Witches & Werewolves: A Sacred Oath

by Bella Raven

  “Fixed up?” I ask.

  “Well, you can’t go on a date looking like this.”

  “It’s not a date!”

  “Whatever,” she says, dragging me back to my room.

  Jen sits me down and breaks out her plethora of makeup products. I have to admit, the girl is talented. What she does is pure magic. It’s like she’s sprinkled me with ferry dust, or something. My skin glows, not a blemish in sight. I don’t know how she gets my hair to do what it just did. It never seems to do exactly what I want, but Jen has some mystical command over it. I think she needs to open a salon, or work for a fashion photographer. I look like the airbrushed pages of a magazine, but natural. Without a visible trace of makeup imperfections. The makeup isn’t caked on or powdery, no clumps in the mascara, and everything is blended perfectly.

  I stare into the mirror, stunned. “How?”

  “Lots of practice,” she says. “And a good canvas to work on,” she grins and winks.

  It’s nice to have magically talented friends.

  “He is going to be smitten,” she says, admiring her work.

  “Ethan?” I ask.

  “No. Lucas. He already is, that’s obvious.”

  “Why are you encouraging this?”

  “Because he doesn’t have a sister that wants to pulverize you,” Jen says.

  “What is her deal? Why does she hate me?”

  “They are a close family. Maybe she sees you as a threat?” Jen says.

  “Close? How close? Like, weird close?”

  “No. Tight knit,” Jen fumbles for the perfect description. “Like a pack.”

  Jen’s eyes narrow, and she stares deep into mine, as if she’s trying to see into my thoughts. The phrase, “like a pack,” reverberates in my mind.

  “Just be careful,” she says. “Haven Hill isn’t the sleepy little town you remember.”

  “I’ve had my heart broken before,” I say, playing a little dumb. I'm trying to see if Jen will voluntarily elaborate on her admonition.

  Jen chuckles. “Heartbreak is the least of your worries.”

  “What do you know about these animal attacks?”

  “I know what you know,” she says.

  “Sheriff said it was a bear, or maybe a wolf?”

  “The Sheriff is most likely right,” Jen says. She sounds like a politician. Trying to pick and choose her words carefully so as not to lie, but to not fully illuminate the truth either.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say wolf.” My words hang in the air like mist.

  “I’d guess wolf, too,” Jen replies.

  “But not an ordinary type of wolf?”

  “There’s not too much that’s ordinary in Haven Hill.”

  It seems that neither one of us wants to say out loud what we’re thinking. It’s too crazy to say out loud. They lock people away in padded cells who think these kinds of thoughts. But I know I’m not crazy, and I know what I’ve seen. The silver nitrate burned Ethan’s hand in chemistry. The strength he displayed during my rescue was inhuman. The night of the attacks, hovering over the bodies, his appearance was altered. Of all of these things I am certain. I’m just going to blurt it out. “Is Ethan—?”

  Before I can finish my question, before Jen can respond, uncle Jake is calling for me.

  Lucas is here.

  CHAPTER 11

  BY THE TIME I get into the living room, I’m certain this is the worst idea in the history of ideas, and I find myself thoroughly embarrassed. Uncle Jake has invited Lucas inside and he is standing in the living room, if you can call it that, surveying the premises. What must he be thinking? It’s a pig stye really. Empty beer cans and crumb filled bags of chips crumpled up on the couch. Shag carpet from 1972. Scuffed vinyl flooring that’s peeling up in the corners. And that god awful faux wood panelling that lines the walls.

  “I dig it. It’s totally got that retro vibe,” Lucas says.

  I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic.

  “Thank you, I paid extra to give it that aged look,” Jake says.

  Lucas nods.

  “Vintage don’t come cheap,” Jake gloats, grabbing another beer. “You want one?”

  “Uncle Jake!” I snap. “He’s seventeen!”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jake realizes. “More for me.” With that, Jake cracks open the beer, fizzing out onto the carpet. He glances down at the foaming pool of suds on the shag. “Adds texture,” he says, then guzzles half of the beer down in one gulp.

