Indigo Moon

by Gill McKnight

  Isabelle had slunk over to the Ambereye offices and picked up the glorious scent of wolven. She could not track successfully in a city this size, but she stealthily noted the license plates of cars that came and went.

  The small, dark-haired woman in the wine shop worked at Ambereye. She had a special parking space, she was important, and Isabelle had followed her and found she lived close by to where she rented. The woman bloomed a rich Were scent with every move she made. Isabelle was fascinated by her.

  The blond man she was shopping with, the one the wine merchant had called Godfrey. His scent lured Isabelle, too. Though the couple were not themselves wolven, they knew something of it.

  Isabelle headed over to the Enchanted Florist to see if she could pick up further clues. It was a circuitous route home, but the flower displays would be lovely on a sunny spring day. Maybe she would even pick up some more of the intriguing scent that had zoned her in on the couple. It was the first sense of comfort she had had since returning to Portland. The subtle scent had bathed her like a balm, soothing her nipped nerves and the never-ending, itchy unrest she had felt since her return.

  Godfrey. Now she had the name of one of them, and where he worked. She did not know the name of the woman, but she did know where she lived. She was closing in on them. Now her hunt could begin in earnest.

  *

  “What are you in the mood for?” Godfrey asked over the top of his menu.

  “I like the Caesar salad here. I’ll go for that.”

  “I’ll have the shrimp linguine. What wine?”

  “Rosé. Something light and fruity to match this marvelous spring day. And the company.”

  “Très drôle—” Godfrey’s cell phone rang. “Hello…No, not yet. I’m with Hope at Daguerre…Yes, just down the block…No. They’re in my pocket.” He plunged a hand into his pocket. “Call him back and tell him they’re not mine. Okay. Bye.” He put his phone away. “Well, that was odd.”

  “What was?”

  “Apparently, I left my house keys at the Naked Vintner, but I have them here.” He patted his pocket to a reassuring jingle. “I had to admit I was a mere several yards away stuffing my face with you, instead of dropping by work as promised. Now I’d better go show my face.”

  “If you were my boss I’d keep you on your toes instead of gadding around town with your fancy woman.”

  “I’m not gadding around town. I’m taking the day off to celebrate my fancy woman’s good health. And you already have a boss to keep on her toes. Poor Jolie.” He sighed. “But she does seem to thrive under your special brand of authority.”

  “That’s because I’m a den mother.” Hope shook her head. “Don’t ask. She’s reformed my household into some sort of pack home. The other day I caught her putting Tadpole in charge while she was gone. I swear his tail has been bristlier and his strut cockier since she walked out the door.” They both burst into giggles at the thought of Tadpole as a guard dog, and quickly stifled their laughter as the waiter approached for their order.

  After lunch they window shopped along Milwaukee to the Enchanted Florist so Godfrey could see his staff for a few minutes.

  “It’s her again.” He pointed surreptitiously across the street. “Over there, on the seat outside the bookstore.”

  Hope glanced over and noticed the woman from earlier. She sat in the sun, her face raised toward its weak rays. She hadn’t seen them yet and it gave Hope a chance to examine her without having to fend off that morose, lost stare. The general untidiness and skinniness concerned her. This was a very unhappy person. But there was something more that Hope could not quite put her finger on. The scrawny, rangy body held an economy of movement, an understated confidence and strength that reminded her of something else—

  “Hope! They’ve got the John White London collection. Let’s go see.” Godfrey ducked in the door of a shoe store, abandoning Hope on the sidewalk. She turned to follow, and threw one last look at the seat outside the bookstore. It was empty.

  “Excuse me. Do you have these in a ten?” Godfrey’s voice drifted out the open door. “And in tan? Hope, come see.”

  Hope looked up and down the sidewalk. There was no sign of the woman. She must have moved at lightning speed. With a mental shrug, she stepped into the shoe store to give Godfrey her full attention.

  *

  “Don’t you just love the smell of new shoes?” Godfrey held a John White brogue to Hope’s nose.

