Coveted

by Shawntelle Madison

  After a brief shower, I dressed in my usual outfit—a champagne-colored blouse and black pencil skirt. The way I saw it, why spend time deciding between clothes?

  The guest-room door was shut when I left my room. Only the sounds of the humming refrigerator filled the room while I prepared a perfect cup of coffee. Anyone could start the day off right—all it took was two tablespoons of coffee to six ounces of water.

  As my hands moved, I went over my last-minute details before work. I left Aggie a note that I’d stop by with lunch from Archie’s. Before I departed, I said a few Hail Marys, praying the house would remain in the same state until I returned.

  Reluctantly, I entered the garage. But I paused three times before opening the car door. Leave the house. It wasn’t as if Aggie would burn the place down. Don’t think about stuff like that! She didn’t smell like smoke last night, so I convinced myself to climb into my car so I wouldn’t be late.

  Most flea markets opened later in the day on Sundays. But Bill, the clever and greedy goblin that he was, opened his establishment at nine a.m. on the dot. I arrived promptly at eight-forty-nine to see three cars waiting in the lot.

  As I left my car, I waved at one of our die-hard customers, Mrs. Weiss. The eighty-year-old witch showed up every three days in a suffocating wave of lavender perfume–laden clothes. As a fellow supernatural creature, she ought to have known about my keen sense of smell—and how offensive her lavender perfume would be to a werewolf. But it’s not as if proper conduct around werewolves is advertised on cable television. Like most of The Bends’ other supernatural shoppers, we hid our true nature in the shadows.

  Other than Mrs. Weiss, all our supernatural customers had a good reason to shop early. Every Saturday night, Bill received a shipment of magical items, which he put out first thing Sunday morning. I entered the showroom to find him grumbling over those very same boxes.

  “Bill, we’re opening in ten minutes. Couldn’t you have opened these things in the back office?”

  Not only had he strewn brown wrapping paper all over the cleared pathway, but he’d also left bits of white packing peanuts all over the floor. What made matters worse was Bill’s lack of organization.

  “Did you catalogue any of these—wait, why do I bother asking?”

  Bill grunted a reply while he placed a set of wands in the display case. With a bit of goblin magic, he cast a spell to spread glamour over them. By the time he finished, the wands would look uninteresting to regular folk like humans.

  In the meantime, I watched him carelessly cram the merchandise inside. My anxiety rose with every careless move he made. What if he damaged a wand? Hell, how could the clerks figure out how much anything cost if he didn’t label them properly? Before I started hyperventilating, I shoved him out of the way.

  “Go open the registers!” I hissed.

  From behind his glasses, the goblin’s eyes twinkled. He snickered and strolled away to the back office. Did I hear that mischievous man whistle a lively tune while he loaded the cash into the registers?

  I had five minutes to pick out three or four wands for Mrs. Weiss. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to photograph and catalogue the multitude of bristly twigs. But I did have one thing on my side: The elderly witch bought her wands as gifts, and picked them solely by appearance. The darn thing could’ve shit magical bricks, but if the twig sparkled in the noonday sun, she’d buy it.

  By the time Bill opened the door, I’d managed to photograph three of the wands and add them to the computer system. Seven customers filed into the showroom, with Mrs. Weiss bringing up the rear. With seconds to spare, I placed three wands with price tags in the display case just as she lumbered toward it.

  “Got any new pretties this week?” Her voice rattled in her tiny five-foot frame.

  “We have several new fire-witch wands. But I took the time to personalize this selection just for you.” I offered a pleasant smile and used my soft-spoken saleswoman voice. I saved my “Are you crazy lady?” voice for irate customers who tried to hustle the store.

  To be honest, I told every valued customer that I’d personalized the selection for them. I’ve worked at The Bends for several years and learned a few things about magic outside the werewolf realm. Of course, all this on-the-job training wouldn’t teach me what werewolves couldn’t do. Cast spells to figure out what kind of magic the wand performed. But based on the type of wood (mahogany, cherry, etc.), I could recommend the right type of wand—whether it would match with a water, earth, or fire witch.

