Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  “I’ve got him. I promise.”

  With one deep, winter-cold breath, Izzy propelled herself into the open pen. She tucked her stiff right arm over her belly as she approached the pair.

  “Pretty lady, come on down,” Curtis said in a pitch perfect Price Is Right imitation while she stood staring down at them, fiddling with her purse strap.

  “Izzy,” she said. “My name’s Isabelle.”

  Curtis’s eyes crinkled with his smile. “Izzy, this is Petey. Petey, Izzy.” He mussed the fur between the Samoyed’s ears. Petey gave an appreciative wuff and she flinched. Two sets of eyes, one black, the other brown, focused on her with the same predatory sheen.

  “Sudden movements provoke a hunter’s instinct,” Curtis warned. Though he still smiled, the alien intensity of his gaze was unnerving. Izzy made to retreat, but the expression vanished as quickly as it came. He tugged on her navy pea-coat and reached for the hand wound tight around her purse strap. She gave him what he wanted, shocked at the heat reaching through her glove. If her hands had been naked as his, they’d have been blue with cold. The hand he squeezed was numb despite her thick glove. Relishing his warmth through the leather, she sank to her knees, frigid damp bleeding through her denim.

  Curtis guided Izzy’s hand between Petey’s ears. She curled her black clad fingers into his white fur and offered a tentative pat. The dog stretched its muzzle to her face and sniffed while she tried to keep still.

  “You been up here before?” Curtis asked. His nostrils flared. “You seem awful familiar.”

  “I used to hike the trails here with my brother. We’d get a cabin for a long weekend once a year.” A wet nose nuzzled Izzy’s cheek. Instinctively, she pushed at the dog’s chest. Petey lowered his head and she patted his side. “We haven’t been back for years. You either have an excellent memory or you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

  “No mistake,” Curtis said as he moved behind Petey. “My memory’s pretty good.” His body loomed over the animal. Petey wriggled nervously for a moment then settled down. Even if he lunged at her Izzy was sure Curtis could hold him back. She was so wrapped up with the dog, Curtis startled her when he caught her right arm, circling his fingers around the wrist she never let anyone touch.

  “His fur is real soft,” Curtis said, coaxing the glove from her hand.

  “No.” Izzy went rigid. If she struggled, who knew what the dog would do?

  “He won’t bite you, trust me. God, what are you, frozen solid? I can barely move your fingers.” He laughed as he tugged off the glove.

  The warmth in Curtis’s face disappeared when he stared down at her bared hand. Izzy’s doll-like prosthetic rested lifeless in his palm, its jointed fingers bent in what she considered a “natural” position. Natural as long as no one looked close. She yanked her right arm to her chest and cradled it with her left and abruptly stood, driving Petey into a barking frenzy.

  “Wait, I’m sorry. I … I didn’t know.”

  Izzy could tell Curtis wanted to rise, but he had his hands full with the dog she’d excited. Petey’s white teeth flashed as he strained against his master’s hold. Her heart leapt with every piercing bark.

  Without another word, Izzy took off across the lawn, sprinting for her car while Curtis called after her.

  • • •

  Thud, thud, thud.

  Curtis banged his head on the desk.

  “I am a massive idiot. Massive.”

  “You know, when I say that you get all huffy and defensive.” Light from the clunky PC monitor caught in the flyaway strands frizzing out from Melinda’s head and gave her a bluish case of St. Elmo’s fire. She sat in her usual place behind the front desk and spun in her office-style swivel chair while Curtis berated himself. He’d pulled up one of the two worn, leather armchairs usually situated near the crackling fireplace so he could peer over Melinda’s shoulder while she called up all the websites he wanted. Keene Lodge belonged to Curtis, but you’d never know it if he tried to use the main building’s computer or phone. All items on the secretarial side of the desk, including the floor, were Melinda’s domain, and that domain extended to the stables and nature trails the redhead favored.

  Curtis lifted his head and massaged the goose egg his pounding created. “When you say it, it’s out of spite and untrue, and, in this case, I really am an idiot. I knew she smelled familiar.”