  Jen giggles, amused by the outrageousness of the situation. I shoot her a look and she cuts her giggle off immediately, though she struggles to contain herself. I guess if this wasn’t my life I’d be a little amused as well. But giving Jake an audience only encourages him.

  “Are you ready to go, Lucas?” I ask, trying to rush us out.

  “Uh, sure,” Lucas says.

  “Where are you going?” Jake interrupts.

  “We were just going to grab something to eat,” I say.

  “Oh, great, I’m starving,” Jake says.

  “No!” I blurt out.

  “I’m hungry, and so is Noah, and there’s no food in the house,” says Jake.

  “Yeah, I think that’s a great idea. Let’s all grab something to eat,” Lucas says, with a smile.

  I’m about to explode. I can feel my face flushing red. This is surely going to be a disaster. After a few deep breaths, I calm down and realize that this is probably a good thing. This will take any weird awkwardness out of the whole non-date thing. Now it will just be a weird, awkward family and friends dinner.

  “We need to stop at the grocery store afterwards,” Jake says.

  Lucas just grins. “Not a problem. Where do you want to eat?”

  Everyone shrugs.

  “How about pizza?” Lucas asks.

  I get the sense that Lucas would be okay with just about anything. He seems so easy going, and I think he genuinely doesn’t mind my dysfunctional family tagging along. I don’t know what it is about him, but Lucas seems to have a calming effect on everyone. He always has a little bit of a smile, and there is always a glimmer in his eye. He has this boyish charm, perfectly happy wherever he is, whatever he’s doing. Not a care in the world. Never in a rush, like time doesn’t matter.

  I wish I could be like that. I’m constantly stressing out about tomorrow. Ever since my parents died I feel like I’m hyper aware of every second—we only get so many. How many seconds do I have left? How many does Noah? We all have an expiration date. Everything you ever love will either die or go away at some point. Everything exists in a state of entropy, constantly decaying. It’s the natural order of things. It makes me not want to love anything, because I don’t want to lose it.

  It seems like the slightest thing can set me off on a train of thought that I’d rather not be on. Seemingly innocuous things. Everyone warned me this would happen. They said, “Out of the blue, you’ll get hit with a wave of emotion.” And it’s true. One minute I’m fine, then this. I burst into tears and sob uncontrollably.

  “We can eat somewhere else if pizza’s a problem,” Lucas says.

  “No, pizza’s great,” I say, trying to pull myself together. “It’s just last time, I ordered pineapple and mushroom, and I got pepperoni instead,” I say, sarcastically.

  “I’ll make sure you get what you order this time,” Lucas says.

  I don’t think anyone believes that’s the reason for my outburst, but they all play along. Jen reaches out, putting a hand on my back to sooth me. She gives me a look that says everything is going to be okay. It’s nice to have good friends.

  While pizza might not solve all the world’s problems, it’s making me forget about mine for a moment. We all stuff our faces, crowded into a booth at Johnny’s Pizza. This is really good pizza, and I just happen to be starving. Plus, with everyone’s mouth full of cheese and dough, awkward conversations are minimized. For the moment.

  Despite a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni, Lucas manages to ask, “What exactl
y brings you to Haven Hill?”

  “I thought everyone knew by now, the way people gossip in this town.” I don’t mean to come off gruff, but my words just come out that way. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had to bury anyone, but it’s expensive. Like, way expensive. And they screw you on everything.”

  The table is silent. Everyone has stopped eating. Lucas turns pale, and his jaw drops wide open. “I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

  I go into full rant mode. “Well, it’s true. I don’t know if you know anything about caskets, but they start at $2500. That’s the cheapest one. But it doesn’t stop there. You can’t just put a casket in the ground, it has to go in a vault. That’s another two grand. And that’s the cheap part. Then the undertaker is about nine grand. And don’t forget about the ‘property.’ That’s going to run you another ten grand for a six foot deep hole in the ground. Well, you don’t really own the property, you get what they call a ‘right of internment.’ Which is pretty much a right to be worm food. Then double all that when both your parents die at the same time. The insurance policy was barely enough to cover the funeral. And there wasn’t anything left to cover the mortgage on the house. So, to answer your question, thats what brings us to the lovely town of Haven Hill to live with uncle Jake.”

