Nocturne

by Christine Johnson

  "No. Claire took off ahead of me. I'm—I'm meeting her, uh, somewhere."

  God, he's a terrible liar. Claire licked at her whiskers. She'd never heard him trying to cover for her before, but Emily was bound to see through this. Even if she was drunk.

  "Emily?" Amy's voice came from somewhere far off and to the right. "This way! Come on, run!"

  "Oh! Sorry, Matthew. Gotta go. Um, good luck." The thud of Emily's footfalls receded into the distance. Claire lay panting behind the shed, the fading rush of adrenaline sending shivers through her limbs. She took a long, whistling breath in through her nose—gaining just enough control over herself to change back into her human form. She did it quickly, yanking on her clothes just as Matthew's head appeared around the corner.

  "Damn, that was close." His eyes were wide, and there was a tremor in his voice.

  "I know. She almost—" Claire's voice broke, and she sagged against the splintery wood. "You should have left. I told you to leave!"

  Matthew's jaw tightened. "She would have seen me anyway. I didn't know what else to do—what else to say." His voice shook. "But she didn't see. You're . . . you again, and she's off hiding in the bushes with Amy."

  Claire just shook her head. Emily had been feet—feet— away from finding out exactly what Claire was. And Claire would never be able to live with herself if the pack came after Emily because of something Claire did—because she was so stressed that she hadn't been able to stop herself from transforming.

  It was never going to happen again. She would do whatever it took to make sure that Emily stayed safe, even if it meant keeping Emily at arm's length. Just the thought of it made Claire lonely, but it was better than the alternative.

  Matthew interrupted her wandering thoughts. "I know it's been a rough few minutes, but we are sort of running from the cops here, remember?"

  "Right. Sorry." She could see his car from here. It was parked just on the other side of the bland, two-story house in front of them. They crossed the yard, the crunch of fallen leaves loud under their feet. Matthew hit the button to unlock his car, and they both slid inside.

  It was over. They'd made it. Matthew drove them out of the neighborhood, taking a convoluted way around Yolanda's block to avoid the cops.

  Shaking from the adrenaline, Claire leaned against the window. A stray wolf hair shimmered on the leg of her jeans, and Claire plucked it off, opening the window just a crack and dropping it into the cold October air. Getting rid of the evidence.

  Matthew drove her home. The tension in the car was so thick that Claire could barely breathe. When she got home, Claire hurried upstairs before her mother could see her. She didn't want to explain why she was flushed, and if her mother knew—smelled—that something Claire had done posed a danger to the pack, there would be hell to pay. That was the only time Claire's human side really mattered to Marie—when it endangered the precious, protected bubble of her wolf life. And Claire was never going to let that happen.

  There would be no more close calls. Ever. Even if it meant becoming a hermit.

  Upstairs, Claire got ready for bed and sent Emily a text, asking her to call or text or something to let Claire know that she was okay. A text seemed safe enough. Normal. Human.

  She flipped her phone shut and slipped into bed, where she dreamt restlessly of jealous dogs and ringlet-crowned intruders. And running.

  Lots and lots of running.

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT MORNING, Claire had a text from Emily. It was time-stamped at nearly two thirty in the morning, and from the number of bizarre typos, it looked as though Emily had still been pretty wasted when she sent it. But at least she'd made it home, and she promised to tell Claire the whole "ftory" when they had coffee.

  She went downstairs and flipped on the TV. The local news was on, doing some story about adopting shelter puppies. The next segment started with a shot of a nervous-looking reporter standing in the forest. Claire tensed, her fingers curling around the remote control.

  "We're here live in the woods on the west side of the city, where visiting lycanthropist Dr. Masaharu Otsuke took a tour early this morning. Dr. Otsuke's visit represents a major coup for the university's research department, whose international funding has dropped sharply in the wake of this summer's failed attempt to cure a local werewolf. Dr. Otsuke will spend the next few days assisting the Federal Human Protection Agency's investigation into the werewolf 's death, which occurred while it was under the care of local lycanthropist Dr. Charles Engle."

  Claire leaned against the back of the couch, her teeth clenched.

  They cut to footage of the night woods. The glare of the television lights bounced off the tree trunks, making the forest look stark and menacing.

  The reporter droned on. "In addition to touring the forest, Dr. Otsuke will be the guest of honor at a dinner hosted by the Rotary club, and a special fun run is scheduled—"

  Claire clicked off the TV, a pleased relief spreading through her. There was no mention of anything having been found in the woods. No evidence. Nothing weird. Her secret was safe.

  At least, for the moment.

  That afternoon, Claire's mom actually let her take the car—again—so that she could meet Emily and Amy at the coffee shop on Fourth Street. She didn't have a ton of time before she had to get ready for her date with Matthew, though, since Emily had texted her and pushed back the time. Twice. Apparently, having a hangover the size of Montana made it pretty hard to get out of the house.

  When Claire walked into The Cloister, Emily was already sitting at their usual table in the front window, nursing an enormous latte. There was a long, thin scratch across her right cheek. Her eyes were puffy, and she had the pale, sallow look of someone who's had a rough night. Besides which, Claire could smell her hangover. The poisoned, cheap-beer scent seeped out of Emily's skin.

