The Curse of Moose Lake (International Monster Slayers Book 1)

by Bethany Helwig

  “You’re alive,” he murmurs.

  A smile bursts on my face. “I’m alive!”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Well, it is now.”

  Hawk stirs but doesn’t wake. I’m impatient so I grab his shoulders and shake him until his hair’s flopping. He jerks to and freezes when he sees me. Then he throws his arms out and smiles wide.

  “Fifi! You didn’t die!” He wraps me up in a hug and we’re both laughing, giddy little children. We’re cackling madly and I’m on a sort of sugar rush. But over Hawk’s shoulder I see Jefferson frozen stiff in his chair, eyes dark and his mouth a thin smile.

  “Just like a real phoenix,” he says drily. “But this is still impossible.”

  We pull apart and Hawk sits on the floor with his back to the mattress. I sit cross-legged on the bed and tug my mother’s jacket onto my shoulders.

  “You keep saying that, but I’m proof that it’s not.” I hold my hands out, palms up to show him nothing’s changed. “I’m fine.”

  “There is no cure, Phoenix. Do you have any idea how long I’ve searched for one?” He sets his coffee cup on the table and looks everywhere except at me and Hawk. I think of the story he told me about his daughter. Yeah, I can imagine he would go to the ends of the earth to find his daughter and a way to cure her.

  Jefferson stands and paces back and forth before facing me again, gesturing with both hands. “There is no medicine that can cure a magical disease, and other magic only combats other magic. They destroy each other. That’s why the serum isn’t a true cure. It’s just enough magic to stop a portion of the werewolf disease without killing the host. Phoenix, don’t you see?”

  He rushes over and puts his hands on my shoulders. “What’s in your blood cleansed it without killing you in the process.”

  “But that means—” If they could somehow process my blood and keep the magic intact, mass produce it, and send it out . . . “If it worked for me, maybe it could work for others.”

  “You could cure the entire werewolf population.”

  Chapter 20

  I throw on my long-sleeved junior agent shirt. There’s no logo but it’s specially stitched, flexible, and made for an agent in action. I carefully tug the one sleeve over my bandage to hide it. Over top I wear my mother’s bomber jacket. Jefferson wasn’t exactly what you would call pleased that Hawk had opened the evidence bag but I think he understood why we did it. He didn’t shout at least.

  Wearing the clothes that are each a piece of who I am, I walk out to the truck where Hawk is arguing with Jefferson.

  “I’m not leaving!” Hawk shouts. His cheeks are flushed and he slams the door of the truck shut.

  “Yes, you are,” Jefferson counters. “I need you out in the field.”

  “She almost died last night.”

  “But she didn’t. She’s going to be fine but we’ve still got a werewolf situation, no clue as to the identity of the ringleader, and at least a handful of people missing now.” Jefferson opens the door again and tries to pass over the keys. “The IMS backup team will be coming but until they get here, I need you to go out there and do your job. Find the kid that bit your sister. See if he knows who the black wolf is. Can you do that?”

  Hawk doesn’t move to take the keys. He’s upset, shifting from one foot to the other, and I want to help him.

  “It’s not like we’ve gotten any great intel from the high school,” I interject. “Seems kind of pointless.”

  “Trust me,” Jefferson says. “It’s not. Hawk, I need you out there. It’s vital. And you know what Phoenix and I are doing is too important. We need all hands on deck.”

  I guess I can’t argue with that. Jefferson’s right. We need an eye on the werewolves with everything going down the tubes. What if others have been bitten or are missing? That also makes me worry about leaving Hawk on his own, but testing my blood as soon as possible is something that can’t wait either.

  “Hawk, I’m fine,” I say. “Honest. I’m not going to suddenly drop. Pretty sure we’re past that point.”

  He glares at me for taking Jefferson’s side but snatches the keys. “Fine, but you better be sending me texts every hour to let me know you’re okay.”

  I shrug. “Fine, as long as you do the same.”

  “I’m not the one we should be worried about.”

