Grey Lore

by Jean Knight Pace

  He ran into the dawn, beating at the confusion with the cold air that burned into his lungs. It was almost eight miles back to his house. By the time he dragged up to the trailer, all that remained from the night was a rasping in his voice. His dad sat on the porch, pale and waiting.

  Sam walked past him and spoke. “So if I ever transform…” Sam asked, limping to the door.

  “Do not go near the ones you love,” his father replied softly.

  Sam stopped.

  “Go inside, son,” his dad said.

  Sam went inside.

  Ella woke the next morning in her bed with her phone beside her, the alarm going off. Everything was in place.

  “So real,” she mumbled, rolling over to turn off her alarm. She’d been sleeping on her side and now it tingled and stabbed all the way up to her shoulder as the nerves came back to life. Her head hurt and her mouth tasted awful. She licked her lips and the dreadful taste on her tongue seemed strange but familiar. She was sure she had the worst morning breath in history.

  She sat up and looked at her phone. In its case, it was perfect. Even the box seemed fine—no new dents or scratches.

  “So real,” she said again, putting the phone down.

  The dream had been a horrible combination of corn maze flashback meets basement horror story. At its end, someone had put her in her bed. She could no longer picture him clearly, though she was sure it was a man. She had asked him how he knew to come and help her.

  “The dogs,” he had said, “are in the fight.”

  “Loco?” she’d asked, her head fuzzy. “He told you?” She’d leaned her head back on the pillow. “He only tells me things in my dreams,” she’d mumbled.

  The man had responded, “Well, child, there will come a time when that changes.”

  Ella pressed her hand into her forehead. Maybe she had a fever. But everything seemed fine. She got up, took a Tylenol for her aching body, and then dressed quickly before going downstairs.

  She walked through the kitchen, then paused at the top of the basement stairs, staring into the darkness below. It had all been so real; she didn’t want to go down there. But she knew that that was why she needed to. Step by step, she walked over to the water valve. Everything was fine. Winter light poured through the basement windows, which were neither broken nor open. It had been a really horrible dream.

  “Ella,” she heard her aunt calling. She jumped.

  “I’m up,” Ella yelled, as she ran up the stairs by twos. She poured a bowl of cereal, hoping that would help wash down the taste on her tongue, and picked up her phone to text Sarah for a ride.

  There, on the screen were two numbers: 9-1.

  She put her spoon in her bowl and stared at them. She must have done it in her sleep. She had never had a dream that vivid before.

  “Sounded like you slept badly last night,” Vivi said, coming into the kitchen with a mud mask still on her face as she poured herself a big cup of coffee.

  “Did it?” Ella asked, still staring at her phone, barely noticing her aunt. “I had some kind of crazy dream.”

  Vivi nodded, and got out a package of bacon.

  “You’re limping,” Ella said.

  “Yeah,” Vivi replied. “I think I’m kind of sore from a workout I did.”

  The tennis lesson. It had made Vivi sore. Ella tried to catch her aunt’s eye, but Vivi had turned to the coffee maker and was topping off her cup.

  “Hurry up, Ella,” she said. “The bus will be here in a minute.”

  Ella still hadn’t texted Sarah, and she definitely didn’t have time to walk, so the bus it would have to be. She brushed her teeth and ran out the door. The only other kid on the bus was a quiet boy who sat in front of her in biology class. They’d once dissected a frog together.

  Ella stopped in the aisle. Her mouth—it had tasted like that smell—the chloroform the dead frogs had come in.

  “Find a seat,” the bus driver said, not sweetly.

  Ella flopped down near the back, the nerves in her head like tiny fires pushing against her skull.

  Chapter 43

  Loco found it first—the large black lump that looked like a garbage bag discarded at the side of the road.

  He circled twice before the half-dead creature growled, barely raising her head, pulling her lips back over her teeth in a way that made her look like the corpse she almost was.