  "Hey." Claire shrugged out of her jacket and dropped it onto the chair across from Emily. "How're you?"

  Emily winced. "Not so loud, okay?"

  Claire bit back a smile. She hadn't exactly been yelling.

  "Let me go get my coffee, and I'll be right back."

  Emily nodded, reaching for the cup in front of her.

  Claire got her own drink and settled herself at the little table. "I'm so sorry we got separated in all the craziness. What happened to you and Amy?"

  Emily snorted. "It's a little tough to remember all of it. I ran and found Matthew, but he was waiting on you, I think. Anyway, Amy was more sober than I was, and she managed to hide us and a couple of other people behind a hot tub in Yolanda's neighbor's yard. The cops walked right by us. We got really, really lucky, 'cause according to what everyone was posting and stuff this morning, they snagged a ton of people. What about you and Matthew? You guys found each other and everything?"

  Claire could still feel the rough wood of the shed against the palms of her hands. She could still taste the terror that had flowed through her when she transformed. It had been so close. Emily had been so close. The coffee swirled unpleasantly in her stomach, and she resolved yet again to keep Emily out of harm's way.

  Claire worked to keep her face casual. "We were both sober—we got separated for a minute, but we found each other. He'd parked a couple of streets away." She shrugged. "We drove home. No big deal."

  Emily grunted. "Lucky. Why wasn't he drinking, anyway? I thought the soccer season was over."

  "It is, but he's still waiting to hear from UCLA about scholarships. If he gets caught drinking—if he gets in trouble—it could ruin his chances. He's worked so hard that he's not going to screw it up now, you know?"

  Behind Emily, the door swung open and Amy walked in. She looked like she was in better shape than Emily was, though her hair was slightly less perfect than usual and there were delicate lavender-colored circles under her eyes.

  "Hi, guys." She stared around the coffee shop, taking in the worn and pitted church pews in front of the pastry case, the collection of fancy crosses that lined the wa
lls. Her eyes widened when she spotted the handwritten menu of drinks with names like Liturgical Latte and Antichrist Americano.

  "This is wild." She took a deep breath. "Ooooh, and the coffee smells fantastic." Amy wandered over to the counter and returned with a steaming mug that held something frothy and vanilla scented. "Wow. This place is really great. I can't believe I haven't been here before!" She slid into the open seat between Claire and Emily.

  "It's good coffee, and they don't care how long you stay," Claire said. "We've been hanging out here since freshman year."

  "Really?" Amy looked confused. "I'm surprised I haven't heard Emily mention it more, then."

  Claire flinched. "Well, we haven't had as much time to hang out here lately, I guess."

  "We hung out here a lot pre-Matthew, is what she means."

  Amy shot Emily a meaningful look that made Claire instantly uncomfortable. It was the sort of look that said she and Emily had talked about Claire's lack of Emily-time before. "Yeah, boyfriends can be a huge time suck. Plus, if there's anything, you know, complicated going on, then it's doubly distracting." Amy looked like she'd just pinched Claire and was waiting to see if it had hurt.

  Claire rubbed her arm distractedly. Anything complicated going on? What was that supposed to mean? Was Amy trying to convince Emily that there was more behind Claire's disap pearing act than just Matthew? If she was at all suspicious . . . Oh, hell.

  Claire cleared her throat. "So, um, other than the cops barging in and hiding behind hot tubs, what did you think of Yolanda's famous party?"

  Amy lit up. "Oh my God, it was so fantastic! The music was awesome. And Matthew is so nice, Claire—you're so lucky."

  "Uh, thanks."

  A teasing smile spread across Amy's face as she stared over at Emily. "Ooooh, and guess what? Emily has a date for the Autumn Ball!"

  Claire stared over at her best friend. "What? You do? Why didn't you tell me?"

  Emily groaned and slouched lower over her cup. "Because it's Randy Steigerson."

  Claire felt her mouth fall open. "Ran—wait. Seriously? You're going to the Autumn Ball with Randy Steigerson?" Randy was the editor of the yearbook. He was tall and sort of gangly. And he had a weird habit of leaning too close to whoever he was talking to.

  "He was trapped behind the hot tub with us. Like, for hours. And he gave me his jacket when it got cold. . . . I don't know. I'd had an awful lot of beer before we got stuck back there." Emily put her head down on the table. "It's weeks away. Maybe I can get out of it."

  "You look sort of green," Amy said.

  "The Randy Steigerson reminder sent me over the edge. This coffee's not working. I need greasy food. Like, now."

  "Why don't we go to Louie's?" Amy suggested.

  "Perfect." Emily picked her head up and looked at Claire. "You in?"

  Claire glanced at her cell phone. Matthew was going to be at her house in an hour and a half, and she still had to shower and change before he got there. She wasn't really finished talking to Emily, but maybe she could use her plans to convince Amy that the only complication in her life was a boyfriend obsession.

