Grey Lore

by Jean Knight Pace

  Napper—in all his genius—had often overlooked the obvious, ignoring something he considered human folly. Something like young love. Until that human folly took off in one of his best cars with the human sisters he’d been cultivating at The Ranch for a very long time.

  The car had exploded at the bottom of the cliff. Cliché of course, but when a plan is cooked up by two twenty-something young males—one of them totally love sick and one of them desperate to escape, explosions just make sense. And it had worked. For many years the four of them were thought dead.

  After the explosion, they had separated—Patrick and Christa going to the nearest town to elope; Vivian hitchhiking her way across the state and eventually meeting Robert; and him, Witten—limping away. He was sure he’d get caught by the Alpha until he was found instead by a hunter and his dogs—the hurt ankle healed, a square, copper piece of metal extracted from the wound.

  In retrospect Ella realized that she should have made Vivi brownies or at least a good cup of coffee.

  As it was, she brought up the adoption of Loco just after dinner on Monday night. Vivi did not blow up exactly. Her words were as cool and clear as ever. But her jaw clenched shut with a strange little click and her eyes rounded into angry, dark discs. “You have been going to this farm without my permission?”

  Ella was slightly taken back. As far as she knew she hadn’t really needed permission for anything. Vivi didn’t much seem to care where she went, or with whom.

  “I…I’m sorry,” Ella said. “I didn’t realize I needed permission.”

  “The farm is several miles out, in the middle of nowhere. The dogs run loose. What if one had bitten you? Or something else had happened?”

  Something else had happened at that farm, much worse than a dog bite, but now didn’t seem like the best time to mention the corn maze attack.

  “It’s safe,” Ella said, feeling the lie in her voice as she said it. She hadn’t been safe the first time she’d gone to the farm. And she hadn’t felt safe the last time she’d been there either. In fact, part of the reason she wanted to adopt Loco was to get him off of the farm and closer to her.

  “Frankly, Ella, that farm has a reputation. And it’s not one of safety.”

  “What do you mean?” Ella asked.

  “They run that corn maze. Several times people have been lost in it.”

  “Oh,” Ella said as neutrally as possible. She didn’t want Vivi to know that she already knew that.

  “When the lost were recovered, some were okay, but one had a serious concussion and at least three had to be admitted to the psychiatric institution for several days due to some strange side effects that they were suffering.”

  That was new.

  “Some kind of emotional trauma?” Ella asked.

  “I suppose,” Vivi said. “They were talking jibberish by the time they were found—moaning about the things they’d heard—dogs and talking and some such nonsense.”

  “And the man who runs it,” Vivi continued. “Look, he’s probably perfectly nice, but he’s known for not hiring any hands. He likes to work alone. A single, older man being with you alone is not a safe environment for a young girl. Do you understand what I’m saying?” Vivi looked at her in a way that made Ella extra sure she didn’t want Vivi to have to explain.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ella said softly.

  Vivi turned to leave, and Ella blurted, “But Vivi, I’ve already been to the farm and I’m fine. I won’t go back,” she added quickly, seeing Vivi’s look. “But could we at least go out and adopt the dog? We wouldn’t even have to go to the farm. We would meet at the Humane Society to sign the papers.”

  “The Humane Society,” Vivi almost barked, and then more quietly she said. “Ella, look, I’m sorry, but I’m incredibly allergic to dogs. I can’t go to the Humane Society. And a dog is simply out of the question.”

  Ella was not used to pressing her aunt. She had never needed to. “I could keep him out back, tied up or something.”

  A small muscle twitched in Vivi’s cheek. It had been a terrible suggestion.

  “Or maybe even kenneled somehow and I could visit him on weekends,” she added quickly. “Like people do with horses.”

  “That hardly seems worth the expense or energy, Ella. I’m sorry. I know you must have had your heart set on this dog, but it’s not something we can do right now.” Her aunt paused. “Or ever.”