  I smile a big, fake, sarcastic smile. I think I’ve effectively killed everyone’s appetite.

  “Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to bring up a painful memory,” Lucas says.

  “Not a big deal, we’ve all got to die sometime, right?” I say.

  “My mom was killed last year, so I know a little bit about caskets,” Lucas says.

  I’m a total jerk. I’ve been focusing on all my problems. I haven't given the slightest consideration to what anyone else might be going through.

  “How are we doing here? Can I get you guys anything else?” the waitress asks, popping by the booth.

  “Another pitcher of beer,” Jake says.

  “Uncle Jake!” I grumble, raising an eyebrow.

  “What? Larry here is driving,” Jake slurs.

  “Lucas,” I say, correcting him.

  “Whatever,” says Jake.

  I apologize to Lucas for my self absorbed rant, and for Jake’s lack of manners. Lucas just seems to take it all in stride. I’m fairly confident that this night has gone about as wrong as it could go, and the worst is certainly behind us. But the minute I think that, it gets worse. My stomach turns with nerves the moment I see Ethan and Olivia walk in. I slouch down and lean back, trying to hide behind Jake, without being too obvious about it.

  I feel like a complete moron because I know he sees me, and trying to hide just makes me look even worse. My mind races, wondering what he’s thinking. Does he think I’m here with Lucas? Does he even care that I’m here at all?

  Whatever. I don’t owe anyone and explanation about anything. I can do whatever I want. I could plant a big, wet kiss on Lucas right now and it’s nobody’s business. Although, that might make for an even more awkward night, so I decide better of that idea.

  Across the restaurant, Olivia’s eyes catch mine, and I see them ignite. A smirk wipes across her face, like she’s caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. I smile at her. It’s the only thing I can do. Her smirk turns to a frown, and the veins in her forehead bulge. Maybe my smile was pushing it?

  Ethan sits with his back to me, like he doesn’t want to see me. Olivia furiously rants at him in a hushed tone. I try not to pay attention to them, but my eyes keep flitting in their direction—I can’t help myself. And Lucas is watching all of this.

  This is such a train wreck. I just want to get out of here.

  Lucas just sits there, observing, staring at me—through me. And I begin to wonder if he can actually read minds, like he claims?

  “You know, it’s a school night, and I know you still need to get some groceries. We should probably do that so I can get home by curfew,” Lucas says.

  “But she hasn’t brought my second pitcher,” Jake protests.

  I jump at the chance to escape. “Do you want to be able to eat tomorrow?”

  “Choosing between gratification now, and gratification later ain’t a choice at all,” Jake responds.

  “All in favor of eating tomorrow raise their hands,” I say. Everyone does, except Jake. But, eventually, he succumbs to peer pressure and finally raises his hand. “Good, that’s settled,” I say.

  Before I can grab money from my purse, Lucas flags the waitress down, giving her cash. “My treat tonight,” he says.

  “No,” I say.

  “I invited you, it’s my treat. You can get next time.”

  I huff, but accept his offer. Then I realize that next time obligates me to another meal with him. I see what he did there. Sneaky.

  Lucas gets his change, leaves a tip, and we file out of the pizzeria. I do my best not to make eye contact with Ethan or Olivia, but I feel his eyes all over me—or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

  We stock up on everything imaginable at the grocery store. There’s no telling the next time we’ll get here, with our current transportation crisis. We each push a full cart of groceries through the parking lot to Lucas’s car, and I begin to wonder if this is all going to fit. Jake leads the way weaving the cart, fighting against a broken wheel.

  “I can tell we’re going to be great friends,” Lucas says.

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  Uncle Jake has decided on the path he will take, and pushes the cart between two parked cars to get there. From here, I can see it’s not wide enough. “Uncle Jake! No!” I scream.