  Jones saw the dogs running—toward the woods that rested at the edge of his cornfield. They would often run for a squirrel or falling leaf, but they would never run with any kind of organized precision. They did now.

  Jones jumped from the table and grabbed his gun.

  The half-dead wolf lay between two trees. Loco stood in front of her pacing. Jones wasn’t sure if that meant he was protecting her from the other dogs, or merely claiming her as his own prize. Either way, Jones ordered the dogs back where they formed a humming, whining, fidgeting clump of disgruntled obedience.

  Jones stood a pace back from the wolf, raised the gun to his shoulder, and took aim.

  It was what he should do. Mercy and justice both demanded it. The wolf was a threat to his animals as well as all the livestock of the other farmers in the area. For all he knew, it had been the one ripping his dogs to shreds all along. But even if wasn’t the guilty wolf, the animal now lay in a drying pool of its own blood. It was clear that the kindest thing he could do was end the animal’s life in the fastest way possible.

  As he raised his eye to the scope, he could see that the wolf was likely a female—slight in frame, a softness in the face the males did not possess. The animal met his gaze, almost seemed to nod, and then looked away, staring through the trees as though eager to look at a thing of beauty on her way out. The animal had given her permission, almost requested that she be shot.

  And yet Jones couldn’t. In that small gesture—the tilt of the head, the stare through the trees, he’d seen every wounded, broken dog he’d ever taken in. He could not now leave her here to die and he could not, it seemed, help to hasten that death.

  So he did another thing he should not have done. He sat, just a few feet away from the animal, gun lowered, and watched her. She placed her head on her paw, defeated, as though resigned now to die a natural, slow death, and with a stranger there to witness it.

  From his pocket, Jones pulled a large strip of jerky, which he pushed toward the wolf with a nearby stick. He placed it directly in front of the animal’s mouth. If she did not eat, he would kill her. But already he could see her sniffing, the tongue tapping against her teeth. And then in a quick movement, she opened her mouth, clamped down on the jerky, and swallowed.

  The farmer pressed his lips together. She would be thirsty now. Jones had brought a water bottle with him, but he didn’t dare move close enough to the wolf to pour it for her. Near him was a large, cradle-shaped piece of bark. He took it, filled it half way with water, and scooted the small vessel toward the wolf. He thought she might not even be able to lift her head to lap it up, but she raised up an inch and let her tongue drop to the water over and over until, exhausted, she rested again against her paw.

  This time, however, when she put her head down, it was with her face toward the farmer. More, he could see her begging, I need more.

  Quietly, he stood. Wolves, he knew, ate several pounds of meat a day. He doubted any kind of kibble would do either.

  He walked back to his house slowly, the dogs running in eager, confused circles around him as he trekked to the chest freezer in the barn. From his freezer, he took two pounds of hamburger meat, which he thawed in the sink. Outside, the dogs were whining for him. The farmer shook his head. He could actually use a little help from Ella right now.

  The girl had not come by since the full moon. Thanksgiving had just passed; Christmas was coming. The girl would surely be busy. And she was a teenager. Into one thing until another caught her eye. Maybe she had a boyfriend, or a new sport, or who knew what else—something more interesting than an old farm. But it w
as clear that the dogs missed her, especially Loco. The truth was that even Jones had gotten used to having her come around.

  When the meat had thawed enough, he put it in a large dish. He walked the road again to the injured wolf, setting the food and some more water near her, then scooting it in her direction. She lifted her head fully this time to eat and drink—one paw pushing her up while the other lay useless and twisted beneath her. That, Jones began to see, was the source of the blood. Or at least one source.

  The next day when he walked out with a pan of bacon fat and several scraps, the black hump was no longer there. He sighed a small breath of relief. She had run off—to die or live, but he had nothing more to do with it. He turned to walk back to his house, and there to the left he saw her, deeper into the corn rows and closer to his property. He pressed his eyebrows together, walked toward the animal and said, “If you’re going to live, you’re going to have to let me bind up that foot. And anything else that needs binding.”