  Isabelle Tunskill stared back at him from the computer screen. Even the harsh, digital photo couldn’t diminish the ethereal quality of her delicate features. Pale and slender, she’d appeared like a breathtaking phantom gliding over Curtis’s front lawn and he, brute that he was, had chased her off with his noise and no manners. If he’d just stopped and used his brain, he might not have made such an ass of himself. He squeezed the glove she’d left behind. Haunting, dark eyes chided him from the screen.

  “Ah-ahgh,” he hid his face in his hands, toughened over the years with work. Why hadn’t he recognized her? Izzy Tunskill was, besides his parents and the pack, the most pivotal figure in his thirty-two year existence. And the most tragic.

  “Good riddance,” Thomas grumbled from the couch. With a Navajo blanket folded under his head like a pillow, he reclined over the couch’s expanse, ticking off items on the construction schedule — construction tome, more like — attached to a clipboard near to bursting.

  Curtis stifled the growl rumbling up his throat. Of course Thomas maligned Izzy. Curtis had gone against him for her, hadn’t he? And he’d never done that before. Not since either. No doubt she stirred unpleasant memories for all the pack, save Melinda, who hadn’t joined them until a year after the Tunskill debacle. Keene Lodge took some nasty press, and he and Thomas and Gerome — Curtis begrudgingly acknowledged Gerome — had gone through hell rebuilding their reputation. They’d shut down the grounds for the next couple of months to accommodate all the cabin overhauls. New construction would put the finishing touches on Keene Lodge’s new image: family friendly, rustic chic (Melinda’s influence), and no killer beasts prowling the nature trails … hopefully. They’d never caught Rapid, their old pack member who now lurked somewhere in the Rockies.

  “Maybe I could email her?” Curtis brainstormed out loud. Like a shoeshine rag, he held Izzy’s glove in two hands and rubbed it back and forth over his thigh.

  “Good idea.” Melinda toggled from the local newspaper’s web-archived copy of one of the bajillion articles on Izzy and Keene Lodge to the Glazier Studio’s homepage. “Dear Isabelle, I know you don’t know me, but I recognized you by smell and I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime.” Curtis grumbled, but Melinda took no note. “I like long walks on hiking trails, hunting, and peeing with one leg lifted. By the way, I’m a Werewolf, but I swear I won’t chew your furniture or rip out your throat. That thing with Rapid was a huge misunderstanding, honest. Yours truly, Curtis Keene.”

  “Thanks for that, Lin.” Curtis ruffled her curly hair, making a mess of it. “I appreciate your support.”

  Sees-Through-Clear-Skies, Curtis’s wolf spirit, which was currently a blue light within his chest, flared and sparked, the abstract equivalent of a disgruntled bristle. Curtis’s agitation had prodded his wolf to wakefulness and his mind momentarily tangled with a surge of raw animalism. When Clear-Skies settled down into his usual steady pulse, Curtis’s thoughts grew coherent once more. The more active, or excited, his wolf, the less human his thought process became until beast came first and man second. By then, of course, he’d usually sprouted fangs, claws, and a tail and tacked a couple feet onto his already substantial six foot four frame. It was a careful daily dance living with a wolf spirit, but one he performed well.

  “Enough about the prima ballerina,” Thomas said. “I need the two of you focused on construction. We have a lot of work coming up on top of the usual pack business.”

  Melinda saluted their A
lpha behind his back and returned to her ca-chack, ca-chack, ca-chacking at the keyboard. No pack member could disobey their leader’s direct command when he invoked the Alpha’s power. Not without enduring a great deal of pain. Curtis knew all about that. The order, a static shock in his brain, prevented further speech about Izzy, but Thomas couldn’t regulate Curtis’s thoughts and she consumed them. Her face, her body, her smell; he snuck a whiff of her glove. Plastic and vanilla suffused the leather. Vanilla came across strongest. He ran his tongue over his top lip. Did she taste as sweet as she smelled? Probably.

  In the newspaper photo, Izzy looked tired and frail, but she’d filled out — as much as a ballerina did — since the accident. Her lanky, athletic build she’d covered in very tight jeans, for which he sang her praises, and a heavy wool coat. Despite her recovered fleshiness and muscle, her slight figure and white skin gave her a spectral appearance. He’d expected her to vanish into the dismal haze when he’d spotted her that morning. Lifting her glove to his face, he took another deep inhale.

