by Sarah M. Awa
Chandra gave Melanie the doctor’s number so she could arrange the details with him herself. After hanging up, Mel moaned and flopped back against her pillow. Might as well get this over with quickly, she thought, and dialed.
January 27, New Moon
Two days later, Mel got her car back from the shop. At last the Honda was presentable again—and even more so than before, since it now had considerably less rust.
It was Friday, and she’d arranged to drive to Sokoloff’s office tomorrow morning. The prospect was terrifying, especially since she’d be going alone. Asking Gavin to come was out of the question.
But what if Chandra was right? What if she got worse? Her fatigue, nausea, and headache persisted, only partially relieved by various medicines.
She carefully hid her discomfort from Pam. She also wore her dark contacts.
My life is falling apart, she lamented, curling in a tight ball under her covers. First, my GPA plummets, and now my health is going down the drain fast.
Not to mention what had happened the other day at the Sentinel office.
Wednesday, following the phone call with Chandra, Mel had gotten a text from Dawn summoning her to the office. Shit. I’m in a deep pile of it. Timmy had to have told Dawn everything.
Mel had waited until the next period, pretty sure Timmy had a class then. Indeed, he was no longer there; only Dawn was.
As soon as Mel slunk into the room, the editor looked up from her computer and narrowed her eyes. “Caldwell, I need to talk to you.”
“Okay,” Melanie said meekly.
“Sit,” Dawn commanded, pulling out the chair next to her.
Gingerly, Mel sank onto it. She didn’t like the look in Dawn’s eyes. Not anger, but deep disappointment. Mel knew some painful words were about to be spoken.
“You and Simmons are still at each other’s throats, huh?”
Mel hung her head and hesitated, unsure how to respond.
“I should never have agreed to his idea for these editorials. All it did was rile people up. Werewolves, for God’s sake. We’re not a tabloid.”
Melanie looked up, a spark of hope stirring inside her. Sounds like I didn’t misjudge her.
“What I want to know is,” continued Dawn, “why Timmy would accuse you of being a werewolf.”
So she had read his article already. “I . . . I’ve been wondering that, myself.”
“He obviously has some kind of grudge against you. It’s nowhere near April Fools’ Day; he seems serious. I don’t know how long he’s had it in for you, but could this have anything to do with that camping trip last fall?”
“Maybe. I didn’t spread any rumors about him, but he seems to think I did.”
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m not printing his concluding paragraph, and I’m considering scrapping both of your articles and replacing them. It’s a bit last-minute, but it would teach Simmons a lesson in professionalism.”
Please, please scrap them! As annoying as it would be if Dawn asked her to whip up a new article a week before publication, Mel would gladly do it.
Dawn folded her arms and said, “Speaking of professionalism, Simmons isn’t the only one displaying an astonishing lack of it.” Her eyes pierced into Melanie’s.
Heart rate speeding up, Mel dropped her gaze. Her whole body tensed. Here it comes.
“Melanie, I expected better from you. A whole lot better. You actually punched Timmy? After I warned you to learn how to block him out.” She shook her head, looking both stern and perplexed. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you need to get your act together. You seem to be under a boatload of stress, and I don’t know why or where it’s coming from, but I think you need a break.”
“Wh-what are you . . . ?”
“What I’m saying is, I’m putting you on suspension until you work through whatever this is.”
Numbly, as if through dense fog, Mel had only half-heard the rest of what Dawn was saying. She understood Dawn still wanted her article and might publish it. Or she might have Timmy write another editorial to replace the pair. But Mel wouldn’t be writing or editing for the Sentinel until further notice.
She didn’t remember the walk back to Hartman. Exhausted, she’d fallen into bed as soon as she’d returned. The numbness was fading, replaced by shame but also a twinge of relief. Less on her plate for a while—but how would the suspension impact her grades? She’d fallen into a fitful sleep.
