Yes, much worse. Jason watched the Jeep drive away, and resisted the urge to run after it. When it was gone he walked through the back door of his house, down the hall past his room, and into Trish's room where his mom was checking his sister's wound. Trish was on her bed, her wheelchair sitting near the hole to Jason's closet. His mom didn't look up as she said "We gotta get her to Doc Keen." The sunlight wasn't streaming directly into the room, since Trish's window faced the side of the house and not the back, but it was bright enough to reflect the tears on his mother's cheeks.
Doc Keen would ask questions. Jason didn't like his chances of trying to get his mom to lie about what happened. "We won't need to," Jason said. "The wound wasn't that bad, I checked."
"You ain't no doc," his mom said. "Look…" Jason approached and bent down… and had to admit, her wound hadn't closed. The puncture marks, while not deep, were still present and caked with dried blood. Trish was emitting low moans as she looked down at the injured arm. "Shh," Mom said, "it's okay sweetie." The dark, snake-like marks that had shown up on Jason's arm when he had first been bitten were on Trish, but they were thick and short, and didn't spread very far from the wounds at all. Whatever the case, there would be little Doc Keen could do aside from prescribe more pain pills, which Jason's mom had an ample supply of.
"She'll be alright," he said. "The wounds aren't deep, and the pain pills'll kick in any minute now."
His mother continued hovering, stroking Trish's leg. Jason tried to make eye contact with her, unsuccessfully. "I'm sure you have questions…"
"That she-devil showed her true self last night," his mom said with a dull stare. "She is the beast, and her number is six hundred and sixty six."
Mom hadn't made the connection between Celine, Jason, and the wolf yet. Even back when Dad was alive, and the two of them would stay up late watching horror movies, Mom never participated. So Jason was fairly sure she didn't suspect that the bite would "infect" Trish. He considered telling his mom that he was a beast too, but thought better of it. He was worried that her sanity was shaky enough as it was. "She's not a devil, Mom, she's—"
"Don't you tell me!" she blurted. Then she locked her eyes on him—red, wet, wide, manic eyes. "You got no right tryin' to tell me what I saw, I know what I saw. What I saw was unholy. An agent of the devil." She said this last with lips curled back over her teeth. "And you… first you leave without a word and now— well I'll tell you, you wanna leave so bad, you go and take that demon with you!"
There was no use trying to reason with her when she got like this, so Jason didn't bother. "I'll make sure she doesn't come back, okay? I had to leave but I promise I won't again. I'll stay here and make sure you're both safe. Do you want that?"
If she said no, he would camp out in the woods near the house and keep a watch. He would do that if he had to.
His mom didn't answer for a long stretch. When she did, all she said was "I need to pray on this," as she turned and left the room.
***
CJ had drifted off, he had no idea for how long, and he dreamed of that weird critter again, the one from his "vision," Badger? In his dream he had been drifting through another fog; he came to Badger, and the two of them moved on together. Then they heard a growl, and looked to see glowing eyes in the mist. The thing advanced and it was that wolf again…
That was when CJ had woken up. He finished off the bowl of whatever-it-was (actually that shit was pretty good) and then Jack came back into the room. CJ pulled a blanket around his legs and asked just what he had meant when he said the wolf was Jason.
Jack sat in front of him, legs crossed and elbows on his knees. He stared hard at CJ from under the brim of his black hat, hard enough that CJ eventually looked away. "Your friend has become what some of our people call weyekin; He has merged with his spirit guide."
CJ had already thought the old man was a loon. This just proved it. "Jason's not anything, man, he's dead."
"Don't be stupid. Your friend can't die by any ordinary means," the old man persisted. "He's protected, by Wolf. By his guardian."
CJ was shaking his head. "Yeah I'm the stupid one. Look I'm telling you, he's dead, alright?"
The crazy redskin leaned in, pointing at his eyes: "These… can't be trusted."
