The Wolf House: The Complete Series

by Mary Borsellino

  “You weren’t kidding when you said you’d turned into a cynic, were you,” Alexander deadpans drily. “And as much as I enjoy listening to your suburban little crisis of faith, I actually do have a reason for my visit tonight. I want to look at your journals.”

  “My journals?” Confusion crosses Will’s face, and Alexander catches a hint of panic underneath. Interesting. Something he’ll have to follow up another time.

  “Your old journals, from when Lily was dead and you weren’t, and you were trying to puzzle out her physiology. I want to note down some of the recipes you tried.”

  “Why?”

  Alexander almost gives a smarmy answer, purely out of habit, but then decides that straightforward honesty will get him what he’s after more quickly. “It’s Bette. She’s at something of a loose end. I wanted to see if there were any potential projects for her in your old notes. You’re the only other vampire I know who’s got any kind of interest in her chosen fields of study, and it isn’t like you’re doing anything constructive with your knowledge.”

  Will gives Alex a hard look, clearly trying to decide what the trick is, where the trip-wire’s laid. Then he shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

  The books he pulls down from a high shelf are already dusty, though they can’t have been stored there for more than a few months. Alexander turns over a few pages, catching an ingredient here and there out of the corner of his eye as he skims.

  “You’re lucky you’ve never inadvertently poisoned yourself,” Alexander says, scanning down an especially revolting list of ingredients.

  “That can happen? I mean, there are things that really poison us? Because I’ve certainly made myself sick, if that’s all you mean.”

  “Oh, no, I know that. And I haven’t seen poisoning firsthand, but I’ve certainly heard stories from those unlucky enough to have gone through it. Once upon a time, it was highly favoured by hunters as a method of killing us. Thank heaven your journal-keeping habit is an aberration, not a norm. I’d hate to think of voluminous knowledge being passed down through generations of hunters.”

  “’Gone through it’? So they survived?”

  “Those I spoke to, yes. But they were exceptional vampires, each and every one of them. The survival rate was never good for those poisoned, especially compared to how hardy we are otherwise. The cure is delicate to concoct, and most of us have better things to do than spend every night playing with mixers and measuring cups like you.”

  “Is that why I was interesting? Because I had a specialty that might be useful?”

  “Hm? Oh, you mean when you were alive? Oh, no. I doubt it. Blake favors whims over plans when it comes to games like you and Lily. I’ll take this journal here; it’s got more than enough to catch Bette’s attention.”

  “Lily only fought the thirst for us, you know. Me and Anna and Russ. Then, when they were gone, just for me. And then when I died, she just kept on, and so I… when I came back, I did it for her. So really, you fucked it up. If you’d done it just a little differently, you’d’ve had us both.” Will pauses and laughs quietly to himself, shaking his head. “But that wasn’t the game you were playing, was it? All this time, I’ve been thinking of you as some, you know, like wolves or hyenas or something, when really that’s us. We’re coyotes and you’re the fucking road runner, watching us trying our best to catch you and laughing all the while.”

  MICHELLE

  “If I didn’t know better,” Tommy says. “These would make me think that you had quite possibly the worst taste in music that anybody has ever had. Why do you have these?”

  Michelle picks up the Top 40 CDs in question, filing them back in their places on her music shelves. “Some people, they get depressed and they put on Morrissey, the Cure, Nirvana, whatever. But I’ve never been able to handle that. When I’m bad—really, really bad—I don’t want music like that. I want… well, obnoxious selfish ugly stuff, clearly.”

  “And that makes you feel better?”

  Michelle shakes her head. “No. It makes me feel… it makes me feel nothing.”

  “Hm,” Tommy says, accepting the answer and lacing up his boots. There’s a show on tonight, a band from out of town that some of their friends work for.

  “Rosie’s got paintings in this new art thing that’s on at this gallery in the city next week; I thought we could go along for support.” Tommy fishes into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out the crumpled flier.

  “Showcasing some of the brightest art talents in the queer youth community?” Michelle asks, reading from the ad. “Has she told your mom and dad?”