Today—Friday—after classes, she had picked up her car with Luis’s help, driven straight back to the dorm, and taken another nap. Pam woke her at dinnertime, frowning and asking, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Peachy keen.” Mel faked a smile and hurried to get ready for supper, despite her lack of appetite. She popped an aspirin when Pam wasn’t looking.
Carrying her sparsely laden tray into the dining hall, Mel spotted Timmy on the far side of the crowded room. Anger welled up, and she glared daggers at his back. He turned, though not all the way around to face her—just enough so she could see the nasty purplish-yellow bruise that had bloomed on his face. I hope it takes forever to go away.
To her intense relief, Mel hadn’t heard any rumors about her being a werewolf. No one had given her the evil eye or treated her differently. She tried to focus on that and on other positives—like how her nose hadn’t bled today or yesterday—and push thoughts of Sokoloff and needles to the back of her mind. Pam was flirting with Aaron; Jos was teasing Shari. Mel sat listening, trying to absorb their cheerfulness, pushing her food around her plate.
The knot wouldn’t leave the pit of her stomach.
24
Turn for the Worse
January 28, Waxing Crescent Moon
The next morning, Melanie finished breakfast ahead of her friends and slipped out to her car. She shivered uncontrollably—and not only from the arctic blasts. Her poor car shivered too, under her death grip.
Dave’s going to be there, she reminded herself. I’ll make sure he’s the one who draws my blood. It’ll be fine.
Mel’s phone chimed, and she checked it at a stoplight. Gavin, asking her how she was feeling. He ended the text with: “Please don’t do anything rash.”
Mind your own business. How does he even . . . Did he “see” me doing this?
She scowled and gritted her teeth. At least she was doing something. What did he ever do but hide in his cabin, pretending like everything was okay? That’s not living.
Cedarwood was just as slummy as she remembered. Feet hadn’t yet trampled the snow into grayish-brown slush, and the debris had been transformed into glittering white lumps. Those few people present moved quickly, heads down, heavy coats swishing. They were interested only in reaching their destinations.
No one was watching her. No one saw her duck into Sokoloff’s unit.
The unit’s front room was cool, bare, and dim. Heading straight for the laboratory at the back, she fingered the pepper spray in her jacket pocket. She trusted Dave, basically, and prayed she wasn’t wrong about him—but she wanted to be smart about this. And not only because of Gavin’s text.
The lab’s door was ajar, and Mel heard Dave’s warm baritone saying, “No, it’s only going to get colder. Will this snow ever stop?” Another voice responded, “I thought you liked the snow.”
That second voice was higher, raspier. And it sent a nor’easter howling down her spine.
Her grip on her pepper spray tightened. I won’t let him do anything.
She tapped lightly on the door and stuck her head around it. The doctor was sitting at one of his computers, dressed professionally, tie and all, under a lab coat. Dave leaned against a countertop, hands in pockets. He looked casual and relaxed in jeans, a forest-green hoodie, and well-worn sneakers.
“Melanie, come in.” Dave smiled and stepped close to shake her hand.
With a wry grin, she said, “You don’t look like a phlebotomist. I thought you were supposed to wear a lab coat or scrubs or something.”
He lau
ghed. “I’m sure there’s a spare lab coat around here; I can put it on if you want the total experience.”
A stray thought about playing doctor with Dave flitted through her mind, but she brushed it away. She could feel the real doctor’s eyes on her and nervously turned to give him a quiet “hello.”
“Good morning. I understand you have been feeling quite ill, young lady,” Sokoloff said gravely, rising and approaching her.
Mel fought not to take a step backward. She nodded, and noticed sympathy on Dave’s face.
“Let us get some samples drawn. I will test them for all manner of possible causes.” The old doctor put a hand on her elbow to guide her, but Mel flinched, and he backed off. She marched to the dreaded chair and sat in it defiantly. Dave joined her and Sokoloff after washing his hands and donning gloves.