  As if she understood, the wolf rolled to the side revealing the twisted leg and a large gash across her chest that would need stitching.

  “Good glory,” the farmer muttered. “What happened to you?”

  He left the scraps and fat and returned with another bowl of ground pork and a wheelbarrow full of supplies—a pair of scissors, needle, and a small brown bottle. He was wearing thick leather gloves that extended nearly to his shoulders. He hoped they were thick enough.

  He put the food in front of her, then carefully washed and sterilized the foot. She stopped eating for a minute, bared her teeth, and growled, but then went back to the bowl—too hungry to stop him.

  The farmer guessed that the leg had gone numb days ago—damage to the nerves and sinews. She would not use it again, but he could keep infection from forming and spreading up her leg. The wound was different than the little dog Foxy’s, more torn up, like ragged shreds of meat on bone.

  The chest wound was another matter. It was deep and vulnerable—he could never bind such a wound in this position without her biting him. For that wound, he had brought a little something special.

  He’d gotten the tranquilizer from the vet when the attacks had started. He’d wanted to be able to help his dogs if they needed it. Now, as the female wolf gulped down her food, he readied the needle and plunged it into her side.

  In a few minutes she was sedate enough to stitch up. After he was done, he placed her in the wheelbarrow he’d brought his supplies in, and took her to his barn. He’d locked the dogs into the shed.

  He set the wolf on an old towel on the ground, unlocked the shed, and told the dogs to stand in place. They lined up like a group of soldiers—a group of soldiers who whined and fidgeted a lot, but did not break rank.

  “Okay,” the farmer said to them. “I know this is a little different than our usual routine, but you can see she’s in no position to hurt you and you aren’t going to hurt her either.”

  He knew they couldn’t understand his words, but he was pretty sure they still got his meaning.

  Jones looked each of the animals in the eye and then said, “Loco, come.”

  Each dog came forward in turn, sat, and was allowed to sniff the wolf. He wasn’t sure if it would help. He’d brought every kind of bad dog to this group, but he’d never brought something that smelled so wild that even he could sense it. Most of the dogs came forward, usually with their hackles raised and mouths open. Some refused to get close, circling instead. And Foxy stayed back, unmoving.

  Chapter 44

  Ella had planned to take the bus to the farm on Saturday morning—she hadn’t been since Monday and she missed the dogs. But when she came downstairs Vivi was sitting at the table, waiting for her. Ella might have just ignored that except that as soon as Ella got down a box of cereal, Vivi cleared her throat. “Ella,” she said pausing. “Have you thought about the Festival?”

  Ella groaned inside. She had been trying not to think about it. She still didn’t know what to do.

  “A little,” Ella said.

  “And…” Vivi said, “have you decided what you want to do?” Vivi put down the pencil she’d been fiddling with. “I don’t want to pressure you, but Mr. Napper told me yesterday that he needs to know by Monday. If you’re not going to do it, they’ll have to hold an audition for someone else.”

  A lot of things flashed through Ella’s head—twenty-five thousand dollars, the perfect red dress, Napper’s mansion, Jack’s beautiful face.

  But Ella could also see Sarah. She knew her friend would be disappointed not to have a shot at the part. Of course, having a shot wouldn’t mean Sarah would get it. And Ella could tell from the way Sarah talked about Napper that she wasn’t a huge fan. Maybe Sarah wouldn’t even try out.

  Plus, it was obvious that Vivi thought Ella should do the part—that Vivi wanted her to do the part. And they’d had such a hard time connecting. The pros clearly out-stacked the cons. But what seemed right didn’t quite feel right, and that wormed around in Ella’s gut.

  Ella opened her mouth, still not sure whether a yes or no would come out when Vivi tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked out the window. On the back of her aunt’s neck was a small tattoo—a swirling black “C” that looked exactly like the “C” on Ella’s ring. Her aunt—who seemed not to care for her sister at all had once cared enough to tattoo Christa’s initial to her neck. That same woman now cared enough to take in her stranger of a niece and offer her every opportunity that existed in this town. How could she say no?

