Indigo Moon

by Gill McKnight

  “Oh, give it here.” Hope pried the handset from Jolie. “Hi, Andre.” She smiled into the phone. “Yes, great news…You can’t reach him either?…Jolie’s been trying for over half an hour now…Cajun chicken. Okay. Bye.” She hung up and turned to Jolie. “Go put on more rice. Godfrey and your brother are coming over for dinner.”

  *

  “We finally got him.” Andre breezed through the front door. His partner, Godfrey, followed, pausing to tickle Tadpole, who had prostrated himself at their feet like a wriggling doormat.

  “Is everything all right?” Hope emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I know something’s up. This one has the worst poker face imaginable.” She nodded back at Jolie, who had appeared behind her.

  “Who said she had to be playing poker?” Andre said.

  “This is hardly the time or place for baiting your sister,” Godfrey told him disapprovingly. He turned to Hope and Jolie, brimming with important news. “Jori’s upset.”

  “What did he say?” Hope poured aperitifs and they settled down to talk.

  “When we finally got through to Little Dip, Jori said Elicia had a hard time,” Godfrey said.

  “Oh no! Are the babies okay?” Hope asked. “Is she okay?”

  Jolie sat beside her, grim-faced, and swapped a knowing look with her brother.

  “They’re all healthy, Hope. No worries there,” Andre answered. “It means something different if a werewolf birth goes wrong.”

  “Wrong?” Hope was worried now. “What do you mean wrong?”

  “You know that when both parents are werewolves they always have twins, right?” Jolie said. Hope nodded; she did know that. Andre and Jolie were twins because their father, Claude Garoul, was already a werewolf, and their mother, Patrice, had become wolven.

  “Well, it also means the cubs’ genetic makeup is much stronger, and the twins will be bigger and more robust than part-human cubs,” Jolie continued.

  “Yes. I suppose that makes sense,” Hope said.

  “It puts more stress on the mother during labor,” Andre said. “Especially when she’s a werewolf, because what can sometimes happen—”

  “But not always,” Jolie interrupted.

  “No. Not always,” Andre said patiently. “But what can sometimes happen is the mother loses it halfway through the birth and starts to transform into a Were.”

  Hope frowned. “And that means what?”

  “The cubs are feral,” Jolie stated flatly.

  “No, not necessarily,” Godfrey said. “Sometimes it can happen that way, but not always.”

  It surprised Hope that he knew about this, but then he had been with Andre longer than she had been with Jolie, so he knew more about the Garoul clan and its workings. Now he was anxious to reassure Hope that all was well with Elicia and the cubs.

  “What Andre and Jolie mean is if the mother starts transmutation during birth, then her cubs are a little bit further…evolved…than their half-human, or even fully wolven counterparts.” He spoke directly to Hope. “Their werewolf genes don’t have to wait until puberty to be triggered. These cubs are fully active from birth.”

  “You mean werewolf babies? And toddlers? And preteens?” Hope blinked at the concept. “Oh, that’s got to be hard. It’s bad enough going through puberty as it is without becoming a werewolf, but at least the Garoul kids are prepped for it. But to be a werewolf from year zero? Oh, boy.”

  “It is hard. Like I said, that’s why they always go feral,” Jolie said with great certainty.

  “Again, not necessarily.” Godfrey was determined it was not all doom and gloom for Jori and Elicia’s cubs. “Claude once told me that with special guidance, feral wolven could be taught to manage.”

  Hope turned to Jolie and Andre. “Did you two need special guidance? Both your parents are wolven.”

  Andre spluttered and Jolie just rolled her eyes.

  “We are not feral,” Andre said in mock indignation. “Well, at least I’m not. We’ve never been sure about Bigfoot here.” He nodded at Jolie.

  “Do you want dinner or not?” She scowled at him.

  “Depends. Did you cook it?”

  “You can go home hungry, you know.”

  “Stop squabbling and explain this to me.” Hope interrupted their childish quarreling. “You have full werewolf parents. You’re twins. Did you develop quicker than your cousins?”

  “Mom never mutated when she was in labor with us. We developed more or less at the same rate as everyone else. The problem only occurs if the mother has a bad birth.” Andre finger-quoted the “bad” bit.

