Hunter's Moon (The Wolves of Wellsboro Book 1)

by Sarah M. Awa

  They cruised through the sparsely populated parking lot, scanning numbers on the building’s front façade until they found 3545. The fading digits were displayed above a glass door covered by brown paper on the inside. The windows were blocked in the same manner, allowing no glimpse of the interior. Signs declared “For Lease” in large hunter-green letters, with a phone number underneath.

  Melanie and Gavin threw each other nervous looks before getting out of the car. Hugging the box to her side, Mel started toward the apparently vacant unit but tripped on uneven pavement. She stumbled forward, and the box nearly slipped from her grip. Gavin caught her elbow and steadied her. “Thanks,” she said breathlessly.

  He nodded in response, because at that moment, a rusty white Cadillac drove past blasting hip-hop music. The bass was cranked up so high that it rattled Mel’s ribcage. She winced.

  She and Gavin reached the door of unit 3545, paused in front of it, and glanced around. A couple of men were just leaving the tattoo parlor four doors down, admiring the newly inked, raw red patches of skin on their bare arms. No jackets? Aren’t they cold? The deli, two doors in the other direction, broadcast the savory smells of ham and pickles and yeasty bread. Mel’s stomach growled for dinner. The food also reminded her of Thanksgiving and Jeff’s kidnapping, which was why they were on this strange errand. Is he here? Is anyone here?

  She fingered the canister of pepper spray in her pocket. Her dad had sent it to her last semester after viewing some particularly grim news stories about the epidemic of rapes on college campuses. Wellsboro was small, and nothing ever happened there; Mel had stashed the pepper spray in the bottom of her purse and forgotten about it until today.

  Meeting eyes with Gavin again, she tried to gather courage from him. He looked as reluctant as she felt, but he reached out and tried the door—which was unlocked. It swung silently open, and he and Mel entered the unit’s front room: white tiles, gray wallpaper, unfurnished. The lighting was dim, but a sliver of bluish light beckoned them from underneath a closed door at the back. It, too, was unlocked, and they stepped into a room several times larger than the empty foyer.

  Mel’s first thought was of a doctor’s office waiting room: carpet patterned in heather gray and navy blue. A rather sterile smell. A few chairs lining one wall. No coffee table with magazines, though. As if I’d want to sit around reading in a place like this.

  Melanie became aware of a faint, low humming noise that sounded like it was coming from behind a third door. Before she and Gavin could cross the carpeted room and knock or try the handle, the door opened and a man stepped through.

  He looked to be in his sixties and wore a clean white lab coat over a brown plaid shirt and red bowtie. His stooped shoulders reduced him to slightly below average height, and his salt-and-pepper hair was mostly salt. Wire-rimmed glasses rested beneath bushy eyebrows and over the heavy purplish bags under his eyes. Eastern European, Mel speculated. His dark eyes seemed intelligent and wary but not unkind.

  “Hello,” he said in an accent that confirmed Mel’s guess. “You have a delivery for me?”

  “Yes.” Mel craned her neck to see the room behind the man as she and Gavin approached. Stark white walls and cabinets. A glimpse of polished black countertop. A kitchen? No other people were in sight, and the old man appeared unarmed. Thank God. The guy didn’t strike her as dangerous, but looks could be deceiving.

  She proffered the package, and the man accepted it with liver-spotted hands. “Excellent. Thank you for bringing this.” A momentary smile deepened the lines on his craggy face.

  “Is my dad here?” Gavin asked. “When are we going to get him back?”

  “He is not,” said the man, “but I was told that he will be returned safely after you bring me this.”

  Gavin nodded, and some of the tension drained from his shoulders. Mel grinned at him and put a hand on his arm.

  “. . . And after you do one other thing,” said the old man.

  “Like what?” Her grin faded.

  The man turned to go back into the white room, and he gestured for Melanie and Gavin to follow. Exchanging uneasy looks, they trailed after him and stepped into what Mel realized was a laboratory. The acrid stench of chemicals greeted her—if it had been near the full moon, the odor would have overwhelmed her. A trio of computers huddled on an L-shaped desk, one whirring quietly. Beakers, glass vials, and other equipment waited along the obsidian countertop. The man deposited his package among them.

