Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  “Sibling rivalry is normal,” Dr. Turner said.

  Izzy shrugged. “I guess, but there were still these awful twinges of it when we got older after I moved to New York. He stayed close to home. Mom, Dad and Alan were the Three Musketeers. They always felt like the real family.”

  “You were the interloper?”

  “Feels that way.”

  “Feels?”

  “Yes,” Izzy said, confounded at Dr. Turner’s fixation on the word. Two clicks later and she realized she’d used the present tense. Feeling like an outsider in her own family hadn’t gone away with Alan’s death, it had intensified. In her mind, she didn’t deserve her life, selfish thing that she was. She should have died that day at Keene Lodge, not Alan. Nothing she did, no accolade she won could fill the vacancy he left. She was a grim monument of her family’s tragedy, and so she avoided them so she would not burden them or herself with the memories. Vocalizing those thoughts should have been her next step, but Izzy didn’t take it. She knew Dr. Turner didn’t miss the loaded quality of the silence. While her therapist didn’t press the issue, the sharp-minded woman wouldn’t forget it either.

  “What’s your biggest fear about this budding relationship with Curtis?” Dr. Turner had set her pad and pen aside after completing her notes.

  “That I’ll need him as much as I needed them. Mom and Dad, I mean, and Alan. That nothing he gives me will be enough. That I’ll want precedence above all things.”

  “And if he wants you at the top of his priorities?”

  “No one wants that.” Izzy plucked at a nonexistent bit of lint from her sweater.

  Dr. Turner narrowed her eyes. “Are you going to the lodge this weekend or are you going to use these texts and your inadvertent breach of this man’s privacy as a barrier?”

  Izzy didn’t respond right away. Seconds ticked by on the red cat clock above Dr. Turner’s fastidiously neat desk. Its eyes and tail swished back and forth and its rhinestone studded bow tie sparkled in the lamp light.

  “I think I’ll go,” she said.

  • • •

  “How fares Casanova?”

  Curtis flipped his phone shut and glared at Gerome, who perched on the back of the main building’s couch, an unwelcome cawing buzzard hovering at his shoulder. In fact, the text he’d just read had come from Izzy. His heart had jumped when he saw her name on the green-lighted screen. She would come, and she’d asked if she could call that evening to discuss their plans.

  Of course, he’d typed out with his clumsy thumb. That she hadn’t called during the week for small talk had dented his ego. Maybe she hadn’t found him irresistible and charming. Impossible. Aggie, his dad’s second wife and Curtis’s honorary Ma, always said those were two of his most attractive qualities.

  “Number three is compassion,” she’d said and slapped him gently on the cheek.

  Curtis rolled his eyes. Compassion got a wolf zip in a pack, no matter where it got him with the ladies.

  “So, is she coming? Or do I get a crack at her?” Gerome made a kissy noise right in Curtis’s ear. Clear-Skies flooded his veins and coiled through his bones like liquid ice. Fists clenched, he strove to ignore the taunt, but he didn’t call back his wolf. If Gerome kept at it, let the beast come. They’d teach the pup a lesson he’d had coming for a long time.

  Gerome oofed when Melinda shoved a construction itinerary into his gut. “You could make yourself useful instead of pissing off our Beta. You’re monitoring cabins six through ten. All the Alpha ass-kissing you do won’t be for shit if you split the pack, yeah?”

  “Aw, Lin, I don’t want nothing happening to the pack. I just want a turn with the bait meat before Rapid gets to her and there’s nothing left but scraps.”

  Curtis saw red. He leapt to his feet, spun, and dropped a growing, warping hand atop Gerome’s skull. Claws burgeoned from his fingertips and dug through skin and bone. Gerome shrieked when Curtis pitched him backward. The man’s body sailed overhead and slammed onto the coffee table, his lightweight frame no more burden to Curtis’s spirit-bolstered strength than a jumble of bound twigs. He leapt on Gerome and dug his claws into the man’s cheeks.

  “No. Wolf. Will. Touch. Her.” Curtis’s voice distorted to a growl. Gerome’s bones creaked in his grip. Blood wept from the punctures in his pack mate’s cheeks and the deep grooves torn from his scalp.