  But it’s too late. Jake rams the cart, squeezing it between the two parked cars. Paint peels from the doors, letting out a hideous squeal that echoes into the damp night air.

  “Jake, what did you do?” I shout.

  “Looked wider,” he says, shrugging.

  Before I can stop him, he yanks the cart back, carving another groove in the paint of both cars. The shriek pierces my ears, like nails on a chalkboard. Fire engine red paint lines the side of the shopping cart as it emerges from between the vehicles. My jaw drops at the sight. This is bad. Really bad. But it gets worse.

  The door of the fire engine red sports car flings open and a six-foot-six hulk of a man bounds out. He’s not happy at all. He’s shouting obscenities and has a semi-automatic handgun pointed at my face. It’s so close I can smell the metal mixed with gun oil, and a faint smell of gunpowder—this gun has been fired recently.

  I see his finger grip tighter around the trigger.

  CHAPTER 12

  IT SUDDENLY COMES to me, and I remember the last time I was in Haven Hill as a child. It was my grandfather’s funeral. I had been trying to pinpoint it since we got here, but I guess I was having a mental block. It’s amazing the kind of clarity of mind you can have when staring down the barrel of a .45 automatic hand gun.

  Noah was just a baby, and I was barely six. What had been a foggy, distant memory is now crystal clear. I watch the events replay in my mind as if I were back there right now. I don’t know why I’m thinking about this presently. My attention should be focused on my impending doom, but I’m somewhere else completely. Maybe this is my way of escaping? Maybe this is my life flashing before me before I die?

  I remember my dad waking me up in the middle of the night, telling me to pack some clothes, that we were going to see grandpa. I was excited at first, but that changed quickly. I could see the concern on my dad’s face—I knew right away that this wasn’t going to be a trip to file away in the happy moments jar.

  Our flight had gotten delayed, they lost our luggage, and we finally arrived at the hospital late the next evening. It was agonizing. We just felt trapped in that airport, desperately wanting to get to grandpa as fast as possible. I did’t have any real details of what was going on, and all dad would say was, “Grandpa’s not well.” I could see the tears well up in his eyes every time he said it.

  Grandpa wasn’t really awake, and he wasn’t really aslee
p, when we first saw him. The nurse was giving him a breathing treatment when we arrived. Grandpa had a clear oxygen mask strapped to his face, the elastic bands were grooving into his cheeks. Wearing a pale green hospital gown with little snowflake patterns, he looked disheveled. He was covered in electrodes monitoring his vitals. IVs poked into his arm, and his wrists were wrapped in ID bands--one of which read in bold letters, “DNR.” Do not resuscitate. He didn’t look comfortable, and certainly not the way I remembered him from our last visit. I started sobbing instantly.

  The doctor told us that he had the Old Man’s Friend. Pneumonia. But there didn’t seem anything friendly about it. They call it that because it is supposed to bring a peaceful death. CO2 levels rise in the blood, brining a supposed euphoria as the vital organs shut down in a cascade of system failure. The doctor said grandpa likely had twelve to twenty four hours to live, but they would do everything within reason to save him.

  One person’s definition of reasonable can be very different from another person’s. And there seems to be a general attitude in the medical community that as a person ages, their life becomes less worth saving. I believe everyone’s life has meaning and is worth saving, whether you are eight or eighty. And this was my grandfather. Everyone who’s dying in a hospital bed means something to someone, and he certainly meant something to me. Here was a man who had fought for our country in WWII to protect the very freedom we enjoy today. He deserved to have someone fight for him.

  With each breath, the fluid in his lungs gurgled and rattled, and it sounded like he was drowning. It was painful to see. And even more disturbing when they had to suction the fluid out of his lungs—either by ramming a suction tube down his throat, or through his nasal cavity. He would shake and jerk, wincing and moaning with discomfort during the procedure. Just watching made me feel like gagging. I imagined what that tube must feel like, shoved past the uvula, past the tonsils, down into the upper respiratory tract. I had never seen him in such distress in all of my life. He was always larger than life, a man’s man, never afraid of anything. He always had a grin and a glimmer in his eye—but not today.