  “Ick.” She ducked away. “Stop that, or we’ll crash.” She was driving him home after a pleasant afternoon of browsing in bookstores, boutiques, and shoe shops. Aside from wine and shoes they had a cache of paperback books on the backseat, along with some beautiful imported gerberas Godfrey had snatched from his shop for her “special” news.

  “Godfrey,” she said. “What did you make of that strange woman we saw at the wine shop and then later on Milwaukee?”

  Godfrey shrugged. “I’m not sure. I mean, is it that odd to see someone twice in one day? She was just shopping.”

  “No way was she shopping. She was odd. Did you get any…vibe from her?”

  “Vibe? No. She looked a bit tatty to me. Why? What’s up?”

  “Nothing. She just seemed a little lost, I suppose. I can’t explain it.”

  “Lost gals are your forte,” Godfrey said. “Look at Jolie. She was hopelessly lost until you scooped her up and rocked her hairy little world.”

  A soul in torment. That’s what I thought when I first saw her. Hope frowned. Godfrey’s inadvertent comparison made her uneasy, as if she had missed a vital clue. How could she compare that scrap of woebegone she’d seen in the wine shop to her Jolie? Jolie was strong and strapping, and though she looked like she might snap anyone who annoyed her in two, inside she bubbled over with love and kindness. Yet Hope had seen that same haunted look in her eyes, too. Before she had told Jolie she loved her. Before they had made a commitment to each other, and a home together, and the promise of a happy future.

  Her mind drifted to the bottle of champagne wedged on her backseat so it wouldn’t topple. With her latest prognosis she felt more confident in that future than ever. The threatening cloud always hanging over them had passed. They had huffed and puffed and blown it away. Soon Jolie would be home and they would uncork the bottle for a private celebration.

  Maybe they’d head up to Little Dip and take one of the smaller cabins farther back in the woods. There they would drink champagne and make love. And afterward Jolie would run, just as she always did when her heart grew so big and happy her human body could barely contain it.

  And when the moon sank low, she would crawl back home to where Hope sat reading by the fire, waiting for her. Exhausted, Jolie would lie beside her and place her heavy head in Hope’s lap. And while the fire crackled, Hope would stroke the soft fur of Jolie’s throat. She could never keep her hands off Jolie in wolven form. She’d tickle her ear hairs until they twitched and run her fingers over the damp, leathery creases of her muzzle. She adored the texture of coarse fur and fine hide that covered Jolie’s stubby features. She’d trace the long curve of her canines and press her fingertip against each sharp point. The beauty of Jolie as a beast astounded her. Hope could gaze for hours into amber eyes that burned back at her, full of devotion. She could spend the rest of her life wallowing in that gaze, simply loving her monster.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What the fuck is going on in there!” Her neighbor thumped on the paper-thin dividing wall.

  Isabelle awoke with a start and found she was shaking. She reached up to stroke her damp cheeks.

  “Stupid fucking bitch!” He fell silent with one last bellow.

  She’d been crying in her sleep again. Always the same, every time. Same dream, same desolate heartache. She was running through a sun-dappled wood. Her powerful leg muscles churned; her claws dug deep in the earth for purchase, breaking open the scent of the forest floor. Ren was at her shoulder. Together they raced through the forest, leaping over
fallen branches and weaving through the trees. Exhilarated, she hurtled into a meadow of blowsy wildflowers, and found herself alone. Ren had been ripped from her side. Lost and alone, Isabelle squatted among the blue buttons and bittersweet and threw back her head and howled.

  Isabelle touched her throat. It was raw, as if she’d been screaming all night long. She struggled out of bed on weak legs, embarrassed she had agitated her neighbor again. She’d be evicted soon if she couldn’t control these dreams.

  She went to the bathroom and ran the shower until the water was scalding hot, then stepped under it with a painful gasp. Isabelle didn’t look in mirrors these days. Her soapy hands told her she was losing weight. They ran over flaccid muscle and the ridges of her rib cage. Her hair lay lank and lusterless around thin shoulders. She knew how unkempt and anorexic she must look.

  The hot shower did not work. She was listless and only half present, even though her skin stung from the hot water.