  A sharp, familiar scent invaded Curtis’s nostrils and Clear-Skies went bright and spiky in his chest; he felt like he swallowed a popsicle whole.

  Enemy, enemy, enemy, his wolf snarled.

  Everyone in the main room focused on the front door. Outside, Petey barked over and over, his vicious warnings echoing in the otherwise quiet evening. The scent weakened and then dissipated entirely.

  “Well then,” Thomas set down his clipboard. “I believe Isabelle Tunskill might have her uses after all. Night’s-Rapid-Water never could leave crippled prey alone.”

  In wolf form, Curtis’s fur would have stood on end and he would have bared his teeth at the man proprietarily seated on his couch. But blood lust lit his Alpha’s eyes. Curtis saw the wolf in him, Mountain’s-Might, gleefully capering behind them. Thomas’s next words arced through him like electric current, laced with the Alpha’s will.

  “I don’t care how you do it, but get down to Tavella and bring me Isabelle Tunskill.”

  Clear-Skies leapt like blue flame at the challenge and Curtis’s muscles coiled tight. They were on the hunt, but why, oh why, did it have to be her?

  Chapter Two

  A mixture of pride and jealousy swelled in Isabelle’s throat as she directed the line of lithe bodies at the barre. Girls ages ten to twelve, hair pinned in impeccable buns, eyes fixed on their reflections in the mirrored wall, schooled their faces in focused concentration. Pink slippered feet stretched and pointed in tendu as the warm-up music garbled into a discordant warble before clearing into the fuzzy thrum of piano keys. The record was ancient — the same one Izzy had warmed up to when she’d been a student at Glazier Studio. Nostalgia made her smile. Nothing in the world smelled like a ballet studio. She inhaled as the girls progressed into the dégagé series, lifting their pointed feet off the floor in a sweeping gesture. Leather, hairspray, fresh vinyl, and cold air melded with recollections of dorm life and grueling schedules — which she’d loved — at the School of American Ballet. She cocooned herself in the hazy reminiscence of the best times of her life.

  It was a mixed blessing Madame Glazier needed an instructing assistant when Izzy had left New York permanently. She’d never intended to slide on her tights and slippers again after her accident, but the routine of holding class, the familiar positions, steps, jumps, and stretches drew her out of the crushing depression that threatened her each time mind and body went too long unoccupied. All the girls in their black leotards and flimsy waist wraps, all of them had a chance at a future forever closed to Izzy. Sometimes she couldn’t help but envy them. Madame Glazier had all but retired within six months of Izzy’s acceptance of her teaching position. Izzy ran the studio in her stead.

  When the girls took the barre with their left hands, Izzy turned their instruction over to her assistant, Claire Monahan. The petite blond counted time and demonstrated proper form when one of the girls got sloppy. Their students needed to see the best form of each step and pose to advance. They couldn’t mimic the clumsy movements of Izzy’s prosthetic. Not if they wanted to excel. Madame Glazier trusted Izzy with her legacy. Girls who studied at the Glazier Studio often placed in summer classes at the School of American Ballet, SAB for short, and Madame Glazier boasted three soloists in the New York City Ballet and numerous others who went on to prestigious companies throughout the nation. She wouldn’t let Madame down, or the students who came to her because they loved dance. Knowing the simple joy of the single perfected steps combined into a fluid grace, she could not deny them that. And some days she was truly happy watching them, knowing she had a hand in their development.

  This was the last class of the evening. Anxious parents milled at the ceiling to floor length windows facing the downtown street, watching daughters complete their final stretches and deepen their splits. Izzy cringed. Arty Purcell, one of the city’s resident homeless, made his rounds with his outstretched Styrofoam cup. A stained trench coat hung off his spindly frame. When was the last time he’d used any of his panhandled funds for food? Izzy had him picked up a couple times when she couldn’t run him off. He’d never tried anything with her or her students, but parents didn’t like him hanging around the studio. There was a reason she kept the doors locked all day. It only took one man wandering in off the street “just ’cause” to ruthlessly enforce security precautions. When she gave Arty the eye through the glass, he took the hint and scuttled off.