  That’s debatable but I don’t argue. Hawk gets into the truck, cranks the engine, and drives away. As soon as he’s gone Jefferson pulls another set of keys out of his pocket, tosses them in the air, and catches them again.

  “Let’s go,” he says and leads the way to the barn. Instead of going in the side door he throws open the massive double doors to reveal the car he’s always had covered up. The tarp is gone and I let out a low whistle.

  “Why don’t you drive this beauty instead of that piece of crap truck?” I say.

  I don’t even know what kind of car it is but it’s one of those old muscle cars—a sleek piece of mechanical splendor. Its deep, forest green paint is buffed to an impeccable sheen. The chrome shines and there’s not a speck of dirt to deface it. I run a hand over the hood and up to the hardtop. It’s obvious this is something Jefferson values since the rest of the cabin and barn are held together by duct tape and rough repairs—they’re more practical than pretty. This is on a whole different level.

  “She’s a 1970 Oldsmobile 442 with four on the floor,” Jefferson says with the first real smile I’ve ever seen him wear. He bends down with hands braced against the roof so he can gaze inside the interior as if he’s never seen its pristine beauty before in his life. “This baby’s got a 455 big block that’s been balanced and blueprinted, and pumps out loads of torque. She can blow the doors off most any factory-equipped car. It’s all about the acceleration. I save the Green Monster only for special occasions.”

  The technical talk goes right over my head but I grin and ask, “The Green Monster?” We look at each other across the hardtop. “You named it?”

  “Of course,” he says a little defensively.

  “Jefferson, I’m not beating you down. I just want you to know how awesome you are.” I’ve got that giddy feeling again. I’m no car expert but this thing is making me excited. “This looks fierce.”

  “Wait until you hear her thunder,” Jefferson says with the same excitement and we swing the doors open at the same time to slide into the bucket seats.

  The inside is dressed in black leather and green trim. When Jefferson turns the ignition, it roars to life—it’s not the groaning roar of the truck like an old grouch trying to get out of bed. The Green Monster lives up to its name because it’s pure thunder in the mountains. I actually laugh as I buckle up.

  “Hit it!”

  He shifts into first and we roll out of the barn. The Green Monster is a thousand times cooler than the truck could ever attempt to be. We hit the road and the engine revs up along the open stretch. I brace one arm against the door and imagine what we must look like to everyone else driving by. Then I wonder how many of those people looking on are werewolves. Moose Lake is crawling with the supernatural but I can fix it. I can cure my brother. There’s still the question of how, but right now I’m just grateful the magic in my blood even exists.

  The city appears out of the trees like a curtain being pulled back and we turn onto the main drag. Once through the heart of the city, we turn off onto another county road to the hospital and clinic. The two buildings loom ahead and are clearly the largest in town. The clinic is maybe a fourth the scope of the hospital but it’s still a good size for Moose Lake. Jefferson picks a spot next to the doors. It’s fairly early and the parking lot is less than half full.

  I keep one hand in the pocket of my bomber jacket to keep from jostling my injured arm too much. Jefferson leads the way in through two sets of doors to your typical secretarial counter. The young girl managing the desk smiles.

  “Oh hey, Jefferson,” she says.

  He leans forward with one elbow on the co
unter. “We’re here for Dr. Rosewell. Is she in?”

  The girl’s smile falters. “She’s actually running late. A personal emergency, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing too serious I hope.”

  “No, she said she’ll be in as soon as she’s done managing it. You’re welcome to take a seat and wait until she arrives.”

  He gives her a casual two-fingered salute and guides me over to a wide waiting room. Chairs line the walls and sit back to back down the middle. Jefferson goes all the way to the far end next to some kiddie play area and we take up two of the comfy chairs.

  “Personal emergency doesn’t sound good,” I say.

  “No. No, it doesn’t.” Jefferson glances at his wristwatch then picks up a National Geographic off the table next to him.