  "Um"—she hesitated—"it's just . . . it's gotten sort of late, and Matthew and I have plans. . . . "

  "Can you call him?" Amy asked. "We haven't even told you what happened with Kate-Marie yet!"

  Claire bit her lip. "I know, but we already had to reschedule once because of Yolanda's party. . . ." She did her best to look torn yet love struck. "Why don't you two go ahead?"

  Emily scowled into her coffee. "Fine. I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be right back, and then we'll go."

  Claire watched her best friend walk away, each step driving the sadness and shame deeper into her heart. Each thud of her pulse made it worse. How could it have come to this? She wanted her best friend back—wanted to sit in the familiar coffee shop and have the sort of long, tangentfilled, soul-baring conversations they'd always had. Amy glanced over at Claire. Curiousity and disappointment glimmered in her green eyes.

  "It's too bad you can't come with us." Her voice was soft, gentle, but Claire could smell her suspicion. Crap.

  "Yeah. Sorry. Maybe I can make it next time," Claire said.

  Amy took a long sip of her sweet-smelling drink. "I hope so," she said, turning to face Claire. "I think Emily's awesome. But it's weird, because even though you're her best friend, I know pretty much nothing about you. We should hang out more." Her earnest look startled Claire. There was nothing hidden in Amy's expression—no double-speaking smile, no Morse-code glance.

  A year ago, Claire might have given someone the same look. But not anymore. Now she was always triple-checking her expression and weighing everything she said, making sure that a secret didn't slip out between her teeth while she wasn't paying attention.

  Before Claire could recover enough to say anything, Emily came out of the bathroom.

  "Okay, kids. I need fries. Now."

  Claire scooped up her car keys and looked at Emily. Seeing her best friend standing there obviously trying not to look dejected, her defenses weakened. "Call me tomorrow? Maybe we can go shopping or something next week." Claire's voice sounded small. Emily looked over at her, surprised.

  "Sure," she said. "Of course."

  "Good." The miserable knot in Claire's middle loosened. Maybe it would be okay if they could hang out, just the two of them, away from the stress of Amy and all her suspicions and curiosity and general interfering.

  A mischievous smile spread across Amy's face. "Yeah," she chimed in, wrapping her arm around Emily, "you have to find a dress suitable for Randy Steigerson."

  Emily groaned and buried her sea-green-tinted face in her hands as Amy dragged her out of The Cloister, shooting Claire a scrutinizing sort of glance as they went.

  Claire sagged as the door swung shut behind them. Amy was right about one thing: Claire's life was definitely complicated. After a quick shower followed by a long session of try-thingson-and-pile-the-rejects-on-the-floor, Claire was mostly ready for Matthew. The doorbell rang before she could decide if her ballet flats were too dressy for a movie night. Whatever. Bare feet are sexy, right?

  She looked down at her unpainted toenails. Nail polish looked ridiculous on wolf claws, and after one transformation ending in pink-tipped paws, Claire had abandoned pedicures. Better to have plain human feet and look not-insane in her wolf form.

  Claire hurried down the stairs and flung open the front door. "Hey." Matthew grinned at her.

  "Hey, back," she said. "Come on in."

  Since Lisbeth had left hours ago and Marie was off on a shoot, they had the house to themselves.

  Up in Claire's bedroom, Matthew flopped down on the bed, rolling onto his back and tucking his hands behind his head.

  "So, did Emily make it home okay from Yolanda's last night?"

  Claire sat next to him, leaning back against the headboard. "Yeah. Drunk, but okay. Sorry again that I was late to the party. It turns out that your dad took some Japanese researcher into the woods," she said simply. "I—" She hesitated, embarrassed. "I accidentally left some stuff around that I shouldn't have. I had to go fix it, and it's a good thing I did, because some reporters came and everything."

  Matthew's mouth fell open. "I'm so sorry! I knew he'd gotten a last-minute meeting with that other researcher, but I had no idea they were going into the woods, I swear. I would have told you—"

  Claire held up a hand. "I know. It's not your fault, Matthew."

  "What sort of stuff did you have to clean up?"

  "Burned things." The memory of the other night sent a tingle through Claire's middle. "From when I was working on how to light the fire the werewolf way."

  His eyes darted around the room. "The Matchless Wonder, huh?"

  It sounded like he was joking, but he was uncomfortable. She could smell it—an edgy, hungry sort of smell. Like he thought she was bragging. Or like she'd told him something she should have kept secret.

  But he's a gardien, she reminded hersel
f. He's allowed to know this stuff.

  "Anyway"—she cleared her throat—"I'd accidentally left the burned-out piles in the woods. I didn't want my mom to find out and be pissed, and I didn't want your dad . . . Well, at least it's fixed now." She fiddled with a loose thread on the edge of one of her pillows. "Maybe when I get it—like, really get it—I can show you."

  "Are you supposed to do that?" Doubt swam through his voice.

  Claire froze. Her insides had gone all shivery, and not in a good way.

  "I mean, you are a secret-keeper," she stammered. "The whole point is that I don't have to hide stuff from you, right? But I guess . . . it is just supposed to be for ceremonies and stuff. Maybe . . . Maybe at a gathering sometime?" Claire said.