Spit flew from CJ's mouth as he angled forward, slapped the empty wooden bowl aside, and yelled. "HE'S DEAD, FIREWATER, BECAUSE I FUCKING KILLED HIM, ALL RIGHT??" The bowl rebounded from the wall, clattered, and landed upside down. Moaning weakly, CJ grasped what little hair on either side of his head he could and squeezed. That was when the bowl slid from its place near the wall to a spot between him and Jack.
What the—
CJ stared at the bowl dumbly. It wobbled slightly, once, twice, harder, faster. Fucking kidding me. CJ reached out, hands shaking. The bowl clattered and quaked. Though he was scared shitless CJ had to know…
He screeched and snatched up the bowl.
Nothing. There was nothing there.
Whatever fucked-up shit the Indian had given him must still be causing hallucinations. Or the hallucinations were part of his withdrawal. As CJ looked up, the old man was leaning in, his bloodshot eyes suddenly very big, pupils darker and deeper than any human's should be. "Told you," he said, tapping his pointer finger at the corner of CJ's left eye. "These can't be trusted. Your senses make lies of what your spirit knows to be true."
CHAPTER THIRTY
Days passed. Over the course of that time, Celine did as she promised: she stayed away from Jason and his family. But her mind was a hive of activity. When her brain made time, it focused on the situation that Jason now lived in, the situation she created. She worked the problem over and over, from every angle. Competing with that particular issue, however, was the still-open question of her father's fate. The sheriff's disappearance was now gaining the attention of powers beyond Whisper Lake's borders. Trumbull was fielding calls from the attorney general, even one from the governor. He took these calls inside Ty's office… supposedly for privacy, but the sight of him sitting there at her father's desk made Celine want to slap the shit out of him. Although, honestly, she was lucky to still have a job.
Her outburst at Boil's medical-clinic speech probably should have resulted in her being fired, but just forty-eight hours ago the sheriff's secret had been uncovered. Trumbull and Embury had searched Ty's house and found the "picture room." That resulted in a long talk between Celine and Trumbull yesterday that thankfully happened in the Wayside parking lot, and not in her dad's office. Trumbull promised to "maintain discretion" but Celine was willing to bet that the entire town would know by tomorrow, if they didn't already. In any case, it seemed that Trumbull took pity on Celine because he allowed her to maintain the internship… the only condition being that she couldn't work on her dad's missing person case directly.
There was still some hope that answers would be found at the property, which she found out had belonged to two brothers called the Haversaws. Celine herself had anonymously called the fire department from the Wayside, the same day she had left Jason's house. It was shortly after Celine's talk with Trumbull yesterday that the fire chief notified the department that human remains had been found on the site. Those remains were in the process of being identified.
Celine stood now before her mirror, examining her puffy eyes. She had been fighting sleep ever since her attack on Trish— drinking coffee, staying up late watching television…. During the times that she had drifted off and begun to dream of stalking naked prey by moonlight, she held back, telling herself that it wasn't real, that she had to wake up. So far that hadn't worked; she would inevitably overcome her prey and share her meal with the pack… trying all the while to convince herself that the blood she tasted was not an invitation to turn such fantasy into reality.
The result, for the last few mornings was an overpowering sense of guilt and a pounding headache. The worst part was not knowing how Trish was doing.
Enough's enough.
Yes, she had promised to stay aw
ay. But… tough shit. She had to know that Trish was okay.
***
Another cut, another wound healed.
Cutting was nothing new for Carter; he had done it since high school. The reason why was unknown to him; he only knew that it seemed to put things into focus at times in his life when he felt like a tiny boat drifting in an endless sea.
His little brother Ralph had known about it but hadn't been worried. To him it was a macho thing, a way for his older brother to demonstrate imperviousness to pain.
