by Sarah M. Awa
She wished that were true. She wished this felt like something her unconscious mind had conjured. It did, in a way, but not to her five senses. Dream walls and dream floors didn’t feel like anything; she never touched or noticed them. These wooden ones that surrounded her were hard, cold, full of texture and knotholes—and covered in deep gouges screaming for her attention.
I would’ve been better off if Gavin had killed me.
She was stuck. Stuck bearing this awful burden alone.
She wanted to cry again, but tears wouldn’t come. Her body was desperate for water and food, but she refused to move.
When drowsiness came, she didn’t fight it.
Light blazed through the room and warmed her skin, coaxing her awake. The soreness from the transformation had abated, but now her muscles were as stiff as the floor beneath her.
And her mind was as numb as her body. Mechanically, she lurched upright and over to the door. Automatically, she put her ear against it and strained to hear any noises. Nothing. She opened the door a crack and looked down. A pair of drawstring pants and a purple sweatshirt sat neatly folded at the threshold, along with some purple-and-pink-striped socks and fluffy yellow slippers. The clothes smelled freshly laundered. She brought them inside. Whose are these—Gavin’s mom’s? She must be tall, because the pants were too long on Melanie, who had to cuff them up.
Before venturing out of the room, Mel collected the scattered scraps of the outfit she’d worn yesterday. None of it was salvageable. Even her shoes had been mangled by teeth and claws. She wished her underwear and bra had survived; it was awkward and uncomfortable not wearing them. It would be weird wearing someone else’s, though. Unsure of what to do with her ruined clothes, she left them in a pile in a corner.
Outside the room was a long hallway with half a dozen doors. Most of them were closed, but she could see that the room next door was a bathroom.
At least it was me.
Melanie gripped the hand towel holder and leaned against the wall, not sure whether she wanted to puke or faint.
It could have been Pam.
Or Timmy, she supposed. But she didn’t want it to be Timmy either. She didn’t want it to be anyone. She didn’t want it to be herself, but if it had to be someone, Let it be me.
I can be strong.
I can deal with this.
What next?
She scrubbed the dried blood off her hands at the sink, then splashed her face and gulped water from the faucet.
I should also thank Gavin. If he hadn’t kidnapped me—
You’ll rip everyone around you to pieces. And then you’ll eat them.
Or bite them. Make them what I am.
She wanted to snoop in the other rooms but restrained herself, fearing getting caught. She was a guest here. She should be polite, go introduce herself to Mrs. Doyle, and thank her for her hospitality, if she was still around.
Let it be me. Not Pam.
She ran her fingers through her tangled hair as she approached the end of the hall that opened into a sizeable kitchen. The décor was a blend of rustic and modern, the appliances new and shiny. Buttery sunlight poured in through large windows.
If not for Gavin, it wouldn’t have been just me. It would also be Pam. And Jocelyn, and Shari, and the others.
A wide archway to the left led into the living room. Its walls resembled a log cabin’s, and there was a grand stone fireplace complete with antlers mounted above the mantle. The plaid couches and matching overstuffed chairs looked cozy.
It could still be Pam and the others.
It took a moment for Melanie to notice the woman sitting in a rocking chair in a far corner, reading a book. She had glossy black hair, the beginnings of laugh lines, and Asiatic features. She looked up and smiled. “Ah, you’re awake.”
Confused, Melanie stammered, “Oh, hi, um . . .”
“Cara,” the woman reminded her.
Gavin’s mom is Asian? Must be his stepmother.
Cara Doyle stood up and approached her guest, holding out a hand. Melanie shook it. It was as warm as Cara’s eyes and smile. “Nice to meet you.”
After thanking her hostess for the change of clothes, Melanie looked around and asked, “Is, um, is Gavin here?”
“Last I checked, he was still napping.”
That was when they heard a door opening down the hallway. Footsteps approached. “I’m up,” said Gavin, entering the room. His voice was scratchy, and dark circles hollowed his eye sockets.
