. Finally, she spotted him on the other side of the big room, among the other were-dogs. There were only five of them, including Black, and they all looked excited.

  She called, “Black! Over here!”

  Black raised his head and let out a bark.

  Next time, she thought, but felt deflated she wouldn’t see the boy after all. In the remote possibility their paths would cross, if even for that brief interval between shifting states, she had taken great care in looking nice. She hooked her thumbs into her rear jeans pockets and kicked the air. Her line moved and so did she.

  The next morning, she woke near a pond, her legs tangled with a were-panther girl she had met a few days earlier. After vigorously rubbing her eyes, she looked around and saw that the adults had left clothes for them. Neat piles of jeans, sweaters, and boots lay on a wooden table under the gazebo a few meters from the pond. Some of the were-panthers had already woken and dressed. They waited for the rest of the group while eating breakfast under a second gazebo.

  Laura dressed and ate her breakfast, but deep inside she only wanted to get back to the shelter and see Black. Her wishes were fulfilled a few minutes later when the shelter van arrived to pick them up and take them back to RYS.

  As soon as she entered the foyer, one of the immortals running the place made a sign for her to stop. Laura wasn’t in the mood to listen to the woman, and passed her. The immortal kept calling her name until Laura had to walk back.

  The woman, one of the many volunteers working at the shelter, blinked her big blue eyes at her, a smile tugging at her lips. “Laura, you have a visitor.”

  “I have a visitor?” Laura immediately thought of the Controller and groaned. The demon, Peter, had stopped by several times to see how she was faring, and it was usually pleasant to see him. But she didn’t have time to see him now.

  “Yes, he’s waiting for you in the library.” The immortal pointed at the corridor opening to her left that lead to the day-rooms.

  Laura dragged her feet all the way to the library, the room she liked the most after her bedroom. She lowered the brass handle of the library’s door, and head low, she entered.

  “Hi.” Not the demon’s voice. Not Caelum’s.

  She looked up and her heart started galloping madly in her chest. The boy was there, looking at her, and she didn’t know how to speak anymore, nor breathe. “Hi—?” she finally croaked after a long, awkward moment of silence in which they stared at each other.

  “Luka. My name’s Luka.” He smiled at her, his face handsome, more beautiful than she remembered. He was tall and lean, but muscular.

  “I’m Laura.” She didn’t know what to do with herself. “You don’t look like Black,” she blurted, then brought both hands to her mouth.

  “No. I hope I didn’t disappoint you.” He laughed. His laugh was also beautiful. And kind. “I’ve been wanting to meet you since I first glimpsed you,” he said, then blushed.

  And as soon as she realized why he was blushing, she blushed too. “So you’re back for good?”

  “It seems so.” He walked toward her, and she saw he had been holding a book the whole time.

  “What is it?” Laura stepped closer to him and tilted her chin to take a look at the title.

  “Beauty and the Beast.” He reached for her hand and timidly touched it.

  “I’ve never read this book.” Laura took his hand and brought it to her cheek. “Would you like to read it to me?”

  They spent the whole day in the library, hand in hand, cuddled before the fireplace. He read to her the whole book and kept reading to her long after.

  Protect Her, Protector

  Kathrine Pendleton

  It’s simple—you either believe or you don’t.

  If you don’t believe, your life will go on in delightful unawareness, but you will lack the power to help—or be helped in this way.

  Believing means accepting responsibility. It means you accept that you might be the only one to hear it and you might be the only one who is able to help. If you believe, you open yourself up to the possibility that it’s all true, that words have power, and that we each have power too.

  Becau
se we do.

  The first time I heard it I was nine years old. The word came, drifting through our house, and filling each room. I was sitting on the couch reading when a voice pulled me up. It snapped me awake in a way that heightened all my senses and sharpened my focus. I knew exactly where my mother was in the house and I could feel her coming to me. I knew that Linda, our next-door neighbor, was in her backyard cutting flowers. I could feel others too, but they were blurred by distance.

  My mother came into the living room and I almost didn’t recognize her. She looked the same with her hair in a messy bun and a smudge of furniture stain on her cheek, but her tiny body somehow overwhelmed the space. She still had on her yellow rubber gloves, streaked with wood stain. I grew up thinking my mother was a furniture builder. My mother was a warrior.