  Mrs. Weiss squinted at the wares and touched the glass. From behind her I heard Bill yell, “Your mom is on line three, Nat. She told me she’d hold.”

  I nodded and continued to smile at Mrs. Weiss. She’d be good for another twenty minutes while she sized up the merchandise. “I have a call. I’m assuming you need time to decide.”

  The elderly witch waved me away with a twirl of her fingers. It was a relief. A break from the cloud of lavender perfume would do me some good.

  I picked up the phone in the back office. “Hi, Mom. This is unexpected. Is everything all right with Grandma?”

  “Your grandmother is fine. She’s knitting another sweater for Sasha.” The television was blaring in the background. As an old, hard-of-hearing werewolf, my maternal grandmother liked to have the TV on full blast while she knitted sweaters for my brother Alex, or Sasha, as he was lovingly called. I fully expected Grandma Lasovskaya to head toward baby socks someday to encourage Alex to snag a good Russian woman and knock her up.

  “Could you head into the kitchen? If I can hear the TV, you’re too close.” The sound lowered.

  “Anyway, I called your house to invite you here for dinner. I wanted to leave you a message, but someone else answered.”

  I played with the phone cord to calm my nerves. Not a good day. Who else had Aggie answered the phone for? “Oh, that’s Aggie. You remember her, right?”

  “Oh, yes, the sweet girl from that camp.” My mother went silent for a moment. We didn’t discuss the past much. The past five years involved events that I didn’t want to rehash.

  My mother continued. “Aggie told me she’d love to come over with you to eat dinner tonight. Did she always used to invite herself over?”

  “If the event involves food, Aggie has no shame. Either way, I think I’d enjoy having someone on my side for once.” As the words left my mouth, I wished I could snatch them back. I never spoke to my mother like that.

  “Natalya, is something wrong?”

  After a deep breath, I noticed that I was gripping the phone tightly and that my other hand was a fist. This outspoken version of Natalya had come out of nowhere. But I had business to attend to today. So I’d grace my family with my presence at this rare dinner and then just head home like I always did.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I’ve just had some irate customers to deal with today.”

  “Oh, you’ll be fine. Your grandma always told me every storm is followed by sunshine.”

  I nodded even though Mom couldn’t see me. She’d invited me to dinner. Maybe my resentment was without cause. Maybe the wounds of the past didn’t run as deep as I thought.

  Several hours later, my workday ended. I arrived home and breathed a sigh of relief as I entered the foyer: My house was just as I’d left it. That was, until I entered my kitchen to find “Julia Child” baking her heart out in my once-clean kitchen.

  “Hey, Nat! Check out the goods. You’re gonna love what I made for dinner tonight.”

  I gaped as my blood boiled in my veins. Remain calm. Don’t look at the flour all over the floor. But then the spilled pineapple on the counters drew my attention. Ignore that too. I tried to close my eyes against the evidence, but I couldn’t: the soiled spoons, filthy bowls, and broken eggs left in the carton.

  Her eyes widened when she saw my face. “Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll clean it up before we leave.” Aggie showed off one of her masterpieces, which she’d stored in my plastic cake contai
ner. Most likely a moist pineapple upside-down cake from the smell. I tried to convert the straight line of my lips into a smile, I really did.

  “If you had a gun right now, you’d shoot me.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a croak.

  “Clean. Now.” I whispered the words, but even though I’d tried to speak gently, my friend scrambled to pick up the mess.

  “Nat, I’m so sorry. I thought I had enough time to clean up before you came home.”

  I simply nodded in response. How I wished I could close my eyes. Ignore the nagging panic attack that threatened to steal my breath. After a few deep breaths, I managed to help her clean the kitchen like it was a nuclear-waste site.

  Fifteen minutes later, we left the house with two desserts in tow.

  My parents live in one of the comfortable subdivisions of the South Toms River township. Most folks would never guess that 10 percent of their neighbors howl at the moon once a month. This subdivision in particular has a large population of supernatural creatures.

