Cold Moon

by Tess Grant

  Melville’s slowly paced circle brought him to the side of Kitty’s vision. Kitty thought afterward there must have been something to signal the charge, something to start it up again, because right then—as she lifted her head and took in the scene—the wolves launched themselves.

  The big wolf in front of Melville gathered itself and flew into the air. Its jaws gaped wide and moonlight glinted off the fangs. Kitty could predict its trajectory, follow its arc through the air. It would end with its mouth closed around Melville’s bleeding hand.

  Kitty’s head became a split screen and she saw it all. One was her past and one her present. One in horrifying time-lapse photography and one in slow motion. One Phinney and one Melville.

  Phinney’s arm got shredded by a wolf and healed in the blink of an eye in the moonlight. He turned into a wolf and she shot him.

  Melville’s hand spurted blood and the wolf’s jaws closed around it. Kitty couldn’t allow that second screen to proceed to the image that would come next. The one where she killed Melville.

  She sank her hands into the snow. Her fingers bent painfully as they smacked into something hard. Wrapping her fingers around it, she brought it up out of the snow. It wasn’t the gun, but it would work.

  Kitty threw herself under Melville’s outstretched arm. On her knees, she raised the silver spearhead still red with Melville’s blood and shoved it deep into the wolf as it sailed over her toward the detective. Fresh blood gushed warm down over her arms. She tightened her grip on the tang of the punji tip and the momentum of the wolf going over pulled her with it.

  Landing flat, the wind whooshed out of her lungs. Sharp pain hit her in the middle of her back and she couldn’t drag any air in. Panic rose. What had she done? Stabbed herself somehow? Had another wolf gotten her in the back as she went?

  The whole expanse of the night sky above her was blotted out by Melville’s face as he bent over her. “Breathe, kid. You’re alright. Breathe.”

  At his words, her lungs kicked in and she sucked in a huge breath, drawing her legs up. She tried to roll over but her fingers were still wrapped around the punji, sticky with blood. She pried them loose one by one.

  Flipping over, she went to hands and knees in the snow, pulling in the cold night air and huffing it out in clouds. Her fingers splayed in the drift in front of her, bluish-white in the moonlight. The werewolf’s blood was gone, melted away to whatever la-la land it went to, but she could feel the ghost of it running thick and warm down her wrists. Kitty dug her hands in deep and whitewashed them.

  Staggering to her feet, she looked around. The clearing was a disaster—crushed snow and streams of crimson. Melville stared at her in shock. The body of the wolf lay in the snow between them, beginning to wither and dry. Beyond Melville, she could see Joe leaning over, hands on his knees. The .45 hung loose from his fingers.

  “Joe? Joe?”

  He raised a hand in the air. “Good,” he said, and his hand dropped back down, shoulders heaving with his breath.

  Between the blood vaporizing and wolves decaying, a fog lay over the clearing. Melville stumbled, and Kitty grabbed for him. His hand still pumped blood and she tore the gaiter from around her neck, doubling it over his palm.

  “Joe, we gotta get him out.”

  Joe ran toward her, but stumbled over something as he came. He bent low and scooped up the M1. Propping Melville’s bulk against his shoulder, he handed her both guns. “I’ll haul, you cover.”

  They staggered out of the clearing and down the path, Joe panting with the effort of supporting the detective. Snow started to fall, and tiny bits of cold stung Kitty’s cheeks. Melville regained some of his composure the further they got from the clearing and he started to take some of his own weight.

  The cars came into view. “Joe, you drive him out in the sedan. I’ll take the Cherokee.”

  “Right.” Joe said. Melville handed over his keys without a word, and Kitty hit the door button. The little chirp from the car sounded sane and safe.

  Joe propped Melville up against the passenger side and went around to the driver’s side.

  Kitty maneuvered him toward the door.

  “No, not yet.” Melville’s voice was hoarse but he pushed a hand against the top of the car and stood up straight. Grabbing Kitty’s arm, he led her back to the tree line. Propping himself against a sturdy trunk, he faced her. “Tell me. What happened to Phinney?”

  Kitty couldn’t hold it in any longer. Grabbing his coat in her fist, she pulled him close, standing on tiptoe to put her lips against his ear. She whispered, “He got bitten, and when he tried to attack me, I killed him.”

  There. She’d said it. Now the chips would fall, but she didn’t have to hide anymore. The relief was instantaneous. She rocked back onto her heels, letting go of the detective’s coat.

  Melville nodded and settled back against the tree.

  Kitty flexed her fingers, still feeling the path of warm blood down her wrists. “I wasn’t as fast as I was tonight.”

  The detective and the girl stared at each other in the moonlight. Finally, Melville reached into his pocket and retrieved a rectangle of paper folded many times over. Kitty’s eyes flicked to the list of names in his hand. Melville held it up between them, letting it drop into the snow at his feet and grinding it in with his boot.

  “Get me into that car,” he ordered, pulling her under his arm for support.

  Kitty opened the sedan door and helped Melville sink down into the seat. Joe’s face shone green in the dashboard lights.

  Melville grabbed her hand, pressing something hard into it. “Quit carrying him around with you. He wouldn’t want you to.”

  Kitty nodded and shut the door, stepping away as Joe maneuvered into the ruts left by the Cherokee. The flurry that had begun when they were hauling Melville to the car had slowed down. In the full moonlight, the individual snowflakes reflected back the light as they tumbled. Once Joe’s red taillights disappeared, all that remained was dark trees and glittering snow.

  Kitty lifted up her hand to see what Melville had given her. Phinney’s flask. She slipped it into her own pocket.

  Too much still raced around in her head and she needed the quiet and space for a few more minutes. She retraced the steps she had taken with Melville and Joe—back to the clearing.

  At first, standing at the edge under the trees, she thought somehow she’d lost the trail, wandered off the beaten track. Enough snow had fallen in the last twenty minutes to cover the hammered-down indents. With the wolves’ blood gone and Melville’s buried, it was as pristine and quiet as the first Christmas.

  Kitty’s fingers rubbed against the smooth metal of Phinney’s flask in her pocket. Taking a deep breath, she marched into the unmarked snow in the very center and dropped to her knees. She dug down to the dark earth underneath the snow, pressing the flask hard into the soil then scooped the fluffy crystals over top.

  “You said you’d be around. You here?” It was silent for a little while—long enough that she started to feel stupid for talking to nobody—then huge flakes began to drift down again, covering her tracks, smoothing the lump over Phinney’s flask so she’d never find it again in the white expanse.

  Melville’s words echoed in her head and she said aloud, “I have to let you go.” Then she added, “But please don’t leave me.”

  Whatever was coming, it would be here soon enough. For now Kitty felt as light as the flakes falling from the sky.

  The End

  Other Books We Love Books By Tess Grant

  Hunter’s Moon, The Full Moon Trilogy, Book 1

  After nearly ten years as a forensic anthropologist, Tess Grant semi-retired to a farmette in Michigan. She lives there with her husband, children, and a number of strange critters, but no werewolves.

  Blog: tessgrant.wordpress.com

  Twitter: @tessgrantwrites