  There was a knock at the door and Linda walked inside. The third-grade teacher was missing the relaxed smile she usually wore when she stepped in our house. There was a heaviness to her.

  “Let’s go,” my mother said to me as Linda led us out of the house and into the afternoon sunlight. There were people around who were separate from us, people just going about their day. Boys were riding their bikes up and down the street. Men were washing their cars or mowing their lawns. A couple of women passed by pushing strollers.

  On the sidewalk in front of our house stood a cluster of women and girls. I didn’t know all of them personally, but I recognized their faces. All of them lived on our street. All of them heard the call too, and they came to help.

  We moved quickly, in a tight pack, down to the end of the street. It’s hard to explain how we knew where to go. We just knew. Thinking back, it was as if all the other houses on the block were blurry, and the only clear spot on the whole street was where Mrs. Lowsley lived.

  The word we all heard came from Mrs. Lowsley. In order for her to call on us, she had to be in serious danger. The word she spoke is not a word that we carry around in our heads. In fact, I couldn’t tell you what the word is even if I wanted to. I do know that if I ever need it, the word will pass my lips just as it had Mrs. Lowsley’s.

  When we reached the Lowsley home, we did not stop and map out a plan or coordinate our movements. My mother went first, opening the door and pushing inside without a warning. Five or six of the women walked around to the back of the house. Four more remained in the front yard. I followed my mother inside along with Linda and several others.

  Mrs. Lowsley was on the floor of her living room with her knees pulled to her stomach. Mr. Lowsley stood above her with a fileting knife in his hand. His back was to us as he yelled at her and kicked her repeatedly in the chest. He hadn’t heard us come in.

  “That’s enough, Donovan,” Linda said.

  There were twelve of us crowded in his living room when he turned around. The room was on the small side, but absolutely pristine. The carpet was a cream color and skillfully maintained. The furniture was sparse, but elegant. The pale blue walls were devoid of any pictures or decoration. The only sign anything was amiss was the blood on the carpet from Mrs. Lowsley. The left side of her face was swollen and red. A deep cut ran down her right cheek. There were also several slashes on her forearms.

  I was scared and thankful I wasn’t in that house alone with Mr. Lowsley. I couldn’t image how frightened I would be in Mrs. Lowsley’s shoes.

  Several of the women encircled Mr. Lowsley, giving him a clear idea that he was not going to escape this. I hung back and watched, not quite ready to step closer to the mad man with the knife.

  “What are you doing here?” Mr. Lowsley yelled, whirling around. “This is none of your business!” He hacked at the air as he turned. As a unit, the women moved closer.

  Four women made their way over to care for Mrs. Lowsley while four others stepped between Mrs. Lowsley and her husband, shielding her. The four women with Mrs. Lowsley assessed the damage. One of them touched her shoulder and spoke softly to let her know they were there. Mrs. Lowsley didn’t move. One eye was swollen shut and the other stared blankly at the carpet. Each breath she took was a haggard, wet wheeze. I felt like I was watching her die.

  “Doe, could you find us a towel?” someone asked me and tugged my thoughts away from Mrs. Lowsley’s battered face. “Doe?” I looked over and Mrs. Shields, our other neighbor, was kneeling behind Mrs. Lowsley, looking at me.

  On the opposite side of the room was the kitchen, and like the living room, it was immaculate. The counters were empty with the exception of a coffee pot and a toaster. I searched the drawers and found each expertly organized. In a drawer near the sink, I found towels folded in two stacks. I grabbed a stack and lifted them out revealing a small white scorpion underneath. My breath caught in my throat and I looked back at my mom. Her back was to me, but just seeing her there brought me comfort. I quickly closed the drawer and ran some of the towels under the tap.

  Sirens could be heard in the distance, and I hoped they would arrive before Mr. Lowsley hurt someone else. He had backed away from where Mrs. Lowsley lay bleeding on the floor, and my mom, Linda, and another woman were trying to contain him. He still had the knife and was very agitated. My focus was on Mrs. Lowsley as I walked past her husband, far out of his reach or so I thought.