  As I pulled up to park on the street, I saw my brother, Alex, leaning against his Dodge truck. I could faintly hear him talking on his cell phone to one of his many girlfriends. Hopefully, she’d get more attention than the ten other dames he had on speed dial. As the golden boy of the Stravinsky family, my blond-haired, blue-eyed brother was the epitome of a truck-driving, womanizing, hot-blooded werewolf male who tried to get into the pants of any woman. And he didn’t mind if she had an extra pair of magical arms or legs either.

  Aggie hauled one of her goodies while I carried the other. Alex waved in our direction before we entered the split-level Colonial. The house was brimming with family members and the scents of a wonderful dinner. Uncle Boris, Aunt Olga, and Aunt Vera sat in the living room with Grandma, watching a Russian-dubbed soap opera. Whether it was from a tape or satellite TV I didn’t know. They argued among each other in Russian over the actions of a heavily rouged heroine as she held some man close to her bosom.

  While we stood to the side watching them watch TV, three more uncles sat at a card table playing gin. Every now and then, one of them would express his concern over the Long Island werewolves.

  “We don’t have enough strong hands to protect the whole territory,” one said.

  “Yeah, too many young pups and old men,” another whispered.

  The final one added a card to the table. “I think with Thorn on our side we have a chance.”

  The South Toms River pack’s territory was a lot to manage for a small pack. Our land bordered on great running grounds, like Double Trouble State Park. With its miles of forest, creeks, and cranberry bogs, our territory was actually a perfect target for other packs who were hoping to grow—like the Long Island pack.

  In total, our pack had about fifty square miles. The land between us and the neighboring packs, the Burlington and Trenton ones, blended a little, but we had enough space to keep everyone somewhat happy. Evidently the Long Island pack had noticed how optimal our place was and wanted to break up the happy family.

  Grandma Lasovskaya interrupted my thoughts to beckon me over. The long centuries had treated her well. Her light brown eyes had seen the world before skyscrapers and cars—even before the construction of Moscow’s Saint Basil’s Cathedral in the late 1500s. I leaned in to kiss the soft skin of her wrinkled cheek. She sat in her usual spot, wearing her floral dress with brown stockings. Every time I saw her, she exuded warmth and comfort. “Hey, Grandma.”

  “You look good.” Then she added with a sad smile, “I wish you’d come over more.”

  “I wish I could too,” I replied as she patted my hand fondly.

  I turned around to introduce Aggie to everyone. Most of my relatives ignored me, but Uncle Boris acknowledged me by asking her, “You’re not one of Sasha’s girlfriends, are you?”

  Aunt Vera huffed. “Sasha doesn’t date women taller than him.”

  With perfect timing, Alex entered the house. My younger cousins thundered into the living room and nearly knocked him over. My mother poked her head out of the kitchen, her sharp blue eyes on the kids. The short woman yelled in Russian, “You kids stop running all over the place. Like a pack of wild animals.” She glanced at Aggie and me and spoke in English. “You brought food. Come into the kitchen.”

  I knew Aggie felt out of place. She stood there smiling, though, while everyone around her chattered like squawking hens. From what I remembered, she lived in New York with her father. She’d never told me about large family dinners. Large, loud, Russian family dinners anyway.

  Aggie placed the desserts on the crowded counter. “I brought pineapple upside-down cake and a pecan pie.”

  “They smell good.” My mother stood over a golden, crispy turkey that sat next to two other prepared turkeys. As I assessed the cornucopia of food available, I had to admit that I’d missed the dinners. My mother always cooked enough food to feed a wedding party. She somehow managed to accomplish all this without dirtying her day-to-day clothes: some business-casual slacks and a dressy blouse. My mom worked during the day as a schoolteacher. When she left work, she gave in to her strange addiction to her stove and cooking utensils. After my parents had moved into this house years ago, their first major project had been a complete overhaul of the most important space—the kitchen.

  My mouth watered and my wolf’s stomach growled. Right beside one of the turkeys lay a generous bowl of olivie. I could taste the delicious potato salad with my mother’s homemade sour cream. On the stove soup bubbled in a kettle with the lid firmly placed on top. My nose told me that Mom had fulfilled my father’s desire for slow-cooked borscht.