Shortly after he dropped out of high school, the cutting stopped. Working with Mastroni had been something that kind of fell into his lap; he had pulled off a few jobs—small stuff: B&E, robbery. He had gotten into his share of fights. It had been because of one of these—at a gas station of all places—that he ended up in Mastroni's employ. He had squared off unwittingly with one of the boss's men, and cleaned the concrete with him. That man was one of Mastroni's "collection agents." The Don used video from the station and a lot of enquiry to track Carter down… and offer him a job. Those had been some of the best years of his life: he got paid to do something he was legitimately good at. He provided for Ralph. And, he hadn't felt the urge to cut himself anymore.
Then things changed.
Young men had always hung out at Mastroni's mansion. Carter harbored his suspicions about the boss but tried not to think about it. None of his business. The more Mastroni got to know Carter, the more he liked him, and the more Carter found himself at the Mastroni home. The boss liked Ralph too. Carter suspected that the old man liked Ralph in a very different way, so he had tried to keep his little brother away from the Don as much as possible. For a while that had worked.
But violence always seemed to follow Carter; it clung to him like a second skin. One day, one of Mastroni's boy toys had been doing way too much coke. He and Carter exchanged words, and the crazy, stupid catamite (there was a big word that Don Mastroni really liked) pulled a pocketknife. Carter hadn't thought; he reacted, twisting the knife-holding hand back, burying the three-inch blade in the kid's throat.
It had turned out that the kid was one of Mastroni's favorites. Carter thought the boss would have him killed, or maybe even come after Ralph—and he did, just not in the way Carter imagined. The Don offered him a deal: turn over Ralph, no questions asked; leave town, and never come back. The alternative was execution, and then Mastroni would just take Ralph anyway.
So, for the first time in Carter's life, he had run. He had taken what little possessions he needed and, without a word to his little brother, he headed south doing odd jobs here and there until word of mouth landed him with Boil. Shortly after, he began cutting again. This time, he had a better idea of why he was doing it: he was doing it to feel something, to feel anything. Maybe even to replace the emotions he should have felt upon abandoning his own flesh and blood to a life of mental, physical, and spiritual abuse.
The cutting had continued for months until he reached some kind of subconscious equanimity (Mastroni would have appreciated that one.) Now, here he was cutting again. This time for an altogether different reason. This was a test. He had performed this test four different times, drawing the razor blade across the meat of his forearm, with the same result each time. The wound bled for a minute or so, then slowly closed, sealing itself over the course of another minute… and when he wiped the blood away, there was no visible scar.
This practice brought to mind another word, not an obscure word like "hebdomad" or "internecine," but a word that Carter greatly appreciated nonetheless:
Indestructible.
***
Jason wasn't sure which was worse: the twisted memory-dreams that had assaulted him before his first turning, or the nightmare that waited for him now in the deepest hours of the night— the dumbstruck face of the older man, staring wide-eyed just seconds before the beast broke his frail body.
The beast? You. The beast is you and you are the beast.
Though he had defied the goddess before, in that instant he had failed. Or had he? Had it been just the goddess who wanted that man dead, or a part of Jason as well? Revenge for what they had put him through…
Just then he heard an engine; a vehicle pulled around to the rear of the property. Jason's pulse quickened. Boil's men? He reached under his bed and pulled out the .22, (fully loaded, now that he had found two bricks of ammo in the garage) and went to the bedroom window…
Where he saw Celine's Jeep coming to a stop out back. He gusted a sigh of relief and put the rifle on his bed.
There hadn't been a single day that he hadn't thought of her since he told her to stay away. His pulse quickened again, but for a different reason now as he watched her exit the vehicle. She looked over and waved. He raised his hand in return, then walked out to the hall and down to the side door.
He opened it, and though his heart screamed at him to embrace Celine, he fought the urge and stood stiffly with the door half open between them. "Hey," he said.
Celine's smile weakened. "Hey. I know your mom hates me but I figured… you know I figured that Trish and your mom would be at church."
He pondered whether or not to tell her she shouldn't be there. Celine waited. Finally he said "Yeah, old man Rogers took 'em this morning. I've worked on the minivan a bit… I think it's a starter problem, I just need to get a replacement. Probably get the van back up and running soon."
"That's good," Celine said.