  I ignore the stack of outdated magazines and instead watch the people start to bleed in from the outside one at a time. There’s your typical pack of elderly probably in for their checkups and prescriptions refills, but then there are a few teenagers I recognize from school bouncing on their toes, wringing their hands, or fidgeting with their keys. They snap at the lady at the front desk, each and every one, then take a seat only to tap their feet or rap their fingers on the arms of their chairs. Then it’s not just teenagers but men and women all in a highly agitated state.

  “Jefferson,” I say under my breath. He looks up from his magazine. “Are they all . . .?”

  He surveys the room bustling with agitation and people pacing. “Yeah, I think so. There’s quite a few more werewolves than I know about it seems.” He sits up, closes the magazine, and tenses, which makes me tense too. “The infection rate is increasing more than the last time. A lot more.”

  “Do you think they’re all here to see Dr. Rosewell?”

  “Must be. She’s the only doctor they can see.” He turns about in his chair to look out the window at the parking lot then back to the room that’s crowded with a majority of anxious werewolves. “She’s still not here. I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  He leans to the side so he can pull his cell phone out of his back pocket. He dials a number, waits while his face draws into a frown, then snaps it shut.

  “She’s not picking up either,” he says under his breath.

  The crowd continues to grow and nearly all the seats are taken up. Across the room I spot Mr. Webster, the crabbiest teacher alive, staring at me. He’s white knuckling a Sports Illustrated and just . . . staring. There’s a shift in the room and I find a lot of eyes watching me, as if they know what I am. I could be the cure to the disease—and, in their eyes as pawns of the black wolf, a threat to his power.

  “Jefferson.”

  He tosses the magazine onto the table. “Yeah, we’re definitely moving. Follow me.”

  We rise together but instead of heading through the crowd and back the way we came, Jefferson leads me down a hallway into the clinic, leaving the crowd behind. We pass door after door after door until a nurse comes around the corner. Jefferson grabs my arm and we slide into a room before she looks up from her clipboard. He shuts the door and we stand next to it listening for her to pass.

  “What are we going to do?” I whisper. “What about drawing my blood?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitches and he surveys the little room we trapped ourselves inside. There are a couple of plastic chairs, a big cushioned . . . thing with crinkly paper covering it. In the corner is a sink and cabinets topped with a jar of cotton balls and box of tissues. Jefferson locks the door then starts to dig through the cabinets. I stand guard at the door listening while Jefferson finds a locked red box with some kind of warning label on the top. He reaches into a hidden pocket in the lining of his jacket and pulls out a pair of thin metal picks.

  “You’re kidding,” I say. “You have lock picks?”

  He doesn’t even respond but goes to work on the lock. After thirty seconds he cracks the box open to reveal rows of syringes in plastic bags. He takes a couple out before putting the box back. I watch mesmerized as he finds a bottle of alcohol, grabs a cotton swab, tears a rubber band off a stack of papers in the cabinet, and unwraps the syringes.

  “Take a seat,” he says and points to the cushioned thingy. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  I plop down, pull my right arm out of the sleeve of my jacket, and roll up my long-sleeved shirt. Jefferson wraps the thick rubber band around my upper arm and dabs at the inside of my elbow with alcohol.

  “Have you ever done this before?” I ask. “I mean, I’m not afraid of needles or anything, but you do know what you’re doing, right? I’m not going to sit here while you figure out how to fill a syringe or find a vein or—OUCH!”

  The needle finds its mark and pinches sharply as it slides under my skin. Jefferson holds a finger to his lips for silence then eases the top of the syringe back. My blood fills into the empty space, vibrant red. I avert my eyes while he fills one syringe then another. He takes my hand and has me press a cotton ball to the sore spot. Easy as can be, he unwraps the rubber band from my arm, caps the syringes, tucks them into the hidden lining of his jacket, and then slaps a bright pink Band-Aid on me.

  “Suits you,” he says quietly and gestures for me to get up.