  “She told them that she just said she was queer to get into the show.”

  “Oh.” It’s not really any of Michelle’s business, but she wonders if it hurts Rose to do that, to lie because her parents will love the lie-her more than they will the truthful version of their child.

  Michelle’s own sense of unworthiness and self-hatred has always been tied up with flawed things she cannot hide – the fractures in her moods and thoughts are too overwhelming and terrible to hide behind smiles and locked doors. So she’s never put a lot of effort into playacting a more acceptable version of herself; she’s never had that option.

  Michelle’s not sure if she envies or pities Rose.

  ~

  After the show Michelle, Jay, Tommy, and a bunch of other people all head out for a late meal, at this little 24-hour diner which looks familiar enough that Michelle thinks she might’ve been to before, on other nights in other groups. Or maybe she’s never been to this particular one before. The details blur sometimes; the rhythms of the rituals enough to create a single identity which multiple places can share.

  Over pancakes and bottomless coffee Michelle chatters with Merri-the-Merch-Girl about World of Warcraft—”And then this guy kept insisting Alliance is better, which is clearly evidence of a brain injury”—and Michelle gets that impostor-feeling that she feels sometimes, like a dark little blot creeping over her thoughts, making them all smeared and indecipherable.

  Because Merri-the-Merch-Girl is funny and bitchy and Michelle has seen her manage guest lists at shows in the past and, like, cut people down to nothing with just a withering look and a shake of her head. And now she’s talking to Michelle like Michelle’s worth her time, like Michelle isn’t just some worthless stupid kid who doesn’t know anything about anything.

  Michelle gulps a swallow of her freshly-filled coffee, letting the sharp burn of it in her throat distract her from her own brain for a second, and plasters a smile on her face while she waits for the darkness to subside a little. Maybe Tommy or Jay has some vodka or some pills on them; she needs a way out of this feeling.

  Jay, seated beside her on the hard bench of circular booth, was talking to their friend Natalie about the Harry Potter novels, the last time Michelle tuned into their conversation, but now seems to be arguing about other writers.

  “I can’t believe you don’t like Neil Gaiman,” Natalie says to Jay. “That’s just incomprehensible to me. My good opinion of you is on shaky foundations now.”

  “Also, he’s dating a serial killer,” Michelle adds helpfully, joining the discussion. “But the Neil Gaiman thing is just as bad, I think.”

  “Technically that isn’t true,” Jay retorts, voice blandly toneless. “Or I guess it is technically true, but only technically. He’s not a serial killer in the way we use the term in our society.”

  Natalie doesn’t seem remotely surprised by anything they’re saying. That’s why Michelle likes band-people so much, because they’ve always heard something way more random and weird than whatever crap you’re spouting. Band-people make Michelle feel like she fits somewhere in the world, no matter how crazy she is some of the time.

  “You’ve at least got to like Good Omens. I bet even serial killers like Good Omens,” Natalie insists.

  “I’m not sure if he’s read it. My serial killer, I mean. I know he likes Oscar Wilde, though,” answers Jay.

  “G
ood to hear that somebody’s got taste, at least,” Natalie mutters.

  It turns out that one of the guitar techs has a spare joint, which he sells to Michelle for a plate of waffles and a coffee. She goes around the back of the diner, where the waiters hang out between shifts, to smoke it, leaving the others inside to fight about writers some more.

  There are no waiters in the alleyway behind the kitchen, but Michelle’s not alone. Lily sits perched on a precariously piled stack of fruit crates. Michelle offers the joint out to her, but Lily shakes her head.

  “Nah. They don’t do much for me anymore.”

  “Bummer.”

  “How was the show?”

  Michelle lets out a mouthful of smoke. “Good. It was good.”

  “I wanted to go, but I saw Anna inside when I got there, so I figured I should probably blow it off.”

  Michelle feels her usual little flutter of excitement at the thought that she was in the same place as someone from Remember the Stars. She’s never stopped getting that feeling, even now, even when her life includes shit like hanging out with Lily Green on a semi-regular, semi-random basis.

