Fatal Moon

by L. E. Perry

  Carl and Diana started an exchange of information that would have lasted long into the night if Jordan hadn't interrupted them for dinner, which was unusually spectacular. Although Jordan and Carl didn't normally dine together, they decided to do so for the sake of hospitality, and to remain aware of what each of them was saying to Diana.

  "Jordan, I never knew you could cook so well," Carl commended after taking a bite of the trout.

  "You never gave me the impression you'd appreciate it. Anyway, it's hard to ruin good trout."

  Diana nodded, "It must be wonderful having control over the pollutants that wild fish get into."

  Carl raised his eyebrows. "I'd never thought of it that way. It does taste better than the average trout, doesn't it?"

  Jordan grinned mischievously. "No, it's just my experience as a chef."

  "You? A chef? I don't recall seeing that in your work history." Carl looked surprised.

  "Prep cook, actually, with the title of dishwasher, but I learned fast."

  "It didn't work out?" Diana asked.

  "Inferior equipment.” Flexing his biceps subconsciously, he explained, “I can be hard on plastic."

  Carl took a bite of the pilaf, chewed then spoke slowly. "Hmm... remind me to have you list all that you can do."

  Jordan groaned, putting his head in his hand. "Mother of God, no more lists. I know nothing."

  When Diana laughed, Jordan turned to her with a mock-serious look. "You think I'm kidding? This guy would list his unmatched socks, if I didn't hide them from him. I'm amazed at how many things can be listed – I learn something new every day." Carl laughed, finally, and the three of them spent the rest of the meal talking and appreciating Jordan's culinary skills. They had several cups of after-dinner coffee, cider in Jordan's case, before getting up from the table.

  * * *

  As Jordan cleared the dishes off the table and the other two walked down the hallway, Diana said to Carl, "He's really interesting."

  Carl stopped. "Jordan?" He’d learned a lot about Jordan in the past hour.

  "Yes. He hasn't had it easy, has he?"

  "No, but who has? He's got flaws he managed to hide tonight. There have been times when I'd rather be stuck in a room with a mother grizzly."

  "I think the feeling is mutual," she mused.

  "Yes, I imagine so," Carl smiled. "But he's certainly the best man for the job." He stopped at the stairs. "Well, this is where I leave you, unless you care to sweat in a small room with me." Diana's lips parted as her dark blue eyes flared open, and Carl held up his hands, "No, no – I apologize, that's not at all what I meant. I lift weights twice a day. Maybe if I get to Jordan’s size I’ll get the respect I think I deserve. Do you work out?" he asked conversationally, wondering for a moment what it would be like to sweat in a small room with her.

  "No," she slowly answered. "I probably should, but I get too bored. I'd rather be out with the scenery, riding a bike or a horse or something."

  Carl paused, his hand on the doorknob. "I should introduce you to Daisy, then. She can take you just about anywhere up here."

  "Daisy..." she paused.

  "The horse. She's part Appaloosa. It’s been said they can dance on a mountaintop. That's why we have her."

  "That would be fantastic." She gave Carl a pleased look that immediately reminded him he was supposed to be encouraging her to leave soon. "Is Jordan busy?"

  "I'm afraid so. He'll be with me for the next two hours, spotting me. But he could take you – no, you'll be in town tomorrow. The next day?"

  She beamed. "I think I'll spend the evening in the library, then, if that’s all right. There's a lot to catch up on in there." Carl remained standing at the door as she left, wondering what to do about her. Her company was more than pleasant; she was beautiful and intelligent, as well. The silence of the mountains was no place for a gregarious young med student, and she could brighten the dull hours. Diana’s presence wouldn't change his feelings about Jean, though. Wincing, he walked toward the weight room.

  Chapter 11 – Wasting Away

  In the exercise room, Carl grumbled as he folded his pants then pulled a loose tank and shorts on. "No kidding it's boring. We should have a Blu-ray player and screen in here. I could watch Casablanca, or better yet, Never Cry Wolf, or the National Geographic channel – whatever."