  “Stop. Both of you.” Thomas’s command cut through the whining buzz in Curtis’s ears. “Curtis, let go of Gerome and get hold of yourself.”

  With no choice but to obey, Curtis released his pack mate and drew Clear-Skies back. Straightening and shaking, Gerome looked murderous, his reddened face — its wounds already healing thanks to Leaf-On-A-Swift-Stream — twisting with contained rage. He likely would have retaliated if Thomas hadn’t intervened.

  “Gerome, Melinda, get to your cabins. Work crews are already unloading. I want a few minutes with Curtis.”

  The Alpha’s eyes didn’t leave his Beta’s while the rest of the pack filed out. When they were alone Thomas said, “You’re losing it.”

  “No.” Curtis couldn’t manage more than single word answers and stunted phrases with Clear-Skies so edgy.

  “Have you heard from the lady in question?”

  Bringing his chin down in affirmation, Curtis dug his now human nails into his palms. Pain brought his wolf further in check. Clear-Skies’s essence no longer threatened his senses or reasoning.

  “I have.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “She’ll be here. Tomorrow if I have my way.”

  “Good work.” Thomas took a seat on the couch. Curtis remained standing. “And your plan once she gets here? I’m doubting the wisdom of my choice with that little display. Dispassion is a wolf’s greatest asset. A wolf who would be leader, anyhow. That’s why I make the plans and you execute them. Give me a run down.” He curled his hand in a “come here” gesture, rested his elbows on his thighs, and cradled his chin in his hands.

  At attention, Curtis informed his Alpha what he planned for Izzy. When he finished, Thomas sucked in his cheeks.

  “So, we’re to tiptoe around her, then? A tall order for a bunch of rowdy dogs.”

  “We can do it, Thomas. Quietly. We’re smart enough. We can scale the wall instead of smashing through it.”

  Thomas rose and clapped his Beta on the chest. “Whatever you say, son.” Clear-Skies went spiny at the condescending endearment and freezing, spectral spikes lanced Curtis’s heart. He sucked in a breath.

  I am not your son.

  “You get one shot at this. If I think you’re slipping, I’m taking over,” Thomas said.

  “I’ll handle it,” Curtis eked out through gritted teeth.

  Chapter Ten

  Thursday evening, Izzy called Curtis and figured out her trip to DeConing. His tone as they planned carried a touch of resignation she didn’t understand, but he sounded more pleased than anything. Whether she’d accepted Cutis’s invitation or not, Izzy had planned to close the studio on Friday and Monday and, along with a verbal reminder to all her students, had posted paper notices on the doors, a banner on the website’s front page, and an announcement on the answering machine.

  Curtis would pick her up Friday afternoon, they’d fetch Nook, and head to the lodge. Izzy mentioned driving herself so he wouldn’t have to drive back to the city on Sunday, but he insisted on humans and dog in the same vehicle. If Nook got anxious, he wanted her close.

  At Izzy’s apartment by eleven A.M., Curtis leaned over and shoved open the passenger side door. The interior smelled of wood and Curtis’s deodorant, which came across strongest. The scent teleported her back to middle school, trudging through the halls between classes and brushing by a boy she’d liked. He’d smelled the same as this man, clean and natural. Music blasted from the
stereo, a cacophony of shouting men and distorted guitars and thundering drums. Curtis dialed back the volume and Izzy’s heart, which jittered with the pounding bass, thanked him for it.

  “I like to blast it on long trips by myself. Pick something out if you want.”

  Retrieving the black canvas CD case at her feet, Izzy flipped through Curtis’s collection. He didn’t own a single album she’d ever listen to. C’est la vie. She selected a band she’d at least heard of and slid the disc into the player.

  Nook was happy to see them. Well, he was happy to see Izzy. His tail wagged when the volunteer for the day led him out from the back of the kennel. He still shrank from Curtis, but gave his new owner’s palm a curious lick when he offered his hand. Leash wrapped around her fingers, Izzy led the husky out of the shelter and corralled him into the backseat of the Jeep. Nook spent most of the ride to DeConing with his nose at the cracked rear window or pressed to Izzy’s cheek. Sometimes he paced behind the driver’s seat and gave his new master an inquisitive sniff, retreating if Curtis paid this any mind.

  Keene Lodge’s parking lot was deserted. Izzy frowned at the empty spaces as the car came to a halt and she unbuckled her seat belt.

