He watched for anything that moved. The distance from where he stood to Marisol’s door was short, but enough to get him seen. If humans spotted him, he’d most likely die at their hands, more so than getting his neck broken by another shape-shifter’s powerful jaws.
Callum glanced toward the house that was connected to the barn. Sheets of rain blanketed it from view. Water poured from the gutters like translucent curtains. Mark had mentioned that he needed to work on those—remove the pine needles, reattach the aluminum pipe’s elbows. Now Callum knew what he’d been talking about. With the doctor gone, who would fix the gutters and clean out the drains? Marisol would have to hire someone. Or...or if he survived his wound, he could offer her his help. That is, if he survived. So, first things first. He must make it to the barn.
Raising his nose, he sniffed the air. He didn’t sense evil souls close by. It was safe to go.
Ignoring the blinding pain from his shoulder, Callum limped toward the barn. A couple steps later, his legs gave out and he fell flat on his stomach. Angry at himself and with Atos, he clamped his fangs on a thick broken branch lying on the ground. He tasted blood and dirty rotten wood. So fucking what? He didn’t care. He kept his firm grip on the wood, channeling his pain and anger, imagining it was Atos’s neck crunching between his teeth.
Keeping his emotions in check, he closed his eyes, sucked in his breath then let it out slowly. Chest tight, he pushed himself up, trying to remain on all fours. His breathing was short and shallow. Fuck!
Through his hazy vision, Callum noticed the barn door ajar. Marisol must have propped it open with a bowl full of kibbles; if not raw meat. Leaving her door open like that, one of these days she’d find real badass robbers inside her home. And for what? So she could leave him dog food and uncooked meat?
Damn. When will she stop leaving food for me? I prefer my meat well-done and not bloody. He wished he could tell Marisol that. To her, he was just a stray wolf. And wolves eat raw meat. But she had no way of knowing his kind weren’t just wolves, that they were shape-shifters—different in many ways.
Callum finally made it to Marisol’s barn. Using his better shoulder, he nudged the door open, but he was unable to stop himself from losing his balance. His whole body landed on the floor with a loud thud. The door banged against the wall with an impact so strong it rebounded and hit his back. Pain stole his breath, he couldn’t even howl. Without moving his head, he blinked to clear his vision, trying to see inside the barn. He didn’t see Marisol. Where was that woman? She was always here. He tried to yelp so Marisol could hear him, but his tongue felt fat and his mouth sticky. He swallowed and tasted something metallic. He tasted blood.
Unable to move, he remained where he was, wishing for Marisol to appear. Uncontrollable shivers racked his body, but he didn’t care. He knew he’d be okay. He was already inside the barn. Marisol’s barn.
He’d be okay.
***
Rain pounded hard and loud on the glass windows like pellets on an empty can. Marisol watched the beads of water roll down the glass like fat tears to pool at the bottom of the window. The pinging sound lulled her for a moment. She loved the rain, especially at night when she cocooned herself underneath her quilt. Her father used to like it, too. He said rain was good. It washed away the stink of the day. Rain brought back good and bad memories. Yeah, she had good memories of frolicking outside in the rain with her father. Lots and lots of them. Sadly, she couldn’t add any more. Her dad had been gone for a month now. Marisol sighed. Her dad’s absence never failed to pierce her heart.
She would give anything to hear his voice, his laughter, and his grumblings once more. Since his death, coffee never tasted good, breakfast was boring, nights were lonely. Life had lost its luster the day she lost him in the hospital.
Marisol imagined her father’s face smiling at her: God, how she missed him. There were times when she found herself looking outside, waiting for him to come home, and expecting him to darken her door, call her name as he asked what was for dinner. Many times she felt his presence, smelled his scent, and heard his voice as if he still lived. Or could it be just wishful thinking? An inner longing, a call from a daughter to her father to come back and hug her again, to hush her fears and whisper that everything would be all right. Dad’s death seemed like a bad dream. The pain caused by the hollowed spot in the very center of her heart, though, was no illusion. It was as real as the fact that she now fell under the category of an orphan—alone, with no one to call family.