Melanie glanced at him but then shifted her gaze to her feet. She studied the fluffiness of her slippers—they reminded her of baby chicks.
Silence stretched.
Why is he so worn out? she wondered. Was he up all night? Doing what? Keeping watch?
Before she or Gavin could think of anything to say, Cara put in, “I bet you two want lunch.”
“Yes, please,” chorused Melanie and Gavin. Startled, they looked at each other and then away again.
They followed Cara into the kitchen, where she pulled out bread, lunch meat, lettuce, and mayonnaise. “Sit down,” she told them. “I’ve got this.”
While Cara whipped up sandwiches with practiced ease, Melanie sank gratefully onto a cushioned chair at the marble-topped kitchen table. There was a bowl of fruit on it, and she grabbed a banana. Her hands shook so much it was embarrassing.
Gavin took a seat at the opposite end of the table. He leaned forward and rested an elbow on it, cupping his chin in his hand. Melanie sneaked glances at him and noticed he looked pensive. But there was something else. Something was different about his appearance, aside from the exhaustion. What was it?
Cara set the sandwiches in front of them and poured glasses of ice water. Melanie thanked her and tried to eat like a lady, not a Labrador retriever.
When she was almost done, she shot another glance at Gavin, and her eyes locked with his. She was about to look away but suddenly realized what the slight discrepancy in his appearance was. Unable to stop the words from tumbling out, she asked, “Are you wearing contacts? I thought you had brown eyes.”
They were a light hazel today.
Gavin’s face took on a guilty expression. He swallowed and said, “Um, no, I’m not wearing them right now. But I do wear brown ones.”
“Why?”
He exchanged glances with Cara. “You haven’t told her yet,” she murmured.
Gavin shook his head.
“Told me what?” Melanie was squirming with curiosity.
“I’ll show you,” he said quietly. Closing his eyes, he screwed up his face in concentration.
What . . . ? This is too weird, thought Mel.
But then he opened his eyes again, and hers grew wide as she understood.
Gavin’s irises had ignited into fiery wheels of gold.
8
Cabin
OCTOBER 16–17, FULL MOON (SECOND NIGHT)
“You—you’re a w-werewolf too,” Melanie stammered. Her jaw had dropped, and her mind was reeling.
The gold dimmed and then left Gavin’s eyes, only to be replaced by a sheen of sorrow. “Yeah,” he said, “since I was a little kid.”
Holy crap. She couldn’t imagine what his life must have been like.
“My parents built this place for me,” he continued. “This is where I go every full moon. We’re near DuBois, a couple hours southwest of Wellsboro. My parents live an hour east of here in Pleasant Gap. Yesterday morning, my dad came and made sure the backup safe room was ready, which is where I put you.”
She nodded, processing.
“I’m truly sorry for what I did to you, Melanie. For scaring you so much.”
“Oh.” The apology took her by surprise. Chewing her lower lip, she considered his words and his expression. They seemed genuine, contrite, and hadn’t included “I told you so” or “It was for your own good.”
Cara Doyle cleared her throat. “I can see there’s a lot that you two need to discuss. I’ll be down the hall doing some cleaning.�
�� She stood up and left the room.
“Apology accepted,” Melanie said quietly. “And . . . thank you for saving me. And my friends.”
A hint of a smile played on Gavin’s face. “Welcome.”
Now that the air had been cleared, Melanie felt muscles relax that she hadn’t noticed were tense. She wasn’t in enemy territory; she was safe and among allies. She had so many questions, though.
“Why don’t we go talk in the living room, where it’s more comfortable?” Gavin suggested, seeming to read her mind.
He settled onto an armchair near the fireplace, and she sat on its twin, facing him across the hearth. Immediately, she voiced the concern weighing most urgently on her mind: “My friends are probably freaking out, wondering where I am. Can you drive me back soon?”
Frowning, Gavin said, “I’ll take you back to Wellsboro, but not today.”
“What? Why not?!” Mel demanded.
“Because it’s too far of a drive. We wouldn’t make it back before moonrise.”
“Huh?”