Mel stripped off her coat and rolled up her sleeve. Dave gave her a reassuring smile. He sanitized the needle, tightened the tourniquet, found a vein. Averting her eyes, Mel screwed up her whole face—pride be damned. The pinch came, but it wasn’t as bad as when the doctor had drawn her blood. Dave’s pretty good at this, she thought, although she remained tense.
When Dave had finished filling his six vials, Mel’s spring-loaded muscles relaxed. Sokoloff asked her a series of questions about her symptoms, jotting down notes. She answered honestly and thoroughly, then realized she was dying to interrogate him in return.
“How long have you been doing this? I mean, working with werewolves. I’m guessing our anatomy is different than humans’. How experienced are you with treating us?”
Glasses glinting, he looked up from his steno pad. The lines across his forehead deepened, like furrows plowed in soil. His weathered, wrinkled hand trembled slightly as he clicked his pen closed and stuck it in his breast pocket. “I have worked for thirty years in my field,” he said, “which is genetic research and DNA sequencing. I have only known about werewolves for the past couple of years, however. I . . . came to the States two years ago at the behest of the McCullough brothers and have studied werewolf DNA and physiology since then.”
Mel frowned. She’d hoped he would say he had a decade or more of experience with werewolves. He might not be able to help me, she fretted.
“He’s a genius,” put in Dave, as if sensing her thoughts. “If anyone can find a cure, and treat whatever you’re suffering from, it’s him.”
“Are you a human or one of us?” she asked Sokoloff.
An odd expression passed over his craggy face, like a mild earthquake through hill country. “I am a werewolf.”
Well, it’s good that he’s got a stake in this; he’ll be extra motivated. “How close are you to perfecting the cure?”
“I estimate that next month, or maybe in March, we will start seeing some very satisfactory results. Meaning, some of our test subjects will be able to keep their minds during at least part of each full moon night. Possibly all night.”
Mel’s heart leapt. Finally, some good news! “Who are the test subjects?”
“I’m one,” put in Dave. “Sheila’s another. Several others are signed up to start next month. There’re more spots open, if you want one.”
Me? Melanie gulped. Letting these people take blood out of her veins was one thing; letting them put an unknown substance in was entirely different!
“I’ll—I’ll think about it,” she said.
“We will need to start giving you the injections two weeks before the full moon, which means right now,” said Sokoloff. “But since you are ill, I do not want you to participate in this round. I would like to figure out what is wrong with you, and get you back to optimal health, before you test the drug.”
“Okay.” That sounded wise, and it would give Mel more time to decide. I should probably wait until it works well for the others, then join.
Interview done, she rose to leave. Too fast—a wave of dizziness swept over her. She swayed and plopped back onto the chair, blinking the world into focus again. Tiny lights twinkled; her forehead throbbed in time with their dance. She closed her eyes and massaged them.
“Melanie!” She felt Dave gripping her shoulder and heard him say, “Doc, she’s white as a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” Mel protested, eyes snapping open. The men were both staring at her with concern.
Dave knelt and studied her face. “Can’t fool me,” he said quietly. “You’re not going anywhere yet. I don’t think you’re fit to drive.”
“But I need to—”
“I’ll take you,” he interrupted. “In a little while. Just rest, relax.” He reached up and put a cool hand on her forehead. “You’ve got a low-grade fever.”
Sokoloff said, “Melanie, please remove your contacts.”
“Where am I going to put them? I didn’t bring the case.”
“Just take out one for a moment; I need to see your eye color.”
Sighing, she obeyed. Dave and the doctor frowned. “Let me guess,” she said: “yellow?”
“Yes,” they said, almost in unison.
“What does that mean?”
“I do not know,” Sokoloff admitted. “I will start running tests immediately.” He whisked the vials of blood over to a microscope and a centrifuge.
Dave sat next to Melanie and asked her about herself—her major, her friends, her interests. She was grateful to him for providing a distraction.