  Izzy chatted with mothers and fathers as they retrieved their daughters, praising their achievements no matter how small. Encouragement was essential for the beginner and intermediate classes. She addressed problems with form and discipline only with those who were ready to dance for a lifetime. With them, she was brutally honest. She never told anyone they couldn’t dance. Anyone could. Limitations — height, weight, weak ankles, flat feet, poor footwork — weren’t impossibilities, but a dedication to overcoming them was a necessity.

  Those limitations were not like Izzy’s arm. True, there were handicapped dancers in the world, but none in any company she cared to join. There was nothing wrong with those companies, but no one would suggest a pro football player who’d blown both his knees join a flag football league to boost his spirits. Performance at the highest level was all she tolerated from herself. Having tasted it once, a smaller company would never satisfy and if she didn’t feel her best, she couldn’t give the corps her best.

  After the studio emptied, Izzy checked the messages left during classes, changed into street clothes — her left fingers still tripped over buttons — and shoved her gear into her dance bag. She’d had the pink duffle since her inception at SAB. It was falling apart. She’d sewn the strap back on at least ten times. Slinging the worn bag across her chest, she hit the lights, and stepped into the frigid Tavella night.

  “Ain’t got nothing for me tonight, pretty lady?” Arty fell into step behind Izzy, his stiff legged stride taxed by her loping pace. His tattered trench coat billowed out like a cape. He was too close. She felt his presence behind her and slipped her fingers around the can of mace tucked in her coat pocket.

  “Not tonight, Arty.” Izzy kept her eyes on the path ahead. She made a beeline for her SUV parked near the curb. Glittering frost dusted the black paint. There hadn’t been snowfall for a week, but filthy slush banked against the buildings that lined the wet sidewalk and clogged gutters along the street. Her foot slid in the icy slop, sending her off kilter, and her heart leapt the way it did when she almost fell down a set of stairs. Abandoning the mace, she fumbled for her keys. She should have had them ready before she left the studio. Why didn’t she have them ready? Intimidating Arty with a group of protective parents wasn’t a problem, but she was all alone here. She fought with the Velcro pocket on the front of her bag, reassured by the jingle of metal.

  The duffel strap bit into her neck and chest when Arty yanked on the slack. Izzy stopped so fast she skidded and nearly co
llapsed. Arty spun her around and clutched at the bag.

  “Holding out on me, girl?” A mélange of booze and sweat rolled off Arty. With the man at her back, Izzy had been spared his stench, but facing him she got the full assault. The booze had her worried. The bum was aggravating and off-putting sober. When he’d been at the bottle all day she’d seen him get belligerent. She couldn’t believe he put his hands on her and was too pissed to be scared.

  “Let go, Arty, or you’ll be spending the night in jail.” Threatening him with the cops usually cut through his drunken haze. Not tonight.

  “My bag, not yours.” Arty twisted his mouth in a malicious pout and wound the strap around his fist, tugging Izzy closer. His yellowed eyes were wide and dazed.

  Izzy’s functional hand closed around the mace in her pocket. “You really want to fuck off now, Arty.” She didn’t wait for a response or reaction, just whipped the can out of her pocket and nailed him in the face with the chemical spray. He screeched and clawed at his eyes. He hadn’t released the strap and Izzy collided with him when he staggered. They both hit the slick pavement in a flailing jumble.

  Trying to disentangle herself, Izzy pushed at Arty’s chest and he lashed out, swiping her face. A glancing blow, but his chemical covered fingers left searing trails over her neck and cheek. She yelped and was kicking at him ineffectually when strong hands gripped her shoulders and hauled her up. The strap across her chest snapped under the tension and her dance bag whomped onto Arty’s chest. He hooted his triumph and, unmindful of his inflamed skin and squinched eyes, wobbled to his feet. He squeezed between two cars at the curb and galloped into the busy street. Tires squealed and horns blared as he blindly cut across traffic.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” someone said over Izzy’s head and whoever held her upright let go. She stumbled back and caught herself on the closest building’s brick wall.