  Ella felt the tears like a busted pipe. She turned from her aunt, but not quickly enough.

  “Ella,” Vivi said. “What was it you called the dog? Maybe I could call the Humane Society and talk to them. Maybe something could be arranged. At least be sure he goes somewhere really nice.”

  Ella felt the tears burning down her cheeks. She kept her face turned from Vivi. “His name is Loco,” she said. “Or at least that’s what I called him.”

  Ella sat on her bed, staring at the blue walls that would have been white if Vivi had had her way.

  Why had she named him Loco? Why had she come to this town and named the dog Loco? Because she had felt like they were two lonely drifters—a little off kilter, a little different. But different wasn’t crazy. Crazy was crazy. Loco. Lunar.

  Ella sifted through the slips of paper in her mother’s jewelry box—the bits of poetry and song and observation. There it was. A little rhyme her mother had taught her when she was young to help her pronounce her L’s.

  Lovely Luna Lunatic

  Longed a lolly to take a lick

  Instead she found a licorice stick.

  Lonely Luna Lunatic.

  Ella held the paper for a long time in her hand, repeating the rhyme over and over just as she had as a child, the L’s tapping behind her top teeth.

  The following day when they could have been signing the papers for Loco, Vivi called the Humane Society to tell them they wouldn’t be there to pick up the dog. She nodded and hmmm’d into her phone.

  “Ella,” she said when she was done. “Are you sure that dog was supposed to be there today?”

  “Yes,” Ella said, “I’m sure.”

  “Because the woman on the phone said that Mr. Jones hadn’t brought any animals down to the shelter, and that she didn’t have any dog by that name. I asked her to try to get a hold of Mr. Jones, but she said she’s been trying to reach him all weekend and he hasn’t returned her calls. I’m so sorry.”

  What she was sorry for, Ella wasn’t sure. Vivi hadn’t wanted a dog, couldn’t keep a dog. Ella realized as she looked into Vivi’s face that she didn’t believe her—not one word. “Okay,” Ella said. “Well, I guess we did what we could. And it’s for the best if Jones keeps the dog anyway.”

  Ella went upstairs to her room, shut the door, and then did something she’d never thought to do in her life. She climbed out her window, onto a tree, and into the cold December.

  When she got to the farm, no dogs ran out to greet her, no lights came on in the house. Everything was empty. As empty as Sam’s old woman’s house.

  Well, almost.

  Among the impeccably clean couches and tables now cleared of silver or any other trinkets lay a small black box with Ella’s name on it. Inside was a necklace with a little note. Ella, I’ve got to leave town for a spell, but if you happen to stop by, the dogs and I made this for you. If you’re ever missing us, try it out.

  The chain she held in her hand was strangely familiar. In fact, it looked just like the chain her mother’s stone had hung on. Which was impossible. Silver chains, after all, were not one of a kind.

  That didn’t change the fact that Ella could tell from Jones’ masculine touch that the latch on the back had been redone—as though the necklace had been broken and then repaired by him.

  On the chain hung a tiny silver cylinder. It was incredibly small, but hollow with one small hole near its top.

  “You’re kidding me,” she whispered, fingering the charm. It was obviously a miniature dog whistle, and Ella had no idea how Jones with his clunky hands and lack of finesse
had fashioned such a perfect miniature.

  She supposed she should probably give it to the police, although when she thought about how to make such a phone call—“Hi, I snuck out of my aunt’s house and broke into an empty house and took this necklace. I think it might belong to the Silver Shooter”—she just couldn’t make it work.

  Besides, she found that she had no desire to give the necklace up. The chain reminded her of her mother, and the whistle reminded her of her dog. And if Jones really was on the lam, this wouldn’t help anybody out anyway. Ella slipped it carefully into her pocket.

  Chapter 53

  Sam didn’t really want to talk to his father about the bracelet. He didn’t want to bring it up at all, but it was a link he couldn’t figure out in a chain he needed to understand.