  “I didn’t see her there,” she tells Lily. “It was pretty crowded. You could have come.”

  Lily gives one of her sudden, unexpected laughs. “She’s a vampire hunter, remember? She’d’ve seen me. No reason for me to ruin both our nights. Fuck knows that she deserves to have a good evening when she can get it.”

  “You guys still aren’t talking?”

  “Not really.” Lily kicks the heels of her boots against the crates she sits on, making them rattle. “We were best fucking friends, you know? Apart from Will, there was nobody in the world I trusted like I trusted her, and she trusted me right back. Now she’d be more likely to talk to you than to me.”

  That makes Michelle snort, half-amused. Anna’s never been nasty or mean or anything like that, but out of Remember the Stars Anna always had the least time and tolerance for the band’s fans.

  Lily raises her eyebrows at Michelle, as if prompting a reply to a question. Michelle blinks in surprise.

  “What, you actually want me to talk to her?”

  Lily nods. “Just see if she’s okay. I worry. She’s gotten more reckless since Russ… since she started hunting alone all the time. She probably needs any friend she can get.”

  “Gee, thanks for the vote of fucking confidence.”

  ~

  Which is how Michelle ends up following Lily to the shitty dive bar where Anna goes sometimes, the kind of bar where nobody gives a shit that Michelle won’t be able to legally drink for another million years or so. Lily stays outside, of course, and Michelle sets her shoulders and grits her teeth and steps inside alone.

  Anna’s at one of the tables against the walls, scribbling down notes in a tattered notebook with a stubby yellow pencil. She doesn’t look at all surprised to see Michelle, and gestures to the empty second seat. Michelle sits down gingerly, doing her best not to touch the variety of sticky stains on the table top in front of her.

  “Will used to keep journals,” Anna says, not bothering with a ‘hello’. “About vampires, I mean. Kind of funny in a guy we could never get to write anything for the blog on the band website. He used to keep journals and write down everything, even the worst parts. Maybe especially the worst parts, like he could make them make sense if he went through the process of documenting. I can’t say I’m getting much out of it, though.”

  Anna’s wearing a typically gorgeous outfit, a cropped red leather jacket over a black-and-white striped shirt and skinny dark denim jeans, a dark blue little scarf knotted around her throat. The kohl on her eyes swoops up in cat-eye wings above her lashes, and her lipstick is red like candy apples.

  “That’s an amazing jacket,” Michelle tells her with sincerity. “Also, hi. I saw you at the show earlier and didn’t get a chance to say hello, so I thought I’d come and catch up.”

  “Mm,” Anna says noncommittally, like she knows Michelle is lying out her ass.

  Michelle’s phone buzzes in her pocket, saving her momentarily from awkwardness. It’s a text from Tommy.

  U vanished. Evrthng ok?

  yep, she writes back. longstory. will tell u ltr at yr plce.

  “Sorry. Boyfriend,” Michelle explains, putting the phone back in her pocket.

  “Mm,” Anna says again. Then, as mildly as if she’s asking what perfume Michelle’s wearing, she says, “If all you had left was… If the only thing left as a choice in your life was revenge or starting from zero, absolutely nothing: Begin again or burn up what’s left of you in getting justice for what you’d lost. Which would you choose? Could you forgive yourself for making that choice and not the other, whichever it was?”

  “Um,” Michelle says. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

  Anna doesn’t even bother ‘mm’-ing at Michelle’s completely pathetic answer. Michelle spends a few seconds hating Lily for getting her into this situation, and scrabbles to find something else to say.

  Her gaze falls on the cover of Anna’s journal. The cardboard is covered in panels from comics under clear plastic, chopped and pasted, the story-context of the individual images lost but a sort of half-coherent story present in the collage of them. Batgirl fighting an army of zombies, a schoolgirl in pigtails holding a pistol and a bottle of spirits, Jessica Jones punching a guy into a car windscreen, Rachel Van Helsing shooting a crossbow into Dracula’s heart.