  Isabelle roamed about the apartment naked until her skin dried. She moved to the kitchenette and poured a glass of water and gulped it down in one go, then she poured another and another. She itched, she moaned. She shuffled about, unable to settle. Outside, the streetlights glowed over wet streets, and rain rattled through the windblown shrubs before the building steps.

  Isabelle pulled on some old sweats and sneakers and settled on the couch with her digital camera. She played with the buttons until she finally opened the slideshow of her Canadian vacation. Trees, mountains, and colorful birds slid by. Aunt Mary smiled up at her with Atwell cuddled in her arms. How she adored her aunt Mary. The woman had fostered her as a child and had offered only hope and happiness for the six years Isabelle had stayed with her. Mary was in Miami now. Isabelle had spoken to her once since her return to Portland, but had hesitated from telling her about her ill health or misadventures. What could Mary do besides worry herself sick? She was seventy-two and on the other side of the country. Isabelle would talk to her when she eventually knew what to say about this episode in her life.

  The next shots were a series on river toads; the photos made her nostalgic for a holiday she could still barely remember. Then came the photograph she was waiting for, the one that mesmerized her. Ren and the mysterious stranger. They sat side by side on a fallen log. They had to be sisters, both dark and brooding, and both incredibly handsome women. One looked at her; a ferocious passion danced across her hooded eyes. Her cheeks dimpled as her lips creased into a happy smile for the camera. This was Ren. Ren with an unconcealed look of love for her alone. Isabelle’s stomach knotted at the loss of that day. She could not recall it, but here it was frozen and digitalized forever so she could look at it in wonder and longing again and again.

  Beside Ren sat the other woman, and though a mirror image to look at she was her polar opposite in attitude. This woman was cold. Her eyes were black as pitch. They captured light and refused to release it. Her gaze was not happy or warm, but defiant and calculating. Her hair shone blue-black in the weak sunlight, and a scarlet smile curved her lips like a saber. She was as beautiful and venomous as a blue coral snake.

  Who are you? Why do I dislike you so much? Isabelle snapped off the power and set the camera aside. She couldn’t remember this other woman so like Ren, but Isabelle did not trust her. She worried that in her partial amnesia she had muddled the two in her mind. Was she right to trust the memories she had striven so hard to find? Her idea of Ren was blurred. Her feelings toward her did not harmonize with Ren’s actions in Singing Valley.

  Maybe she had no true memory of Ren after all. Everything was so polluted with the possibility of the sister. Like her journal, all her memories of Ren and their time together were burned around the edges. Vast chunks were missing, possibly lost forever.

  Isabelle’s throat scorched with an uncomfortable rash. Her eyes itched with tears of frustration. Everything was burning her up—her clothes, the apartment. She was allergic to normal these days. The dry, heated air in her lungs made her feel wizened from the inside out. Claustrophobia clawed at her. She felt panicked. Isabelle knew what she had to do.

  The door clicked shut after her, and she stood in the hall drawing in cool mouthfuls of air. After a few minutes her heartbeat settled and her panic lessened. She strode along the hallway to the stairwell, avoiding the elevator with its confined space, and stale air, and mirrors. She stepped out into the night and walked briskly away from her block. Then she jogged for a few more streets. Then she broke into a full run, sprinting across Sellwood straight for Hope Glassy’s house.

  *

  “What is it, Taddy?” Hope opened the kitchen door. Tadpole hovered on the doorstep and sniffed the breeze. “Hurry up, you silly dog. I can’t stand here all day being your doorman.”

  Usually, he was tripping her up in his eagerness to get outside for his morning patrol. With a nervous nose twitch, he finally cleared the threshold, making straight for the locust tree that marked the boundary with the neighbor.

  Hope poured herself a cup of coffee and, nursing the mug in both hands, followed Tadpole into the garden. Early-morning dew glistened on every blade of grass, the first rosebuds peeped shyly from glossy green foliage, and birdsong filled the air. Her spirits lifted. Spring was a favorite season.

  Tadpole ran an excited circuit from the locust to her decking and back again, his nose buried in the grass. Hope’s steps faltered. Large mud-spattered footprints covered her back deck. From the amount she could tell they belonged to one creature, and from the size and shape, Hope knew they were wolven.