Sorrow crept into his eyes again. “We have two more transformations this month, Melanie—tonight and tomorrow night. Tonight is the true full moon.”
She gasped. “Are you serious? Three times every month?”
“Afraid so.”
Memories of last night flooded back, and tightness gripped Mel’s chest. Her mouth was dry, her tongue like a roll of blank, crumbling parchment. She knew that a maelstrom of anger should be howling inside her, but instead she felt empty. Silence pressed down on the room, thick and suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” said Gavin. His words fell hollowly to the cold stone hearth.
Abruptly, she stood and walked to a window, turning her face so he couldn’t see it. Deep green pines and orange-brushed maples and elms stood outside, their branches dancing lightly in the wind. Birds flitted about, squirrels chattered and chased each other, and the sun beamed down from a brilliant blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds. How could the world be so peaceful yet so messed-up at the same time?
She heard Gavin say, “I’ll go get your purse and phone so you can call your friends.” His footsteps creaked on the hardwood floor.
Taking a bracing breath, Melanie sat back down. When Gavin returned with her belongings, she fished her phone out of her handbag and saw that she’d missed seven calls from Pam and Jos. Pam had also sent her a string of text messages. “Mel, where are you? . . . Are you okay? . . . Please call me soon!”
Melanie had to scroll to see them all.
“Oh, boy. I’m in deep doo-doo,” she said.
Pulling up her contact list, she found Pam’s number, but her finger hovered above it, hesitant to dial. Let it be me.
If she told Pam the truth, what would Pam do?
She’d want to come with me. Protect me.
You’ll rip apart—
It could still be Pam.
“Are you going to tell them the truth?” Gavin asked neutrally.
I can be strong.
“No.” She was sure about that. “But whatever I say, it’s going to be hard for my friends to believe. I’ve never done anything like this before—disappearing and not telling anyone.”
The two of them brainstormed excuses, but Mel didn’t like anything they came up with. She was growing tired again, and she didn’t want to speak to Pam right now. At last she reopened the text-messaging app and typed: “I’m okay. Don’t worry. Be back in a couple days. Emergency came up.” Then she turned off her phone in case Pam tried to call.
Gavin yawned, and Melanie involuntarily copied him. He smiled at her and said, “We both need naps.”
Mel agreed, but there were so many important questions, and she was itching for answers. Just then, however, Cara Doyle entered the room and said, “I agree. You two should get some rest while you can. Melanie, let me show you to the guest room.”
“All right,” Mel relented. They’d be here for a couple more days—plenty of time to interrogate Gavin. She stood and followed Cara to the hallway, Gavin at their heels.
Cara pushed open a door and flicked a light switch. “This might be my favorite room in the cabin,” she said, dimple and laugh lines appearing. “I call it the Butterfly Room.”
Melanie didn’t need to ask why. Pictures of the winged insects, and brightly colored mounted specimens, decorated the walls—which were a warm light beige. Lavender and mossy green were the other dominant tones, patterned together with touches of ivory on the curtains and bedspread. The quilt and pillow shams looked homemade. Mel wondered if Cara had sewn them, but she was too exhausted to think to ask. The scent of lavender from the candles on the dresser lulled and relaxed her.
She said “thank you” and “goodnight” to her hosts, and Cara promised to wake the two young werewolves shortly before moonrise.
Moonrise.
Before moonrise.
When she’d—she’d—
Melanie screamed as her skin split, as her bones cracked and her joints twisted. She screamed and she kept screaming until the wolf came, and then—
Melanie rolled over and pressed her face into her pillow.
She screamed and she kept—
Stop it! Stop thinking about this! Go to sleep!
And when you wake up, the wolf will come.
Crushing feet into paws. Crushing her mind into—
Stop it!
But she couldn’t stop it. Her body tightened around her pillow and shook. Tears streamed uncontrollably, and her throat ripped itself rawer with silent screams.
I can’t do this again. I can’t. I can’t. I have to get out of here—
It could still be Pam.