Another stab of pain—she held her breath against it. How long would it take before the pain went away? Would it ever go away?
Her nose stung and began to drip. She sniffed so loud she bet her father would have said something like, “Mari, when your nose drips, that means you need to blow that goop out of it.” But he wasn’t here to give her a hard time. And he’d never come back again.
Not fair, Dad. I still need you.
Marisol wiped the lone tear off her cheek. Life, she realized, was comparable to her clay. She could mold it the way she wanted it to be, but sometimes no matter how hard she tried to hold it together, the clay would fall apart. Like her father’s life.
She pleaded to doctors and prayed to God to help save her father. But his wounds were fatal. He died at the hospital, even before the nurses could start the blood transfusion.
“Keep the sword close to you. Guard it with your life. Practice using it. Practice, Mari. Practice. I love you.”
Those were her father’s last whispered words. He wanted her to practice wielding the sword he put in her hands when she turned five. Why? For protection? From the animals that attacked him that night? He was the one who had the need for it, not her. Why had he not put it to good use, like whacking the bushes, instead of hiding it? He could have protected himself from whatever tried to bleed him dry. He could have been with her still. They could be sharing dinner and stories tonight, and she wouldn’t have to face days and nights alone.
“Damn it, Dad! I want you back. I want you back.” She angrily wiped her tears with the back of her hands.
What was the big deal with the old sword? She knew it belonged to her late mother. So what? What was so damn important about it that her father had to use his last breath to remind her to guard it like some precious stone? If he said take care of it because it cost a fortune, she’d understand. To practice using it so she’d become an expert swordswoman, now that idea she couldn’t get. Her father knew what she wanted—to see her pots on display in a gallery, to become a successful artist. Not become an expert in sword fighting.
Oh, Dad. Is there anything you failed to tell me about the sword?
The sword was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Thirty-seven and three quarters inches long, double-edged, leather wrapped around the handle, and with guard and pommel made of cast metal, etched with designs that resembled entwined vines. To top it all off, engravings in Gaelic decorated the blade—they’d scared the bejesus out of her when she’d read them for the first time.
Translated, it read: Cut thy skin and forever it will stay open, to bleed, to feed the earth. Without a doubt, it belonged to times long past. Considering its length, it would definitely bleed anyone dry. When she held it in her hands, she could feel power emanating from it. Or maybe it was just her imagination because she liked to think she was Uma Thurman in the movie Kill Bill each time she practiced swinging it?
Sighing, she looked heavenward. “Mom, I know you wanted me to be good with the sword. Why? No one uses swords for protection anymore. Gangsters use AK-47s, .45s, and Rottweilers. Dad showed me how to shoot. Guns could give the same or better protection, I think. All right. Fine. I’ll keep practicing because that’s what you and Dad wanted me to do. Take care of Dad for me in heaven, okay?”
Marisol veered her mind back to the night she arrived at the hospital. Her father was already in the emergency room. The doctor told her an animal attacked him. But he couldn’t tell her what kind. He said the pu
ncture wounds on her dad’s neck and arms were from pointed, conical teeth. Like a dog’s canines, except they were too deep to belong to a normal dog or even a cougar. When she started asking too many questions, the doctor said they’d have to wait for the lab results for a definite answer. However, he believed that wolves attacked her dad. A theory that Davis, the town sheriff, shared. He whispered that there had been cases of animal attacks in the area and that her father wasn’t the first victim. As if it would make her feel better, he assured her that more traps had been set to catch the beasts, to prevent more killings.
Fine. A wolf attacked and killed her father. Still, that didn’t answer the question about Dad’s blood loss. He’d lost so much, but very little of it was on his clothes. If she had to take a guess, she’d say someone had siphoned him.