  “So this has happened before?” Hope said. She found it all fascinating. She knew so little about Garoul lore even though she had more or less married into this werewolf clan. She determined to pin Jolie down later and get a full history, complete with a family tree. Godfrey knew tons more than she did, but then Andre was the outgoing, nonstop talker type. Typical for Hope to fall for the reticent, emotionally challenged twin. She caught the look Jolie and Andre exchanged. It wasn’t a good look.

  She repeated her question. “Has it happened before?”

  “Once. That we know of,” Andre said.

  “Yeah,” Jolie said quietly. “Floriene and Luc.”

  “Floriene and Luc?” Hope said. She’d never heard of these particular Garouls. “Who are they? What about them?”

  Even Godfrey looked mystified. “What happened?” he asked.

  Jolie shrugged while Andre shifted in his seat. “Go on,” Jolie told Andre. “I may be Bigfoot, but you’re bigmouth. You tell them the story.”

  “Story?” Hope and Godfrey leaned in closer. This was something big.

  Andre cleared his throat and began. “Floriene and Luc were our cousins—”

  “Were your cousins?” Godfrey gasped. “They’re dead?”

  “How did they die?” Hope was agog.

  “No. They’re not dead!” Andre snapped, miffed at the interruption. “Stop interrupting and let me tell the story.” He cleared his throat again with great deliberation. “Floriene and Luc were…are…our cousins.” He gave Hope and Godfrey a glare, ensuring their silence. “They were born like that. I mean their mom transformed during labor—”

  Jolie butted in. “And they were feral.”

  “I’m telling the story. You asked me to.” Andre huffed at her.

  “Well, I didn’t realize you were going to be so goddamn slow…or awful. It’s like pulling teeth,” she said curtly. She turned to Hope and Godfrey and continued to steal Andre’s thunder. “They grew up almost uncontrollable and eventually ate a guy and were sent away.”

  “They did not eat a guy,” Andre said.

  “Did so.”

  “Did not.”

  “Did s—”

  “Will you two stop that and tell us what happened,” Godfrey said, exasperated with them. Andre pushed ahead with his story, obviously intent on preventing Jolie from twisting any more facts.

  “A hunter trespassed into the valley and shot this big bear he’d been tracking all day. Only the bear turned out to be Uncle Robért. He managed to wound Robért before the twins, who were with him, jumped the guy.”

  “And ate him,” Jolie added with relish.

  “They did not eat him. They mauled him pretty bad, though.”

  “And after they ate him they dumped him in the river and he floated down past where we were playing in the creek,” Jolie said. “I saw it.”

  “When was this?” Hope asked, dismayed by the gruesome story.

  Jolie shrugged. “About twenty-five years ago.”

  “They did not eat him.” Andre glared at Jolie, who totally ignored him. He turned back to Hope and Godfrey. “We were only youngsters then, maybe nine or ten. We hadn’t even begun to change—”

  “And yet Floriene and Luc were out there eating people. See? That’s the difference between a good birth and bad one.” Jolie seemed incapable of shutting up now that she was competing with Andre f
or Hope and Geoffrey’s attention. “A bad birth means out-of-control whelps. They grow too fast and become unmanageable and eventually dangerous. Feral, see! Like I said.”

  “Oh my God.” Godfrey looked horrified. “What happened to the guy’s body? What about the police?”

  “Robért and Claude made it look like an accident. He was washed miles downstream,” Andre said.

  “I don’t understand,” Hope said after digesting this information. “These cubs with the bad births are almost uncontrollable? And yet they are out there running around not just Little Dip, but our city streets? How the hell do their parents cope? How can you take Junior to kindergarten if you can’t guarantee he won’t go all furry and bite someone in a squabble over the yellow crayon?” She was appalled at the ramifications of feral werecubs.

  “They don’t leave Little Dip,” Andre said. “It’s as simple as that. They grow up there with Claude and Marie and the rest of the elders and learn everything they need to know about the outside world and controlling their wolven side. That’s what Claude meant by special guidance. A feral is only a Were with no proper pack skills.”