  “Y-yes,” Ella stammered. “Yes, I’ve decided to do it.”

  Ella let Vivi persuade her to go to a stone-walled, sleek-lined jewelry store at the most expensive corner downtown. Once inside, Vivi led Ella to a case of delicate gold chains that housed deep red garnets of various sizes and shapes.

  “I want to buy you one,” Vivi said, her voice insistent. “To celebrate.”

  Ella shook her head. “Oh no, you don’t have to.”

  “Of course not,” Vivi said, smiling, “but it will look beautiful with your gown, don’t you think?”

  Ella did, but she still resisted. “You’ve already given me so much. It’s okay, really,” Ella said.

  “Ella,” Vivi said, “it’s something I want to do for the only niece, the only family, I have. Please. Choose one.”

  Ella could not resist that. She chose a slender chain with a smooth, bezzled gem. Vivi told the shopkeeper to get some earrings to match.

  Ella had never left a store carrying a plain white bag that held two square boxes tied up with soft ribbon. She’d never walked down a cobbled street with that small weight in her hand, never felt it bump against her leg with the tap of something important. Now she did. People smiled when she passed. She smiled back.

  When she got home, Ella set the boxes on her dresser—they didn’t seem right in her mother’s jewelry box—and carefully folded up the bag and tucked it in her journal.

  The next day a blurb about Ella as the bearer at the Festival sat in the top of the Events section of the Sunday paper. Vivi left it on the table for Ella to see. Ella was pretty sure she hadn’t looked at a newspaper in, well, ever. So she didn’t expect anyone else to notice the news either. She was wrong.

  Monday, when she showed up in school, Brandt stood at her locker, waiting.

  “Heard you’ll be doing the reading at the festival,” he said, falling into step with her as she walked to homeroom.

  “How’d you hear?” Ella asked. She had just barely texted Sarah. Sam didn’t even know yet.

  “Little bird told me,” he said coyly, and then, “My family knows your aunt. And it was in the paper, right?”

  It didn’t take long for Ella to realize what living in a small town really meant. By lunch time, she was pretty sure the whole school had mentioned it to her. She’d been worried about people finding out, but besides a few senior girls in the Thespian club, most of the kids seemed honestly excited for her.

  Ella hadn’t realized how exclud
ed she’d felt until suddenly she wasn’t. People smiled at her as she passed them in the halls, a few kids asked her about it and congratulated her, and several boys stopped to stare as if noticing her for the very first time.

  Ella fought the urge to slouch forward over her books and scamper through the halls. Instead, she pulled her shoulders back and returned smiles until her face hurt. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and answered questions about the dress and shoes she would wear.

  That night Vivi was on the computer when she called Ella over. “I’m ordering some things from Anna’s Boutique in Chicago. You want anything?”

  Ella tentatively picked out a striped crewneck shirt.

  “Anything else?” Vivi asked. “They’re having a holiday sale.”

  Ella bent under the small pressure. She picked out two pairs of skinny jeans, a sweater, another shirt, and some chandelier earrings.

  Two days later the box arrived. And just like that, the misfit orphan on the fringe who walked through ditches to school was a person of importance in her town.

  That weekend she went with Vivi to get her hair cut. She let herself be talked into some wine-colored highlights. And later that week they went back for manicures.

  All the beauticians commented on her beauty, her grace—from her nail beds to her soft heels.

  “You must be so proud,” they told Vivi.

  And, strangest of all, Vivi did look proud. Or at least not tired. Ella was no longer a cumbersome accessory her aunt had to drag around. She was now a prize worthy of display. Ella tried to let that annoy her, but as the contact list on her phone filled up and any guy at the country club was happy to invite her for tennis, she found she didn’t care that much if she was an accessory for her aunt or not. It was good to be included, wanted, respected. Her mother would surely have approved.