  Jordan was bench-pressing an incredible stack of weights. "You're the boss, but that'll decrease your performance. You have to concentrate on the muscle you're working for the best results." He completed his set and went to leg curls. Jordan worked his lower body while Carl worked upper, and vice versa, so they never needed the same set of weights at the same time.

  "Can you prove that?" Carl asked, reaching over to turn down the music on the sound system. Jordan would count his repetitions with him, at the same time as his own, if there was no music in the background. Carl wanted to make sure he had a backup in case he lost count. It was too important to risk error.

  Jordan snorted. "I don't... have to." His breathing was catching up with his words. "Someone else did." He waited until Carl started lifting weights before he continued repping out his own sets, at five times for every four of Carl's. He'd said once that he had composed a twenty-bar piece in his head and knew, by which bar he was in, how many reps they'd each done. "So, what happened up there?" Jordan closed his eyes as the room filled with the sound of the shuffling weights.

  "You mean while I was out last night? How would I know? I might need to get a radio collar, or perhaps you should follow me – find out what I'm eating, when, where, how. Maybe the virus is mutating." Carl fell into his own rhythm as he lifted.

  Jordan shuddered as he continued lifting his own weights. "Nnnno… no. I'll track you down after the change. Hell, I'll even start looking before you change, but I don't want to be anywhere near you when you're altered. I could have killed you that first time."

  Shocked, Carl dropped his weights with a heavy clunk. "You what? You never told me that!" He picked up the bar again and resumed lifting, looking at Jordan in consternation.

  Jordan held his weights at halfway until Carl regained his tempo, looking impatient. "I was pissed… and in a room with a wild animal. You gave me no warning whatsoever. I mean, damn, Carl," Jordan nearly lost control of the weights in a burst of strength, then went on, "You took me downstairs, asked me to record everything I see, slipped into that room with the barred door, and started... changing on me. I thought you were some kind of demon, witch… God knows what. But it sure didn't look like the science I grew up with." Jordan paused, then started lifting again.

  "Jesus.” Carl was mortified. Though he had found the experience disorienting, he’d become accustomed to what was happening by the time he introduced Jordan to the situation, and he’d been so psyched about gathering data, it hadn’t occurred to him that it would be disturbing for Jordan. “I apologize. I guess that couldn't have possibly gotten us off to a good start."

  "Not hardly. Keep lifting, Carl. You shouldn't be on your second set yet."

  Carl was astounded. "How many did I do?"

  "Eighteen, and you were lagging on the last three or four." Jordan paused for a few seconds again, then went into his third set. Jordan finished his set before Carl regained his composure.

  "I was exhausted. I was sure I'd done the full set."

  "You didn't have any problem yesterday," Jordan said with concern. He let his weights down gently and walked over to Carl, picking up the measuring tape and the chart. "You've lost six pounds, starting from day one of this cycle. You say you have no memory whatsoever of what happened up there?"

  "No, just the… the wolf when I woke up."

  Jordan put the chart on the bench and straddled it again, tape in hand. "I look forward to the day you stop surprising me. What happened with this wolf?"

  "She just–"

  "She?" Jordan’s hand dropped to the bench.

  "Yes, it was a female."
<
br />   "How'd you know it was a she-wolf?"

  Carl cocked his head. "I can't rightly say. It was the way she smelled, the way she moved, I guess."

  "You didn't, uh..." Jordan became very uncomfortable.

  "I keep telling you I don't know! But she's been there every morning this cycle."

  "You know they mate for life…"

  Carl gave the wall a disgusted look. "Yes, I know. This curse thing is worse than a bad drunk. But… at least she can’t slap me with a paternity suit," Carl joked, using humor to hide his concern. He rubbed his hand across his head as Jordan started taking Carl’s measurements, beginning with the upper shoulders. They went through the process of recording physical findings again, and Jordan marked off each data point. Carl didn't bother even trying to look.

  As Jordan made the last notation, he sighed and paused. Finally, he broke the silence. "I noticed you were off your feed at dinner."

  Carl answered wearily. "I didn't know how Diana would feel about my eating several pounds of fish. I had supplements while you were gone, but I haven't adjusted to the new diet yet. It's an imposing amount of food."