"Find out anything more about your dad?" Jason asked. Celine shook her head. "Waiting on lab results for bodies they found—" one of those bodies is your doing, a voice whispered to Jason from deep inside. "Place belonged to brothers called the Haversaws."
Jason nodded. Silence followed, growing more awkward by the second until Celine finally said, "I gotta know how Trish is."
Jason looked away. "She's… I don't know. She's been acting different. Quieter. Sometimes she just stares into space and it's hard to get her attention. Mom, she's dug out every single cross she owns, bought a few more, and hung 'em in Trish's room. Prays at her bedside every night and every morning. And even though I'm staying here she hardly speaks to me. Hasn't said another word about…"
"About the wolf." Celine looked down, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets. "I feel like shit," she said. "I just—I couldn't fight it, you know? If they hadn't gotten to the van I don't know…"
"Yeah," Jason replied.
When she looked up, Celine's eyes were wet. "How about her arm? Has it healed?"
"It's not like it was with me," Jason said. "Or like it was with you. The wound's healing like… basically like a normal wound."
Celine frowned. "Maybe because of her physical disability it doesn't affect her the same way. Maybe she won't turn."
Jason's eyes widened as his mouth hung half open. He hadn't really thought of that, not in that way. He just figured it was affecting her differently.
But she could be right. Jesus, what if…
"You should come in," he said.
***
A few minutes later they were in Jason's room. He had moved the rifle and Celine sat on his bed with her back to the wall as Jason sat against the headboard looking through his notebook. Specifically, he was perusing the notes he had taken describing the lycanthropy as both biological and supernatural.
"What if you're right," Jason said. "What if the physical part of the curse won't affect Trish?" He looked at Celine, who was staring at the closed closet door… the same closet where she had torn into Trish's arm.
"Hey," Jason said, putting the notebook down and scooting over to put his hand on her knee. "This could really mean something. Not just that Trish won't turn but it could mean there's hope for you and me, that the curse isn't… I don't know, all-powerful."
"Even if Trish won't turn," Celine said. "If you're right about supernatural and biological, won't the goddess still be inside Trish's head? Like she was with me? So far you're the only who's been able to resist her."
Jason's hand dr
opped from her knee. He stood up and paced next to the bed. Celine was right but he still felt like they were close to something; that there was some kind of solution lingering just out of reach.
Jason looked to Celine, who had returned to staring at the closet. He looked there as well, thinking about the hole; that black pit of a hole…. He also thought of the nightmare visions before his first turning; of the goddess trying to force him to do her bidding but ultimately being unable to do so.
He thought of that light in the darkness. Clawing his way out. Emerging from…
The dirt. In his vision he had defied the goddess and then in reality he had emerged from the dirt at the mill, that chemical-infested dirt.
Chemicals. Chemicals that Celine had not been exposed to.
If the chemicals in the dirt had somehow been responsible for helping him resist the goddess's influence, maybe there was some way to identify those chemicals. Even if those chemicals were dangerous maybe there was some… pharmaceutical equivalent that wasn't dangerous.
A miracle cure.
It sounded too good to be true. Even though Jason didn't believe in miracles, if there was a possibility of saving Trish, and maybe curing Celine and him as well… it was well worth considering. But Jason was no scientist. They needed the help of someone much smarter than him. Who could they possibly turn to for something like this? Dealing with chemicals and—
Jason snapped his fingers and then made a fist. It clicked. Celine looked over, frowning.
"We need to find your 'buddy'," Jason said. "That kid… we need to find Ghost."
***
CJ's head felt like an overinflated tire. Aside from that, his body was starting to feel… kinda normal. He had almost forgotten what normal was like. The stomach cramps had backed off, his abscesses were all but gone, he had even eaten solid food. On top of all that, Jack had given CJ his clothes back—had even washed them. CJ's biggest problem now was that he still craved a hit like a preacher craved an altar boy. So, he had been grateful for just about every opportunity to get his mind off the yearning.
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