  “They’ll always be limited because their wolven side is so strong,” Jolie added, tapping her temple. “It’s easier to run wild and howl at the moon than buckle down and learn how to control your wolfskin and not eat humans.”

  “It must be hard on the parents if they have to give up everything and move to Little Dip to raise their kids,” Godfrey said. “Poor Jori and Elicia. They must be worried sick.”

  “They can live in Little Dip if they want to, or go back to their city life and leave the cubs in the valley. I suppose it’s sort of like boarding school.” Andre tried to sound matter-of-fact, but there was a tinge of sadness in his voice.

  “Even so. I can see why Jori’s so upset. What a life-changing event.” Hope sighed. “So where are these cousins of yours? This Luc and Floriene? You said they were sent away after they attacked that hunter?”

  “They went north with their parents. Up into Canada. Grandma Sylvie sent them away. It was too dangerous. People can’t go missing every time they wander into the valley. You can only have so many hunting accidents.” Andre shrugged. “I don’t know what happened to them after that. We were just cubs then. It wasn’t a good time for the pack.”

  “No one knows where they went or what they’re up to. We lost contact after their parents died.” Jolie shook her head sagely. “It all smells very iffy.”

  Something did indeed smell iffy.

  “Oh my God.” Hope leapt to her feet, startling them all. “The rice. I can smell the rice singeing.” She glared at Jolie. “You let it boil dry again, didn’t you!”

  Chapter Three

  “Don’t you remember me, Isabelle?”

  “No.” Isabelle stared hard, hoping for a memory to spark. The lamplight flickered across dark, wary eyes, and she thought she caught a glimmer of satisfaction. For a moment she thought she did know this woman, that the eyes seemed somehow familiar. The flash of a bronzed cheekbone, a strong jawline—this face was shadowy and elusive, curtained by a sway of hair as her caretaker ministered to her needs. The notion soon faded. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you at all.”

  “How do you feel? Does your shoulder hurt?”

  Everything hurt. Talking hurt.

  “Do you remember what you were dreaming about last night? Do you remember how you got here?” The questions were relentless and held a tinge of anxiety. Isabelle’s mouth was dry. Her body ached and her head thumped. She was exhausted and didn’t need this. Not now.

  “There was a car crash. And a deer.” She struggled to answer. The rim of a glass pressed against her cracked lips.

  “Here, drink this. Sip slowly.”

  She took several small sips. It tasted oily and bitter, not water at all, but the coolness acted as an elixir on her parched throat.

  “There were deer…and monsters. The monsters got me.” Her voice rose in distress as she remembered this fragment of the dream. A hazy memory of waking as a child plagued with night terrors crept from the corner of her mind. This wasn’t the first time she had cried out in the dark, or dreamt of being chased by monsters.

  “Hush now. It was only a dream.” She was soothed back to the present and enfolded in comfort. A comfort she somehow knew she’d gone without as a child. She drank more from the glass.

  “Thank you,” she whispered between sips.

  “You need to rest.” Her pillows were plumped and the smell of freshly washed cotton surrounded her.

  “The drink will help with the pain.” The voice ebbed and flowed. Close then far away. She shook her head to unclog her ears. The tension eased from her body as promised. Her pain melted away. Tired and torn muscles simply floated off her aching bones, and her roiling thoughts calmed to a simmer. Her gaze drifted around the room. It was plain and bare and nothing looked familiar.

  “Where am I? And who are you?” she asked, forcing herself to focus. Her head was stuffed with the scents of lilac and lavender from the newly washed bed linen. Her sense of smell was overpowering. She struggled to sit up, refusing to fall back to sleep with so much left unanswered. “Where are my clothes? My bag? All of my things?”

  “Gas leaked into your suitcase. Everything was ruined. Lie still.” Hands held her in place against the pillows, and her last remnants of strength dissipated. Isabelle noticed the most important questions had been ignored. Where was she and who was this woman who seemed so determined to care? “You need to take your medicine, then rest.”