  In another corner Mel saw a couple of gray padded chairs and a white supply cart. A red box was mounted on the wall near it. Memories of her trip to the hospital rushed back. Oh no, don’t tell me—

  “Please sit down and roll up your sleeves,” said the old man, indicating the chairs. “I need a sample of your blood.”

  “What?!” said Melanie and Gavin in unison. Gavin stepped protectively in front of Mel, and she clutched at the pepper spray in her pocket.

  The old man regarded them calmly.

  “Why?” challenged Gavin.

  “I am not at liberty to tell you.”

  “Oh, that’s gonna convince us to cooperate.”

  “You did want to see your father again, correct?”

  Gavin pulled out his phone. “I’ll get the police involved. Something tells me you’re not using this place legally.”

  “Do you mean the police in town here, or the officer positioned outside your parents’ house, waiting to escort Cara off the premises?”

  The blood drained from Gavin’s face. He swallowed and choked out, “The—the guy who tailed us?”

  “The detective working with our organization. This room is under surveillance, and he will know if you resist. The men holding your father will also know, and I cannot guarantee they will keep their promise to do no harm.”

  Dammit! thought Mel. They’d left Cara wide open like an unprotected king. Checkmate.

  Muttering curses under his breath, Gavin put his phone away. “Fine,” he growled, and removed his jacket with angry, jerky movements. “I get to sterilize the needle myself.”

  “Fair enough,” said the doctor. He retrieved a Bunsen burner from a cabinet and lit the flame.

  “D-do we both have to do this?” stammered Mel, taking a step backward.

  “Yes,” said the doctor.

  “But . . . I . . . can’t. . . .” Another step.

  “Melanie, just do it—there’s no choice.”

  Hot tears brimmed in her eyes. Hold them back! The canister in her pocket felt cool and smooth in contrast. Her grip on it tightened. But if she whipped it out and used it, what then?

  Snatches of the letter from the Organization replayed in her mind: Members of our organization are vulnerable, just as you are. . . . We reached out to you and Gavin in good faith.

  She was disinclined, under these circumstances, to believe that. But Gavin was right: There was no choice.

  Her hand slipped from her pocket. “I . . . hate n-needles,” she admitted, feeling foolish.

  “Would you like me to give you a sedative, something to relax you?” said the doctor, his face softening.

  “No!” It was bad enough he wanted to take something out of her veins—no way was she letting him put something into them!

  Gavin had already seated himself in one of the chairs. The doctor opened a drawer in the cart and pulled out a needle and syringe, both encased in plastic, new and sterile looking. He handed the needle to Gavin, who unwrapped it and passed it through the open flame. The doctor tied a tourniquet around Gavin’s now bare upper arm and flicked a finger at the inside of his elbow. “Got a nice one,” the old man murmured, swiping at the skin there with a sterilizing wipe.

  Mel cringed and turned away as the doctor slipped the needle into Gavin’s vein. “Good, good flow,” she heard, and felt nauseous.

  It was over in less than two minutes. The doctor whisked four vials with bright red blood to a nearby fridge. Gavin tugged his sleeve down over his bandaged arm, stood up, and
walked to Mel. “Please,” he said, looking into her eyes. “For me. For my family.”

  Lower lip quivering, Melanie blinked back her tears and nodded. She took deep breaths, in and out. Gavin helped her out of her coat and guided her over to the chair he’d sat in. It was still warm. He sat next to her and held her right hand after she’d rolled up her left sleeve. The scent of his Old Spice filled her nostrils, and that and the feel of his strong hand encasing hers soothed her to a small degree.

  The doctor pulled out a fresh needle and syringe. Gavin held the needle in the fire. Mel closed her eyes and felt the rubber tourniquet squeezing, pinching. The muscles in her face screwed up just as tightly. Flick, flick. Ouch. Pause. Another few flicks at a different spot on her arm. “Ah, found one.” A cold, wet feeling. The crackle of plastic. A longer pause.