  It’s something my brother would say. Jefferson’s not so bad once you give him a chance. I tug my arm back through the sleeve of my jacket and meet him at the door. We pause to listen, then escape from the patient’s room and walk steady and upright down the hallway as if we were meant to be there the whole time.

  Jefferson must know where he’s going because he takes us straight to a rear entrance. He smiles and waves at a nurse passing in the opposite direction and we slip out before she can say anything. We pick up the pace once we’re outside and jog to the parking lot. Through the windows I watch the mass of werewolves waiting to see the doc inside. Their eyes find mine like magnets and I’m quick to look away. This is getting way too creepy.

  The Green Monster is waiting for us and we gun it out of the parking lot at full speed. I run a hand over the top of my head.

  “Well, now what?” I ask. “How are we supposed to analyze my blood or whatever? Wasn’t that all kind of pointless without Dr. Rosewell?”

  “She’s not qualified to check out your blood. I only needed her to draw it and I was going to ask her about the serum supply. If she’s gone, that’s really going to slow up the distribution. There’s going to be a lot of werewolves off the serum,” he says and gives me a sideways glance. “No, we’re taking your blood to a dead drop to have an expert check it out.”

  “Seriously? We’re going all CIA on this?”

  “I need you to understand something, Phoenix,” he says and swings onto a road off the main drag. “We need to get this out right away so it can be processed immediately but a cure is going to be a long ways off. We aren’t going to save this town through your blood. Not right away.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry but it’s going to take time. You can’t just inject your blood into a werewolf and hope it works. It might counteract with the serum and kill the host.”

  “Or it could cure them.”

  We come to an abrupt halt as he parks outside a small building with an even smaller sign pronouncing Moose Lake Public Library. He faces me with one hand resting on the back of the bucket seat. He smells like coffee and pine trees. I didn’t notice until now with him practically breathing on me, giving me a hard stare.

  “Would you be willing to test that on Hawk without knowing for sure?” he asks.

  My cheeks warm. “No.”

  “Then consider the same for every other werewolf out there. The only way we’re going to win this is by getting this out—” He takes out the syringes and wiggles them in front of my face, “—stopping the black wolf, and giving ourselves time to get the cure and get it right. I know it’s the last thing you want to do, but you’ve got to be patient.”

  I glower and reach for the door.
“Fine.”

  We get out and Jefferson hides the syringes in his jacket again. I follow him through glass doors, a tiny lobby, and a set of heavier doors to the library. It’s quaint and, like any library, has that smell of old paper, dust, and cleaner. A very tall, slender woman with arms like toothpicks stands behind the counter. Her mousy hair is pulled back into a tight bun that makes her severe facial features that much more pronounced. Her eyes are sharp on us when we enter.

  Jefferson walks up to the counter and raps his fingers. “I’m looking for the first edition of Apollodorus.”

  The woman appraises me with those razor eyes and then glides into a backroom. Moments later she returns hefting a large book bound in brown leather. Its pages are yellowed with age and Apollodorus is embossed in gold on the cover.

  “Thanks.” Jefferson takes it over to a computer cubicle and checks around us to make sure we’re alone before opening it. A square notch of space is cut out of the very middle—the perfect place to hide items. Jefferson carefully places the two syringes into the massive book, tears off part of a page, jots down a note to sit with the needles, and eases the cover shut. He returns the book to the librarian and hustles me out the door.

  “Is it really safe to just leave those there?” I cast an anxious look at the library. “Who picks that up then?”

  “It’ll make its way into the hands of my expert. Don’t worry about it. It’s safe.” He waves me over “Come on. We’ve got to get to the cabin before the IMS backup team arrives.”

  A lingering sense of disappointment weighs on my shoulders as I climb into the Green Monster and Jefferson guns it out of the lot. In my mind things were supposed to happen a lot faster. The cure would be instantaneous, the full might of IMS resources would be behind it, and the entire world would be rid of the disease forever. But now my magic blood is sitting in a dinky little library in a small town waiting with no sense of urgency for some mysterious “expert” to examine it and decide if it’s the real deal or not.