  “Can’t,” she mumbled, disappointed that she was, in fact, falling back to sleep. “Need to know…things.” She couldn’t stay awake any longer. Her eyelids flickered as she fought sleep. She focused on her benefactor, on her face, on her eyes. Black irises looked back at her. They shimmered with a dozen points of lamplight, like a starlit sky. Isabelle felt safe under that stare. And tired, so very tired. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  “Isabelle. Isabelle.” A deep, urgent voice called her back. She struggled to respond.“Isabelle. You need to take all of this. Try to drink a little more.” The glass returned to her lips.

  “Who are you?” she asked, more determined, between sips of the bitter liquid. This was their trade-off. She would drink if the other would answer.

  “I’m Ren.”

  “Ren,” she whispered. The name sounded right. She savored it on her tongue. “Ren. Ren who?”

  “Ren will do for now. Drink more.”

  “Ren,” she said, and swallowed more medicine. She did know this woman…this Ren. A memory flitted by, shadowed and unsettling. It hovered on the edge of her consciousness, as ominous as a graveyard bird, its beady-eyed stare daring her to remember. All around her white sheets and eiderdown billowed up in warm, scented waves to drown her. The bird rose on its wing and disappeared, taking its cold warning with it. She knew she was sinking into a drugged sleep, that the bitter drink was taking her away to blissful nothingness. One last question surfaced before she slipped under its spell. “Who are you, Ren?”

  “I’m your world, Isabelle.” It was barely a whisper and she wondered at it, assuming she’d misheard. She let it go and slid away into sleep. The soft whisper followed her down, through tickling fronds of weed and beds of rippled sand, where it hooked her: its sharp barbs embedded in her dreams and reeled in her last thoughts. Ren.

  *

  She was buried alive in ice. Clear, crystalline sheets of it covered her, a glazed lid to her coffin. This was an empty, lonely world. A place that existed inside her, far too close to her heart. Mighty forests stretched for miles. She could smell the sharp scent of pine sap and hear tree roots rumble in the frozen earth around her. She couldn’t move, yet through the solid layer of ice above her she could see the sky, a featureless and arctic white dome. Against the endless space her black graveyard bird swooped in lazy circles with the lassitude of a vulture awaiting the feast. It gave a sud
den shriek and fell out of the sky onto her, claws hooked, black beak clacking at her icy coffin. The lid cracked and the bird broke through. It ripped at her immobile face, bloodying her cheeks, tearing at the pink of her lips, then it pecked out her frozen eyes—Isabelle jerked upright in sweat-stained shock. She scrabbled at her face expecting to find empty, torn eye sockets. She could see! Her face and eyes were unharmed. It was just another nightmare.

  She blinked several times to make sure. It had all seemed so real—the sharp wind and the bird’s shrill clamor all around her.

  The bedroom was dark and filled with eerie shadows, but at least it was solid and real. She trembled all over; her feet and hands were stone cold. Her teeth chattered even though her brow was beaded with perspiration and her heart thumped painfully in her chest.

  “Here, drink this.” A supporting arm held her shoulders and water trickled into her mouth. No oily aftertaste this time, just pure, cool water. She gulped it down.

  “You’re shivering like a leaf,” Ren murmured and laid her back on the pillows. There was a rustle and then a cool draft as the bedclothes rose a little. Isabelle sighed as Ren slid in behind her and spooned around her. The heat that radiated off her was intense. Heavy-headed and sluggish, Isabelle melted back into the warm body and fell back to sleep.

  It was pitch black when she opened her eyes again. She was blissfully warm, pushed up against a satin wall of muscle and heated skin. A forearm rested on her waist. Ren’s other arm had slid in under Isabelle’s neck and reached across her front to cup her injured shoulder. Ren’s thighs were drawn up underneath hers. They were both naked.

  Isabelle stiffened. She lay and listened to Ren’s breathing. She was sleeping deeply. Her warm breath hummed against Isabelle’s scalp. Her face was buried in Isabelle’s hair, breathing her in, whispering her out. Lungful after lungful. Isabelle twitched. The sweat, blood, and tears of God knows how long were pungent on her body. She was embarrassed by her stale odor and by the intimate spooning, and yet she felt comforted by it, too. She took a deep breath, and at first faintly, then with certainty picked up another odor, a new smell, piquant and peppery. It was Ren’s scent. Isabelle’s mouth watered and her flesh tingled.