  Jordan gave him an incredulous stare. "You insisted yourself on getting more food, and I agreed.”

  Carl winced, then shrugged. "Are you going to tell me what the chart says?" He turned around.

  "Thought you didn't want to know."

  "I didn't, but I need to get back to the weights." Carl held out his hand for the chart.

  Jordan ignored his hand. "So, start lifting."

  Carl's hand remained. "Tell me."

  "It's about the same."

  "How close?"

  "About the same--"

  "Hand me that!"

  Jordan passed him the chart, and Carl's stomach sank as he realized just what Jordan meant to hide from him. He had lost nearly half as many inches during the day as he lost during the night with the two transformations. He felt queasy. "Oh my God. What in the hell is going on?" He checked for an error, but there wasn't any. "Did you calibrate the tape against yourself?"

  "I did this morning on three measurements. Mine haven't changed. Here," he flicked the tape over his own upper arm, snagged the end and pulled it tight. "Biceps eighteen." He released the tape.

  "Jesus, I've got to check that blood sample."

  Jordan clenched his fists onto the measuring tape and started folding it, the tail whipping back and forth against his arm. "You've got to eat, damn it, and you've got to work out."

  Carl cradled his forehead in his hand. "Oh, come on Jordan. I can't do any more. I'm so tired of working out, and I'm just not hungry enough."

  "If you work out, you'll get hungry, you idiot! Too bad there’s no place to swim. Across a small lake and back a few times, you could dispense with the weights, and you'd be hungry enough when you got back to eat a whole rack of prime rib. Of course, at this time of year, you'd also have hypothermia."

  "Who knows? Maybe werewolves don't get hypothermia." Carl surreptitiously glanced at the door. Even when they didn't have a guest, they had avoided using that word, for fear of getting in the habit and being overheard. It also appeared to make Jordan queasy. "Hey, I'm sorry about the kitchen,” he said, changing the subject quickly to distract Jordan.

  "What? What's wrong with the kitchen?" Jordan stood up in alarm. "What did you do – you didn't move things around again, did you? I know you didn't eat anything, though it’d be a blessing if you did."

  "No, it's Diana. I told her to make herself at home, and I forgot to mention the kitchen... uh… rules."

  Jordan's face turned to stone. A difficult task, Carl thought, when it normally seemed chiseled out of topaz anyway.

  "I'll have to check it out," Jordan said angrily. He looked at his watch. "And after that, I'm on break. Keep lifting. And count your reps, dammit!" He strode from the room.

  Carl turned and hefted the bar again. He had noticed that Jordan kept a running tally in his head, always, of exactly how much food there was in the kitchen, and roughly how much in the pantry. Carl could take food without it bothering Jordan as long as Jordan was notified, but when food disappeared behind Jordan's back it could put him in a black mood for hours, or more.

  Carl checked his watch; he still had an hour before he needed to leave the house for his last night of transformation this month. He had hoped to talk to Jordan about coming after Carl without making Diana suspicious, but Jordan would know what to do.

  Chapter 12 – Keeping Secrets

  Diana climbed the stairs half an hour later. Even though he’d mentioned that he was trying to build his physique, something was off about Carl going off on two to three hour runs at night the past few evenings – and that he’d be up early in the morning coming back from an intense outdoor exercise session again the next morning. It seemed to fit with her suspicions, but she couldn’t be sure yet.

  She saw that Jordan's door was cracked open, a light, twanging metallic sound coming from inside. Curious, she tapped at the door, and it opened further to show Jordan reclining, eyes closed, on a plain bed, covers rumpled. Jordan had his broad shoulders and his head against the wall, one leg bent to help keep his body upright. His hands wrapped around the body of a red electric guitar, from which the barely audible twanging came. She heard only the sounds of the naked strings without the boost from the amp – only Jordan could hear this through his headphones which were connected to the small box that the guitar was also plugged into. The amazing thing was the face; it wasn't his. At least, not the one she’d come to recognize from the short time she’d known him.