  “In stories, they’re how we learn. Modern stories, I mean,” Anna says. “Like Salem’s Lot, and the Lost Boys. It wouldn’t make sense for the kids in those stories to learn from folklore, would it? They haven’t learned the truth about monsters sitting at a fireside listening to an elder at a spinning wheel. They learn from comic books. In the new stories, that’s how the vampire hunters learn what to do.”

  It’s too sad. It’s too much. Michelle can’t handle sitting here anymore, with this woman who’s got nothing left but revenge. She can’t make herself smile and be friendly just because Lily needs to know if Anna’s okay. Of course Anna’s not okay.

  “I gotta go,” she says to Anna, standing up. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

  “Yeah,” Anna says quietly, like Michelle isn’t completely weird for running off so abruptly, like it’s normal to want to escape in the middle of a conversation. “See you.”

  Lily doesn’t seem surprised at how fast Michelle’s back out of the bar, either. Damn them both for putting Michelle in the middle of their bullshit when they both know it’s more than she can handle.

  “Will’s off being pouty and miserable somewhere,” Lily says as they fall into step together on their walk away from the bar. “One of Blake’s guys came around earlier; Will wouldn’t really tell me what happened. So you won’t have to deal with anyone else but me if you want to come back to our place, I swear.”

  She sounds a little apologetic, so it’s probably obvious how pissed Michelle is feeling. Mollified by the half-apology – it’s better than nothing, especially from Lily – Michelle nods. “Sure, okay, I’ll come back.”

  ~

  “Sorry about the mess. Like I said, Will had company earlier,” Lily says, like it’s totally routine for half the furniture to be knocked over or broken. Maybe it is.

  There’s a little splatter of blood on the floor by one wall.

  “It’s not Will’s,” Lily tells Michelle, seeing what she’s looking it. “I can tell.” Lily sounds pleased, like she’s proud of the idea that Will fought another vampire and drew blood. It all makes Michelle feel a little ill.

  Half-concealed by one of the knocked-askew couches is a slim leather notebook, resting on the floor. Michelle picks it up.

  “Oh, that’s one of Will’s old journals, just put it with the rest over there,” Lily tells her, switching on the kettle. “I’m having tea, you want tea?”

  “No, thanks,” Michelle says distractedly. The little journal doesn’t quite match the slightly dusty pile res
ting on the workbench – it’s smaller, newer, more recently written in. Michelle has a moment of sharp bright gladness at the thought of Will writing again, of something from the old way of the world still existing.

  But, when she opens the new book to look inside, there are just short paragraphs, unconnected, like loose pebbles with nothing to string them into a single line of beads. Names, descriptions of people, places and moments. There’s no coherency to it. Nothing to explain or give context to Sandy, 46 and Brett, 38. Third date, dinner and a movie. Walking to his apartment, because they’d decided to skip the movie. Yellow stockings.

  The edge of something dark and awful seems to yawn open in front of Michelle and she slams the book shut, like the truth can be trapped between its covers. She tosses it onto the stack of other books and turns away, giving Lily the least incriminating expression she can muster.

  “Want a coke, then, if you don’t want tea? There might be something in the fridge,” Lily offers.

  “No, I’m not thirsty,” Michelle assures her. Lily makes a sad, sarcastic little noise in the back of her throat, as if I’m not thirsty was something funny or tragic for Michelle to say, like Lily can’t even remember what those words mean.

  They sit at the table together, not talking, and Lily drinks sips of strong-smelling tea from a chipped cup with a Sesame Street design on the side.

  “I love the Muppets,” Michelle says, as a way to break the quiet.

  Lily bends one leg up so her foot rests on her chair, her chin resting on the knee of her jeans, and reties her shoelaces. She keeps her eyes on what she’s doing, not looking at Michelle as she speaks.

  “Years ago,” Lily says, picking at the edge of the sole of her sneaker with a thumbnail. “I tried to kill myself. Did you know that?”

  “Yeah,” Michelle says. It’d been mentioned in some of the interviews she’d read when Remember the Stars were first on her radar. She’s always wondered if maybe it was part of why she’d become so invested in the band.