  Mel tried to go to her happy place—a tranquil beach in a tropical paradise she’d only ever visited in her imagination—but the pleasant picture was overpowered by a vision of the old man stabbing her in the neck with the needle. She stifled a whimper. Please get this over with already!

  The pinch in her elbow didn’t hurt as much as she’d anticipated. She gasped and then released the breath she’d been holding. “It’s okay,” Gavin said gently.

  “It’s working, right?” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Yep. Coming out almost as fast as mine did.”

  A long moment later, she felt the needle slide out and the doctor’s hand holding a piece of cotton tightly over the wound. She opened her eyes when he asked her to take over the job so he could unwrap a bandage. After he’d stuck it on, she hurried to roll her sleeve back down and throw on her coat.

  “We all good now?” she said in clipped tones. “Jeff will be returned safely?”

  “Yes. You may go. Thank you.”

  Gavin gave the man one last scowl and then followed Melanie from the room. She stalked to the front door without looking back and burst out into the frigid late-autumn air. It was dark now, with only half the streetlamps lit. Cigarette smoke drifted by, but the air felt fresher than inside that awful lab. A tiny sob escaped Mel’s throat. She hoped Gavin hadn’t heard.

  Silently, they walked to his car and climbed in. He turned the key in the ignition, but before he took the car out of park, he turned to her with eyes full of gratitude and apology. “Thank you, Melanie. I really owe you one.”

  “No,” she whispered. “We’re even now.”

  16

  Strike Two

  December 1, Waxing Crescent Moon

  The building was completely white inside. Everywhere she looked—walls, floor, ceiling—was stark, clinical white. Whiter than bones.

  As she sprinted through never-ending hallways, shadows grew and deepened, turning everything gray. Fluorescent bulbs flickered and threatened to die. Locked doors and dead ends blocked her way.

  Footsteps echoed behind her. They were slow and shuffling but somehow kept pace with her. She hadn’t seen her pursuer, but she knew what he looked like: white lab coat. Ebony eyes behind glinting glasses. Liver-spotted hands clutching a long silver needle.

  Pain stabbed her neck. She howled, hand flying up. A cold, thin spike: deep, tenacious. She yanked at it with all her might, and at last it popped out.

  Blood gushed down her back and over her shoulders. She screamed and tried to staunch the flow.

  Red, red. Her hands—everything was red.

  Rasping laughter rang in her ears.

  Panting and sweaty, Melanie awoke from the nightmare. “Oh God,” she breathed, heart pounding, eyes darting around. She was in her own warm bed. The room was dark, but the glowing digits on her bedside clock showed 7:29. She deactivated her alarm before it could screech at her.

  Her hand touched her face. There was something crusted there. And on the pillow, a dark, wet spot. Sweat? Tears?

  Blood.

  She yelped, and her hand flew to her neck. Blood there, too. Her fingers came away crimson.

  She jumped out of bed and ran to the mirror. Blood ran in rivulets from her nose, down her cheek and neck. There was no puncture wound. Just a regular old nosebleed.

  Mel closed her eyes and tipped her head back in silent gratitude. Thank goodness. Also thank goodness Pam wasn’t in the room.

  What’s that old doctor guy going to do with the blood he took from us? she wondered as she showered and dressed. Clone us and make a werewolf army?

  Star Wars-esque images flashed through her mind: rows upon rows of empty-eyed Melanies and Gavins standing at attention inside a huge bunker, dressed in white armor, claws extended instead of blasters. It was so ridiculous she almost giggled—but only almost.

  And what had been in the box? We should’ve asked the doctor his name. . . . Probably wouldn’t have told us.

  The police, medical personnel. Did the Organization have government influence? Just how far did its reach extend?

  Gavin texted her at lunchtime, telling her Jeff had returned late that morning.

  “Yay! ” she typed. The Organization had kept its word. Maybe they did reach out to us in good faith.

  Gavin’s next messages made her think again: “He woke up at a bus station, alone. He had to buy a ticket home. No one saw who brought him in. His wallet was still in his pocket, not missing anything.