  Sam looked at his father across the table and held out the thick, silver bracelet. “I thought it was a key,” he said. “Mr…Someone said it would open doors.”

  “Doesn’t look like a key,” his father said, standing up and trying not to give it a glance.

  Sam held it out for his father to take.

  Robert Calhoun, however, didn’t touch it. In fact, he stared at the thick band of silver and took a step away. “I need you to have a look at my SD card,” he said.

  Sam narrowed his eyes. “Why? So you can reveal the mysteries of the universe to me through our seven-year-old computer?”

  His dad ignored him, handing him the SD card, which was actually two pieces—an outer adapter that fit into the slot in their computer and the micro SD card that slid into the outer piece and carried the information.

  Sam took it and gave it a quick glance. “Dad, you’ve been eating near it. You’ve gotten crumbs or something into one of the grooves.” Sam picked at it with a toothpick from the table and then slid the small piece back into the outer electronic casing.

  And then it hit him.

  The two together created a device. Without the inner piece the outer wouldn’t work. And the outer was what connected the inner to everything else. They needed each other—these two pieces.

  Sam held up the bracelet at his dad’s eye level, gripping it tightly. “What else,” he said. “What else do you know? Please tell me.”

  His father sighed. “I’ve never seen the square before, but I know what it’s supposed to look like. And it does.”

  “What does?”

  “The letter,” Robert said. “The letter ‘N.’”

  It would seem that in the weeks since finding out his dad was a millionaire werewolf who lived like a pauper in a trailer there wouldn’t be a lot that could surprise Sam, but somehow that one small comment did.

  “The ‘N?’” Sam asked.

  “Yes,” his father said, pointing to the engraving on the square of the bracelet. “It matches the ‘C.’” He looked at Sam. “The ‘C’s’ that were branded onto everything he owned, including them.”

  “Who?” Sam asked.

  “The sisters,” his father said. “Your mother and your aunt. They each had a ‘C’ tattooed to the back of their necks. They all did—all those who worked for Napper. It was a sign of allegiance. This ‘N’ is of the same script. As I knew it would be. The square you have is the outer part—the part called the Ursa Major. The problem is finding the other part—the Ursa Minor as your mother called it.”

  “And what if I told you that Ella has a square-topped ring with a small ‘C’ engraved on it that matches this ‘N?’”

  “I would say she’s nearly Napper’s property,” his father said, looking away.

  Sam sighed and closed his eyes.

  “What I might also tell you,” his father said, “is that the woman your cousin lives with is not her aunt.”

  “What?” Sam asked, eyes flashing open.

  “The woman Ella lives with is not her aunt.”

  “How do you know?” Sam asked.

  “Because Ella said it was her mother’s sister, and her mother only had one sister, and that woman isn’t it.”

  “You mean that woman is claiming to be my mother?”

  “It would appear that way.”

  How had Sam not put it together before? He’d been so focused on the whole cousin thing; he hadn’t even thought about what “aunt” was housing his cousin. “Who is she?” Sam asked. “And please don’t tell me you don’t know.”

  “I don’t know,” his father said, not even bothering to smile. “But I have a guess. At The Ranch, your mother and her sister were watched over by a young woman—well, not a human woman; she was a shifter. She was the one who let another member of the staff have the keys to the vehicles, which she wasn’t supposed to do. But she was charmed by this guy—the accountant, and she gave him the keys, the keys that let him escape from The Ranch with the two sisters and the mechanic. A mistake for which she was surely punished. So it would seem logical that she might—after all these years—be the one to try to get the sisters back. Or what is left of them. Which is Ella.”

  “Will they kill her?” Sam asked. “Ella.”

  “Oh no,” his father said. “They will do anything to keep her alive.” He paused. “Until the solstice.”

  “The Festival,” Sam said.

  “Of course.”

  “And who was the mechanic?”

  “Ella’s father.”

  Sam shook his head, trying to put it all together. “And why is all of this so important? Why the Festival?”