  *

  “Godfrey. Get over here now.” Hope had her phone pressed to her ear and Tadpole wriggling under the other arm. She had grabbed him and locked them both inside the house. “I don’t care what time it is. I don’t care if it’s a minute past midnight and you’re a pumpkin. I’ve got a prowler, and it’s the hairy kind. Get over here as fast as you can.” She hung up and put Tadpole down. He ran straight to the kitchen door, begging to be let out to sniff some more.

  “It’s not a good time to be curious, Taddy. We’ve got an unwelcome visitor. You’re staying indoors with me until we find out what’s going on.”

  He ran back to the living room, jumped up on the couch, and pressed his nose to the window, clearly on sentry duty. Hope left him there, glaring up and down the street. Now that Jolie was out of town and he’d assumed the rank of protector, he had decided he was allowed on the furniture, especially at times of high alert. Hope hadn’t the energy to chase him off her couch. Her stomach was churning with nerves.

  She returned to the kitchen to sit and fret at the small kitchen table. She wished Jolie were home; she’d know what to do with trespassing werewolves. Zagoria was not the easiest place in Greece to catch a phone signal. It had been two days since she’d last heard from her, and Hope missed her badly.

  She had to keep busy until Godfrey arrived, so she clanged about the kitchen, breaking eggs into a bowl for pancake batter. The snap and splinter of the shells became an anodyne for her shattered nerves. The sharp crack of the whisk on the ceramic bowl was strangely soothing. At least she was keeping her panic at bay. Godfrey would be here soon and they would both need a good breakfast and strong coffee before they started to investigate her midnight prowler.

  *

  “Oh, my God.” Godfrey examined the ground around Hope’s backyard with dismay. Her flowerbeds were trampled and mud was tracked all over the path and back decking. “This thing’s huge!”

  “I can see that. It’s hardly reassuring.”

  “Look at those scratches.” He pointed out the long scores on the paintwork around the patio doors. “It was looking for a way in. I don’t like this, Hope. You and the Tadpole are coming home with me. Jolie and Andre can deal with this when they get back.”

  “They won’t be back until next week. And I don’t want to leave my home. All my stuff is here.”

  “Stuff? Stuff! This is a feral werewolf, Hope. I hardly think it’s after your fruit t
eas of the world collection, or your Doris Day forty-fives! It wants to eat you! There’ll be nothing left except what forensics find in its poop.”

  “Does American Theater Magazine know you’re missing?”

  “This is not mere drama, Hope. This is factual. You are on a menu.”

  “I don’t want to move out, Godfrey.” Hope said, feeling defeated. “This is my home. My and Jolie’s home. Our den. If I run away I’ll feel like I let her down or something.”

  “Nonsense. It’s the only sane thing to do. Jolie would never forgive me if I let you stay here. Besides, I’ve got your keys.” He waggled a bunch of keys at her.

  “You filched those off my kitchen counter.” Hope made a grab for her keys, but Godfrey swung them out of reach. She tried a more adult approach. “Look, whatever it is, it must know the house is alarmed. It was just snooping. It smells Garoul all over the place and is checking out the scent.”

  “It’s snooping around because it knows Jolie isn’t here. No way would a feral come anywhere near a Garoul den,” Godfrey said.

  “Exactly. How does it know Jolie’s gone, huh? I think it’s just a stupid, nosy feral.”

  “And I think it’s opportunist and extremely dangerous. You’re coming home with me. I’m lonely. Get packed.” Godfrey stood back and looked up at the building. “How did it get so close with these sensor lights? The glare should have sent it scooting.”

  “The bulbs burned out ages ago. With Jolie around I guess I didn’t think it was that important,” Hope said, a little shamefaced.

  “Well, having a werewolf in the house does make one a little blasé about home security. Let’s get these lights up and running. We’ll replace the bulbs and redirect the sensors onto the patio. Might as well give Mr. Snoopy a little razzle-dazzle next time he comes around. Not that you’ll be here to watch him run.”