  “Light season?” she asked.

  “No.” Curtis grabbed his cell from the circular cup holder in the partition between their seats. “We’re renovating all the guest cabins, so we closed until the end of January. November through February are spotty months anyhow. We pick up in March.”

  Taking stock of the nearby grounds, Izzy noted wire stemmed signs for Davenport Construction Co. planted in the frost-covered earth, black trails of tire tracked mud, and a lone forklift parked near mountainous stacks of fresh lumber. The forklift’s yellow paint job struck the gray and black landscape like a patch of sun she wished would make an appearance through the low clouds blanketing the sky. Her shoulders drooped. This wasn’t the sort of cover that broke up in the late afternoon. It could snow.

  Curtis commandeered Nook’s leash when they released him from the car. Izzy circled to the trunk for her duffel when Curtis called to her.

  “We’ll come back for your bag. I want to introduce Nook and Petey first. If it’s too cold, you can head inside the main house. Should be a fire going and I won’t be long.”

  “That’s ok. I’ll come, too.”

  Izzy followed Curtis up the hilly incline. Ice crunched with her steps. Taking her prosthetic in his free hand, he helped her up the slope as Nook strained against his lead, catching scent and sight of the other dog. Having her right hand held like her left made her uncomfortable, but there was no one to notice if her fingers didn’t twine around his, and she didn’t pull away.

  In a tizzy inside his pen, Petey pushed his shining, black nose through the wood slats, wuffing at the approaching company. He pitched back and forth, barking and barking when they hesitated several feet away. Curtis handed over Nook’s leash to Izzy.

  “Would you hold him a minute? I want Petey calm before we get the two of them together.”

  Vaulting over the gate, Curtis pelted to the middle of the fenced in plot and Petey tore after him. Crouching, Curtis slapped his hands on his thighs and teased the dog. “Where’s your ball? Where is it?”

  A flash of white sped over the dead grass and disappeared into a raised doggy hutch. The Samoyed emerged with a red squeaky ball crushed in his teeth. The ball, its inner squeak deflated with use, wheezed in a steady beat as the dog trotted to his owner.

  Part of playtime consisted of Curtis trying to wrestle the ball from Petey. Each time he reached for the toy, the dog jumped away or tossed its head. Walking away from the hound, Curtis enticed the animal to him with his apparent loss of interest. Somehow, he intuited when Petey encroached into his personal space, whipped around, and chased him across the lawn, finally scooping the dog into his arms and wrenching the ball from his jaws. The moment his paws touched the ground, Petey’s head dipped low and his butt wagged in the air. A rousing game of catch ensued. Nook yipped and tugged against the leash whenever the ball arced over the play space.

  “Go ahead and let him in,” Curtis said, eyeing Nook’s swishing tail.

  Izzy unlatched the gate, coaxed the husky forward and un-tethered him, grateful for Curtis’s tight grip on the back of Petey’s neck. The Samoyed clearly wanted to properly greet all visitors in his territory with a facial tongue bath and tried slipping his master’s ironclad hold. Providing distraction so she could slip outside the pen, Curtis released Petey and lobbed the ball to the back fence. Both dogs bounded after it. Being closer, Petey got there first.

  There was a time out while the dogs circled and sniffed each other. Petey happily barked and jumped all around the new addition to Curtis’s makeshift family. Nook wasn’t half as hyper or gregarious, but took the attention in stride, giving the Samoyed’s snoot a lick or two, which Petey tried to dodge and supplant with his own fierce grooming to the husky’s ears. Occupied with each other, they forgot the fetch game and Curtis snuck up and plucked the discarded ball from the ground. He jogged to the gate where Izzy waited.

  “Can you stand a few more throws?” The ball went up and down as Curtis tossed and caught it and Petey dashed to his master, abandoning his new sibling to squirm his way up to his purloined toy.

  “Sure,” Izzy said and smiled, hoping she concealed her discomfort. It really was a blustery afternoon. Maybe she would head inside after all. “He doesn’t get cold out here all day?” She nodded at Petey who twisted under Curtis’s arm and snorted when he couldn’t close his jaws around the ball.