  His father sighed. “There are myths of a world in which my kind reigned supreme—ran free and unafraid of the humans, a world with a great red sun and an ever-hanging moon. A world where our strength and magic didn’t dull with the wax and wane of the moon, when we didn’t have to hide, avoid meat, or vomit into commodes if we wanted to avoid changing. And, according to the myths, there is a time when that world ended—the result of a boy even younger than you placing a magically empowered stone and changing the suns.”

  Sam raised his eyebrow.

  “I told you they were myths,” his father said, “so don’t look at me like that.”

  Sam held up his hands in mock surrender and his father continued. “Before the boy changed the sun there were two shifters—friends, but also competitors. One, a werewolf prince, aided the boy in the empowerment of the stone. The other, called Sarak, fought his friend—touching the stone, though he knew doing so would overpower and kill him. Through that touch, Sarak added a spark of his desires for his people. Through that touch, Sarak made it possible for the stone to change the sun again if the need arose—if the humans were ever driven to hunt and despise my kind. Which, of course, they have done for a very long time.”

  His father paused and rubbed his head. “Many of my kind have sought the stone, many have plotted and even killed to get it. At the winter solstice when the moon is full—an alignment of season and sky that happens only every hundred years or so—the stone can be used. Thus, the Festival.”

  “So, at the full moon during the winter solstice, the stone can open some sort of other dimension?” Sam asked.

  His father seemed to chew on his answer for several long moments. “No,” he finally said. “It is this world. But shifted. Transformed into something different—a place where the humans are fettered and the werewolves are not.”

  “Then why can’t they place their own dumb stone.”

  “They cannot touch it,” his father replied. “Not without harm. Well, one can, and they will need this shifter to empower it and bring it to the place of changing.”

  “And Ella?” Sam asked. “Why is she needed?”

  His father did not look at him. “Per the stories, both a werewolf and a human are needed. The shifter must be an anomaly—one who gains strength, not weakness, from the metals that can kill the rest of us.”

  “Like silver?” Sam asked.

  “Yes,” his father replied. “And other substances too ancient for this world to remember. This shifter will bring the stone to the place of empowerment. But he cannot place it without becoming
too strong for anyone—even the Alpha—to contain. And so a human is also needed—a descendant of the boy who placed the stone so long ago. This human will also be an anomaly—last in a long, dwindling bloodline of humans, humans who can hear dogs speak at the full moon. If they can find that person, if they can use that person to place the stone, they can change the suns, and return this world to the old form.”

  “And after they use her?”

  “I don’t know,” Robert Calhoun said, looking away.

  “You don’t care,” Sam said.

  “I care a great deal,” Robert said, beginning to pace. “I see you when I look at the girl; I see Vivian’s smile. I see people I care about through that child, and I cannot help but care about her as well, but at this point the girl is outside my reach. Many of my kind will do anything to get her, anything to keep her.”

  “Many of our kind,” Sam said, folding his arms over his chest, still annoyed at his father’s unwillingness to include him. “And we should stop them.”

  “Many of my kind,” his father said. “You, son, are not completely of my kind. It is a difference you must accept because it is a difference that means a great deal to the Changers. Your kind—the half-breeds—will never wish for a changing of the suns because in the old world, half-breeds were quickly exterminated if they had the misfortune to exist at all.” He took a breath. “So it is my kind who seek the stone, my kind who wish to shift the world. You don’t understand what they will do to accomplish the changing of the suns.”

  Sam had no reply.

  His father sat down. “But futile or not, it’s true that there are those of us who do resist. Quietly, perhaps, but we resist. Your kind, son, are why many of us have learned to control our shifting, contain our appetites, go unseen, unscented. We control our shifting because we love those whom many of my kind believe we should hate. We control our shifting because through that love come beautiful children with genes wrapped around in unusual ways—part human, part shifter. These young, our children, are always at risk from both worlds—human and werewolf. Especially during the delicate years when they have not yet learned to control themselves.”