When Cara came back hours later, it was to a seemingly calm Melanie. The girl sat cross-legged on the floor, breathing out, in, out. Mel felt weak and pale, the strength wrung out of her like the tears.
“It’s time,” Cara said, and Mel climbed stiffly to her feet, a puppeteer’s plaything. Her legs jerked out one in front of the other.
In the hallway, she crossed paths with a groggy Gavin. He gave her a friendly nod, and she responded with a half-hearted smile. She watched as he entered the room across from her safe room, and she caught her first glimpse of his. Scratches covered its walls, and the wood paneling was torn off in places, revealing brick underneath. There were no deadbolts on the outside of Gavin’s doorframe. It must lock from the inside. Well, that made sense—he had never been held hostage here. He’d known what was coming, the first time he’d used this place. Right? She wondered about his early life and what it was like to be a child werewolf. Later, she’d ask him more about his past—and to reverse the locks on her room.
“Ten minutes to moonrise,” Cara said from behind Mel, startling her. “If you set your clothes outside in the hallway this time, I’ll replace them with a fresh outfit for tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Reluctantly, Melanie trudged to her safe room and stopped at the door. The stench of bleach assaulted her moon-sensitized nostrils. The bloodied walls had been scrubbed clean, but no bleach could remove the blood from her memory.
Fingers, scratched down to the bone.
Melanie shook like a leaf, staring and staring as she clenched the doorframe with white knuckles.
“Go on in,” Cara said. “I’ll lock it behind you.”
Yes. What Cara said made sense. Go in. Just one foot in front of the other.
Mel didn’t move. Her fingernails bent against the doorframe.
“Melanie?” Cara asked, touching the girl’s shoulder. “You only have five minutes. If you need help—”
The pain was already approaching, the same ache as yesterday. And next—next—
“Melanie, I know it’s tough,” Cara said gently, “but you need to go in now.”
Mel looked at her with empty eyes. “I know,” she said.
Cara put one hand over hers. “Let go of the doorframe.”
No! No, no, no! She wouldn’t do it. She wouldn’t go in that room again. She couldn’t�
�
It could still be Pam.
Or Cara.
I can be strong.
With her opposite hand, Mel peeled her fingers from the doorframe and toppled into the room beyond. She heard Cara lock the deadbolts one by one.
And she waited for the moon to rise.
The temperature was dropping more drastically at night, this time of year. Erickson knew he’d have to find an indoor hideout before next full moon. Even though his imminent transformation elevated his body temperature, the cold got uncomfortable as soon as he disrobed. The cave’s stone floor was frigid under his bare feet. The rock surfaces of the narrow tunnel were even chillier against his knees, legs, and hands. Occasionally, his shoulders or back grazed the tunnel’s roof, and he flinched at its icy touch.
Definitely not coming here in November.
After hoisting himself out the other end, relieved, he paced the perimeter of the spacious cavern beyond. His thoughts turned to Gary Saddler.
He’d left the man sitting on a boulder outside the cave’s entrance, sipping from a thermos. Erickson could have kicked himself for not bringing a hot drink of his own. Saddler had offered to let him take the coffee, but he’d declined. Being in anyone’s debt left a much bitterer taste in his mouth than coffee would.
Can’t believe I allowed him to come along . . . not that I could stop him. When Saddler had shown up at his door a couple of nights ago, Erickson had worked up his most intimidating face, golden eyes glowing, and had been about to ream Saddler out—until he’d caught a closer glimpse of her.
Her name was Chandra Kapoor, and Saddler had introduced her as another member of the Organization. A werewolf. She couldn’t have been older than thirty—a bit young for Erickson, almost young enough to be his daughter—and she was gorgeous. Curves in all the right places, but still slender. Doe eyes and a pair of gams to die for.
In a daze, he’d invited them inside, and he’d listened, mostly to Chandra. Saddler was wise to let her do the majority of the talking. Dammit, he sure knows what cards to play.
So here they were: Saddler guarding Erickson like a loyal dog. “Don’t you have a job? What about your family? Do they know about your extracurricular activities?”