Eventually, she and Dave ran out of things to say and fell silent. The centrifuge whirred. Sokoloff had created a dozen slides of her blood mixed with various chemicals; their acrid smells drifted to her from across the room. He peered into the microscope and muttered, “Hmmm” in what Melanie thought was an ominous tone. She wondered what he was seeing and thinking.
“How are you feeling now?” Dave asked.
The throbbing had mostly abated. “Better. I think I can drive myself back.”
Another frown, and a shake of his head. “No, I said I’d take you.”
She didn’t catch the words that followed; a curious tingling sensation in her hands and arms distracted her. Glancing down at them, she shrieked in fear.
Fur was spreading across her hands. Her fingers were shriveling, growing claws, morphing into paws!
“Melanie?! What’s wrong?” said Dave.
“My—my hands—” She looked back at his face and shrieked again. Russet hair was sprouting on it, and his mouth and nose were pushing outward into a muzzle.
Somehow Dave was able to speak normally through his shifting facial structure. His eyes were wide—and gold. “Doc, come here!”
Sokoloff was already rushing over. He knelt in front of Melanie, his own eyes glowing, face shifting and growing fur, hands transforming as they reached toward her—
“No!” she screamed, jumping up.
Dave’s thick arms grabbed her from behind, pinioned her arms against her sides. “Calm down. We’re not going to hurt you. The worst is over. No more needles, okay?”
She struggled, kicking backward, connecting with his shin. He grunted in pain and clamped his leg around hers . . . like Gavin had done when he’d kidnapped her.
Thinking of Gavin and his good intentions, she stopped writhing.
The doctor gripped her face with both hands—they felt cool and dry and not furry—and brought his wolfish face to within inches of hers. “Her pupils are dilated,” the wolf said in plain, human-shaped English. “Melanie, what are you seeing? What are you frightened of?”
“You—I—we’re transforming!”
“No, we are not.”
“But your face, Dave’s face, my hands . . .”
Mel shook her head to dislodge his hand-paws, then blinked rapidly. Blood rushed in her ears, and her vision narrowed, edged by black. The room spun; she would have swayed if Dave weren’t holding her so tightly. She moved her mouth but couldn’t tell if words were coming out. Then the blackness swallowed her.
An acrid stench brought light and sound and the world back. Mel half-lay, half-sat in Dave’s lap on the col
d linoleum floor. Dave held something white and chalky under her nose. So that was the awful odor of smelling salts. She grimaced and pushed them away.
She twisted to look at Dave, and Sokoloff—both were fully human. So was she, upon inspection. “I . . . hallucinated?” she croaked.
“Yes,” confirmed the doctor. “Not a good sign, but helpful for narrowing down possibilities.”
Melanie sagged against Dave and let out a frustrated sigh. “This really sucks! What did I ever do to deserve this?”
“I used to ask myself that a lot,” said Dave. “I guess we all do, for a while. Have to grieve before we can move on.”
I have been grieving, she realized with a start. For months. Grieving the death of my old life.
An hour later, Dave returned Mel and her car to Hartman. When he offered, Mel refused to let Dave help her upstairs or even inside the building. She was worried about gossip from Brianna and questions from Jos. Fortunately, Pam was out—with Aaron or in the music building.
Mel wanted nothing more than to take a long nap, but she had a quiz to study for and some reading to catch up on. Grumbling, she sat down at her desk. When she woke her computer, she noticed a few new emails.
One was from Timmy.
What now?! Her stomach lurched, but she had to read it.
There was no subject line. It was short and unsigned. It simply said:
I want to be what you are. I want you to turn me. Do it, and your secret is safe.
What the hell? Doesn’t he realize how painful the transformations are? She couldn’t believe he, or anyone, would want that torture three times every month. Couldn’t he guess how bad it was from the Caleb Connor video? Or did he just not care?
Telling him about the agony, arguing that line, would be admitting what she was. Never. How on earth should she respond?
She closed it and tried to read her professor’s online notes, but the words all morphed into “werewolf” and “turn me.”
Would the double op-ed be published, or was Dawn making Timmy write a new article?