  Pushing the dog’s head down, Curtis said, “Samoyeds and huskies are cold weather breeds, but there’s a doggy door in the porch.” He waved at the glass-enclosed deck tacked to the back of the main building. “It’s heated. When the weather gets rough he heads in there or his dog house.” He threw the ball away and the brothers chased it down. A minor squabble broke out once during play when Nook beat Petey to the ball. Curtis settled that in a moment with a single, baritone shout. Another time he threw the ball too far and it went over the main building’s roof.

  “Ah, gimmie a sec,” he called to Izzy and hopped up the porch steps, opening the windowed door and entering the covered deck.

  Izzy leaned on the fence and watched the dogs cavort. Perhaps she’d join them once Curtis got back. Throw the ball herself. Looked like fun. They weren’t vicious wolves, after all. They were Curtis’s family.

  Completely absorbed in her musings, Izzy didn’t hear the nearing footsteps at her back and only realized she wasn’t alone when someone — someone very strong — grabbed her arm and she couldn’t stop herself from screaming.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Whoa, hey! Sorry about that!” The man — and woman — at Izzy’s rear backed off. It was the man who’d grabbed her and there was something about him, besides his disregard of personal space, she didn’t like. His blue, blood-shot eyes never stopped moving. They roved over her body head to toe and his appraisal made her feel greasy, like she stood on a stage offering him her backside for a crinkled dollar bill. The woman, wisps of red hair escaping her wool cap, watched him, lips compressed.

  “You’re Isabelle, aren’t you?” His raspy voice raked over her like grimy fingernails and she shuddered. His flicking eyes lingered on hers when he spoke and she felt compelled to look away, which she refused to do. Instead, she stared right back at him and rolled back her shoulders.

  Fuck you, she communicated wordlessly. This lanky whip of muscle and ropey extremities would not intimidate her. A feral cast to his eyes and stance reminded her of a desperate, mangy dog and swallowing became difficult with her suddenly dry throat.

  The man’s upper lip twitched and he moved forward. The woman grabbed his arm.

  “Gerome,” she said, warning. Behind them, Nook growled. He and Petey took in the confrontation, Nook with teeth bared and Pet
ey for once motionless. The Samoyed’s tail, ears, and eyes were all alert.

  The front door blasted open. Curtis leapt down the main building’s front steps, nearly tumbling when he hit the ground. “Hey, hey!” He sprinted to the trio, skidding next to Izzy.

  “Curtis.” Gerome dropped his head and backed in line with the redhead. “Just introducing ourselves to your new,” he inhaled sharply through his nose, “friend. You’ve been the talk of the lodge, Isabelle. We’re pleased to meet you.” His toothy smile was as warm as the ice at their feet.

  “Yeah.” The redhead butted Gerome aside with her hip and extended her mittened hand. “I’m Melinda, Isabelle, and this is Gerome.”

  Izzy took Melinda’s hand and shook it. The girl — for now that Izzy had a good look at her she saw the redhead slouched with the careless posture of youth, like nothing much mattered or affected her — was a lefty, thank goodness. While Melinda spoke, her gaze moved between Izzy and Curtis and often rested there, some silent communication passing between them. Despite the redhead’s welcome, which struck Izzy as genuine, she was shut out of this group as surely as if she milled in another room, staring out at them from behind bulletproof glass. And she couldn’t stop the thoughts. Wicked little things like winding, black vines snaking in her brain.

  Had either of these two sent the texts? If so, was it Melinda? Lily studied the girl looking so intently at Curtis. Her gray eyes were striking set against her heart-shaped face flushed with cold. Her chin came to a delicate point and her sweet, pink lips made a perfect bow. A smattering of freckles patched her temples and the bridge of her nose.

  “Knock it off, Lin,” Curtis barked out of nowhere. What the girl had done to provoke Curtis, Izzy didn’t know, but his features were severe as sharpened metal. She sidled closer to Curtis, touching his hand, and Melinda’s eyes lowered.

  Creaking from the lodge’s direction momentarily diffused the strange tension. A man as large as Curtis, possibly thicker, with a head of silvery hair, ambled down the steps. The screen door banged shut behind him. He took his time coming to the foursome. Melinda and Gerome moved aside, clearing his path to the pair standing hand in hand. Curtis wrapped his arm around Izzy’s waist.