  “He doesn’t remember much about the time they held him. Must’ve been really drugged up. A few vague memories of being fed and taken to a bathroom. No memories of faces. He was in a small room with a bed and a desk. The window was boarded shut. No idea where he was.”

  She swallowed around a lump in her throat.

  “These people are not good guys, Melanie.”

  She really hoped he was wrong.

  December had blasted its way in with strong winds and a scattering of rain. The penultimate Sentinel issue of the semester blew out from the Wellsboro press that afternoon. Surreptitiously, Mel watched people reading it in the cafeteria and the library. She hoped no one noticed how sloppy her editorial was. Dawn probably had, and Mel prayed she wouldn’t harangue her about it. With finals to study for, not to mention homework and reading assignments to catch up on, Mel’s time was stretched precariously thin. Cramming till two a.m. was taking its toll.

  But she couldn’t get another C on a test, like she had in medieval lit last week.

  Tonight, Thursday, was a tutoring night. She sat at a library table with Luis, neither speaking after their initial greetings, both with noses buried in books. If I look busy enough, maybe no one will bother me, Mel hoped.

  Two out of three professors had granted her permission to take their exams early; the other had pushed his to the end of exam week. Melanie didn’t have to reschedule her Monday final, since it was first thing in the morning, and she wouldn’t need to leave for the cabin until that afternoon. The Tuesday and Wednesday tests were the ones she’d had to move. Thursday morning—two weeks from today—she and Gavin would be done transforming for the month and could return, but Mel was sure she’d be exempted from her Spanish final that afternoon. Señor Miller waived his exam for students making an A. At least I’m sure to get one in that class.

  Around a quarter after eight, she stood up, stretched, and took a long drink at the water fountain. On her way back, she noticed Timmy Simmons seating himself at a table near hers. He pulled two books from his bag but opened a copy of the Sentinel instead. Mel wrinkled her nose and returned to pore over several heavily highlighted pages of a textbook.

  Pricks ran along the back of her neck, like someone’s eyes were on her. She glanced up. Timmy had been squinting at her over the top of his newspaper, but he hid behind it when she frowned at him.

  Eww, why was he watching me?

  Was something spilled on her shirt? Was her hair messed up? She didn’t think so. Thrice more she looked over at Timmy, only to catch him averting his eyes.

  Irritation rose within her, but she told herself firmly: Ignore the little punk. Don’t let him get to you. He’s trying to
mess with your head or something. Was he out for revenge because of the sentences she’d rearranged in his latest articles? His quartet of comma splices had been nauseating.

  At last, nine o’clock rolled around, and Mel could escape from the library and her peeping Tim. She packed up her schoolbag, then saw Timmy copying her actions. What the heck? She fumed as they pulled on coats and gloves in tandem.

  Hurrying toward her dorm through frigid darkness, she wished she’d driven herself to the library. She almost wished she also had the feverish feeling that meant the moon was a few days from full—but only almost.

  In the silence between the wind’s howls, her footfalls echoed tersely off the buildings around her. Then she registered another set of footsteps shuffling a short distance behind her. You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Melanie whirled around and caught Timmy spinning on his heels and heading back toward the library. Angry words welled up, but she restrained them.

  Since when had that pest been interested in her?

  A chill ran down Mel’s spine that had nothing to do with the weather. Another stalker popped into her memory: the cop.

  He remained a specter—a blank, featureless face and form swathed in mystery. How had he found her? If neither she nor Gavin knew him, how had he caught wind that they were werewolves? Who’d tipped him off?

  Thoughts of the Organization, the package, and the needle-wielding doctor made her wrap her arms more tightly around herself. She realized she was breaking her promise to Gavin. She’d told him she wouldn’t go walking around alone after dark. Crap. But the library wasn’t far from the cafeteria, and she’d traveled to dinner with a group of her friends. She hadn’t thought to bring the car, hadn’t planned this far ahead.

  Nervously peering around, Melanie saw only a couple of other people scurrying across campus, both of whom she recognized. She passed a clump of bushes and jumped as they rustled. Stupid—it’s just wind.

  Would the Organization send her any more letters? Would one of its members come here to talk to her in person?