  I had fond memories of my mother offering me salami with Russian bread and cheese in this room. But even with the food, this kitchen felt slightly foreign, like it was a place where I didn’t belong. I turned away from the myasnoe assorti. I didn’t feel like checking out the fancy lunch-meat plate.

  Aggie took in the scene with a vibrant glow. To her, my mother was the patron saint of food preparation. “All this food smells so good. I’ll have to ask for recipes.”

  She’d said the right thing. “Why, thank you,” my mother said. “My sisters might’ve been able to catch the food, but I could always baste and bake it.” She turned to me. “Did you say hello to your grandmother? She always asks about you.”

  I nodded and tried to forget about the lack of a warm reception. After all, my grandmother, at least, had always given me cards and knitted keepsakes. Then two of my cousins approached me from behind, interrupting my thoughts.

  The younger one, Peter, frowned in my direction. “What are you doing here?”

  The older one pulled him away and snickered, “My dad said to ignore her.” I stood there as a wave of embarrassment hit. My shame turned into anger. If he wasn’t ten years old, I would’ve slapped the taste of his foul words out of his mouth.

  Aggie’s mouth dropped open. She took a step forward to reprimand the boy, but I blocked her.

  I turned to my mother, who’d appeared ready to intervene as well, and stammered, “D-do you need help setting the table?”

  Aggie tried to tug my arm. I ignored her stern face as she leaned toward me. “Are you going to let that kid talk to you like that?”

  “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

  “Handle it? Let’s see how well he handles my foot up his ass. Pups shouldn’t talk that way to adults.”

  If Aggie only knew how much his comment hurt. To those kids I ranked even lower than the house cats that slinked around the place.

  “Everything’s fine, Aggie. Drop it.”

  My mother continued to cook and at first I thought she’d remain silent. But then she surprised me by saying, “I hope his mother won’t expect any favors from me anytime soon. Especially with such disrespectful children. In my day, I would’ve had a sore cheek for a smart mouth.”

  I agreed with a halfhearted nod, but the question remained: How had things gone so wrong with my family? I looked to Aggie as her gaze to
ok in my relatives. The Stravinsky brood came from the old country, and my family held tightly their werewolf ideals. The Code, as we formally called it, included customs such as arranged marriages to achieve a higher ranking within the pack. It also taught us that weak werewolves created vulnerable points. Such things implied that even as an able-bodied woman, I represented a hole in the line of defense among my family. To them, this just wasn’t acceptable. Right now aspects of the Code meant nothing but frustration to me.

  I yanked Aggie into the dining room to help me add plates and silverware to the tables. She fumed as she placed spoons and forks. “I can’t believe your family treats you like an outsider. When did this happen?”

  Why wouldn’t she let it go? “I said drop it, Agatha McClure.”

  Aggie knew that tone. I rarely called her by her full name. She had a higher rank than the majority of the werewolves in this house, but she knew when she’d pushed too many of my buttons.

  During dinner, things seemed to settle down. Aggie relished the food with gusto as serving after serving of turkey was placed on her plate. She even inhaled the seledka pod shuboy—a layered dish of sliced herring, cubed potatoes, and various other veggies. Most of my American friends couldn’t stand the stuff. Meanwhile, one of my eager aunts shoved Alex into a seat next to her.

  “Why don’t you want to sit next to a pretty girl?” gushed my aunt Vera. Aggie most certainly wasn’t Russian, but like any zealous relative, my aunt could spy a high-ranking she wolf from a football field away.

  Alex offered his boyish grin and jabbed at Aggie. “I’ve known her so long she’s practically my adopted sister by now.”

  Aggie rolled her eyes and took another bite of turkey. She knew she wasn’t his type since she’d never take his shit—the man was known for hopping from woman to woman like a flea on a werewolf’s back.

  Aunt Vera turned her attention to our guest. “So what did you do before you moved here?”

  Aggie paused in the middle of a bite. I hadn’t asked such a question. I assumed she’d talk about her previous life when she was ready. “My father has business dealings in New York. I worked for him for a little while.” She placed another large portion in her mouth. An easy way to deter most people. Not my aunt, though.