  The furrow between his eyebrows had disappeared, his dark, slightly open lips were fuller, more sensuous. The tightness she thought was permanent in his jawline was gone entirely. He was a handsome man when he wasn't wearing his usual expressions of anger, frustration, irritation, suspicion, and skepticism. His eyes had never smiled, but closed they seemed lost in the bliss of a sound only he could truly hear. She tried to make out the tune, listening carefully to the faint twanging of the unamplified metal strings. She remembered the words first: "I close my eyes, only for a moment and the moment's gone..." then, to her surprise, he opened his eyes and leaned over to reach a knob, but his movement was arrested when he saw her staring at him. His arm remained for a moment in midair as he appraised her, then he turned away and made the adjustment, removed the headphones from his head and put them on the amp.

  When his face came back around, it was hard again. She was about to leave, but he motioned her to a pillow lying on the floor. Other than the bed, several pillows on the floor, a radio alarm clock, and a glob of clay presently affixed to the wall in a flattened lump (by the myriad blotches on the wall, she suspected he threw it around a bit) there was nothing in the room. Even the wardrobe, half open, was well-organized but virtually empty. There was no dresser.

  She realized he was staring at her and waiting, so she sat down on the pillow he had gestured at. He continued staring. "This is my break," he said finally. "By state law, an employee gets fifteen minutes for every four hours. I take it in a lump sum, an hour and a half a day, every evening. The door's usually locked, but it hasn't recovered from the last slam I gave it."

  He was still staring, and she felt rather uncomfortable, as if caught in an act of voyeurism. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I've interrupted. I should leave," she said, rising to her feet and turning to the door.

  He was silent for a moment before he spoke. "That would depend. Are you work or pleasure?"

  Diana spun around. His eyebrows had drawn together and his lips had narrowed further. Something that she couldn't identify drew her to the weightlifter, though she knew she didn’t dare get involved with either of the men. She’d been sent to scout out the werewolf pack, and told there might be another living on his own. She was beginning to suspect it was one of these two, and she would be expected to identify which one, then ensure he was executed.

  She weighed his question as his e
yes passed over her body like she was a painting at the Louvre. "I'd like to think I'm not work, but I… I'm… not sure if I want to call myself pleasure…"

  Jordan's head snapped back almost as if he'd been slapped. "I'm sorry. I'm not a good host, and that was rude. If you sit down, I'll try to be… more decent." He unplugged the headphones and smiled with half of his face, then shook his head. "I wouldn't blame you if you left."

  She wasn't sure it was wise, but she had a job to do, so she returned to sit down. He motioned at the door and she closed it with the toe of her shoe, thinking she could scream, if she had to, before he could get to her. She was pretty sure Carl was a decent man, though what else he was remained undetermined. Jordan’s hands were straying to the frets again as if he were unable to stop them, and she recognized the song this time.

  "'Dust in the Wind,'" she said.

  He nodded. "It's all I know." He continued playing while she watched and listened.

  She watched his face began to relax again until she spoke. "Is the guitar all you own?"

  Eyes closed, he nodded. "I try not to own things. They break.”

  She watched his hand change position with the chords as his right hand plucked strings with alternate fingers, like a dance. "And the guitar?" The music was still quiet, but distinct now.

  "From a friend." His face continued to fall into softer contours.

  "He didn't want it anymore?" She asked.

  Jordan didn't answer until he had segued into “Love Song” by The Cure. "He broke." She was watching his face when he said it, and would have missed the slight clenching of jaws if she hadn't been looking for clues to his thoughts.

  Jordan's eyes opened and he gave her a wry smile. "Like classical?" he asked.

  She nodded slowly.

  He adjusted the dial on the amp with a wry grin. “I don’t know any yet, but it’s in the title of this one.” Next, he played a pop instrumental called “Classical Gas”. It sounded excellent up to the point in the piece where the orchestra normally took over. His fingers grappled with the fretboard, trying to get all of the notes in, and fumbled slightly. He watched his hands intently, then went into quick arpeggios, knuckles turning white. He shook his head with frustration, his lips thinned past visibility, and he put the guitar down.