  I dropped the towels as his hand clamped around my wrist and he pulled me in front of him. He was a big man, six-foot-two, and he was very strong. He pressed the knife to my throat and looked at my mom and the other women standing nearby. I felt the tip of the knife pierce my skin and I cried out. I tried to squirm away from him, but his grip on my wrist was so tight. I could feel the blood running down my neck. My mom tilted her head to one side and her breath came out in a huff, like a bitter laugh.

  “Oh, Donovan,” my mother said slowly. “If only you had hung in there for one more minute.” The reddish-brown stain on her gloves suddenly looked like dried blood and it made her terrifying. Her hands clenched into fists as she stared at Mr. Lowsley.

  The next moment, he let go of me and pulled the knife away. I dove for my mother and landed at her feet. The knife dropped to the floor and Mr. Lowsley fell next to it as his hands moved to the side of his neck. My mother knelt beside me and put her gloved hand on my shoulder.

  “It’s okay, baby,” she whispered. I looked up at her expecting to find her comforting smile. Instead, her eyes were focused on Mr. Lowsley’s foot. I turned my head to see a large red scorpion crawling off the man’s big black boot. No one else seemed to notice it. Linda picked up the towels I dropped on the floor and carried them to Mrs. Lowsley. The other woman kicked the knife away from Mr. Lowsley’s motionless body. No one paid any attention to Mr. Lowsley after that.

  The red scorpion crawled into my mother’s hand and disappeared.

  “I didn’t know you had a red one,” I said. My mother had a collection of scorpions of various sizes and colors that followed her around. I found them when I was thinking about doing something wrong, after I’d already done something wrong, and when I needed to be extra careful. That was what the white scorpion in the kitchen was—a warning.

  “That one is new to me too, sweetheart,” she said, closing her palm.

  “Is he dead?” I asked, looking at Mr. Lowsley who had a dark, blueish purple ring on the side of his neck.

  “Yes.” The way she said it made my blood freeze. It was the first and only time I had ever heard her speak without even the tiniest bit of emotion.

  Outside, the police had arrived. They came into the house and secured the room before allowing the paramedics to enter.

  The four women who were helping Mrs. Lowsley followed her to the hospital. In addition to the sixty-eight stitches she received on her face and arms, several of her ribs were broken and her lung was punctured. She was very lucky to be alive.

  “Would you have gone by yourself?” I asked my mom when we were back home.

  “Of course,” she said, taping an oversized gauze pad to my neck. “Sometimes you’re the only one who can help.”

  “Does
everyone have scorpions?” I asked, thinking about the red one that took down Mr. Lowsley.

  “No. They are just for us. It’s kind of a family trait. We don’t control them, but we are connected to them somehow.”

  “What do the other women have for protection?”

  “They have us,” she said, sitting on the couch next to me and pulling me closer. “And they have each other.”

  My mother died two months before my twelfth birthday.

  It was one of those freak accidents. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Part of an old church building was decaying and they told my dad a bird must have landed on a ledge causing a large piece to break off and fall to the ground. My mom’s head happened to be what broke its fall. She had been hired to refinish some of the pews and other woodwork in the church, and it was her first day on the job.

  They gave her organs away to other people who needed them. That’s what she wanted. Her liver, her kidneys, and her heart, her big beautiful heart, went to strangers. I got the rest of her and I put it all in a big mahogany box and buried it in the ground.

  Those strangers didn’t know how lucky they were to have a part of her.

  Willa came to me about six months after my mom died. I was walking home from school and Travis Davis and Gene Gentry followed me. They were the neighborhood degenerates. If something was stolen, vandalized, or on fire, they weren’t just the prime suspects, they were the only suspects. Everyone in the neighborhood knew to keep their distance.

  That day, Travis was upset because I spiked the volleyball in gym class and gave him a bloody nose. He appeared to be seeking some kind of payback. I wasn’t really afraid of him. I’d known Travis and Gene all my life, and I knew where they lived and everything, but no one ever knew what those two were capable of, so it was always best to be cautious. I mostly ignored them. That was what the other kids did.

  When they continued to follow me past their street, I got concerned.