Whatever or whoever caused his death, Marisol found out—from nights of reading her father’s documents—that her mother suffered from the same fate, too. Deep puncture wounds and a broken neck, that’s what killed her. Could it be that the same animals responsible for the death of her mother came back to the area eighteen years later? Or maybe they never left? What kind of an animal would siphon a person’s blood? Sheriff Davis, a man with an answer to everything, couldn’t even come up with any plausible theory. He just told her not to blabber her questions around. Last thing he wanted was fear spreading like wildfire on his island.
Marisol understood his meaning. Marrowstone Island benefited from the influx of tourists every year. News of wild animals siphoning people would be sure to have an adverse effect on tourism and the local economy.
If the sheriff and the doctor couldn’t explain what happened to her dad and the other victims, then something sinister, evil perhaps, was happening in this town. Maybe a crazy lunatic? An escapee with a penchant for killing people and draining their blood? How else could they explain what happened? None of it made any sense.
She often wondered about the poultice she’d helped her dad mix. Her dad swore that it contained healing powers because of her. Maybe if she applied… Marisol shook her head. Whether her special contribution, as her dad called it, really had the power to heal, he’d lost so much blood she doubted the poultice would have saved his life. In any case, the poultice was intended for animals, not for humans. She’d tried it once on her scraped knees, when she fell off a tree. It didn’t work. Pus formed on the open flesh before it finally scabbed. She had the scar to prove it. And she’d never seen Dad use it for anything other than the wounded wild animals he happened to find in the woods, and whatever pets the neighbors brought into his clinic. Marisol started thinking hard about the poultice, until her head began to throb. Gah! She’d worked too long today. The clay fumes filled her mind; she couldn’t even think straight. Tomorrow she’d call the sheriff. Maybe he had more information about her father’s death.
After a couple of deep breaths, she patted her face dry, and then began arranging her unfinished products. Tomorrow, she’d bring these babies to their final state. She stacked the two unglazed mugs, three Tuscan urns, and a pot shaped like a fishbowl, on the drying shelf. They needed to be completely dry before being bisque fired. The initial firing would remove the physical and chemical water. Without it, her products would turn into mud. And that would be as awful as having a hangnail.
Marisol placed the last pot on the drying shelf and stepped back to admire her day’s work. Her shelf was full, all of them made from red Alberta clay. Once they were bisque, they’d have a terra-cotta appearance. Tomorrow morning, she’d fire the kiln. By mid-afternoon, the products would be ready for display in her Bisque It store. For tonight, she’d make popcorn and watch Pride and Prejudice. The DVD was a gift from her father on her twenty-third birthday. She’d seen it at least five times, but the story was so good it never got old. Too bad Addy couldn’t come over, but her handsome customer had asked her for a date. The rainy night was perfect for a romantic happy ever after movie. She’d call Addy later to get the juicy scoop on her date. Lucky girl.
When will a handsome man land on my feet? Dang, even one with a hairy back would be okay, just someone to keep me company right now.
Marisol removed her apron and hooked it on the peg on the wall. Her stomach growled. Man, it seemed like she’d just had a bowl of salad with oil and vinegar for lunch and now it was time to eat again. Well, thank goodness for leftovers. She wouldn’t have to cook tonight. Not that she had anything fresh in the fridge to cook anyway. She had frozen dinners in the freezer, but the thought of eating another one of those three nights in a row made her want to gag. And if she took the trouble of cooking, who’d she eat dinner with? No one. Even the wolf that had been visiting her refused to join her. Such a finicky wolf.
She wondered if he would show his handsome face today. The day her father died, the wolf showed up at her door. He stayed in one spot, watching her with sharp blue eyes. She hadn’t shooed him away. Her dad—a veterinarian who treated and loved all kinds of animals—would never do such a thing. Besides, she liked him. Not only was he a handsome wolf with brown, gray, black, and white fur, he also had eyes that bespoke kindness, intensity, and intelligence. When he looked at her, she felt as though he was trying to communicate. One time she thought she heard him say something. Of course, that was absurd. Yet, when she met his eyes, a creepy feeling ran up her spine and made her shiver.
Her father told her once that all she had to do was look into an animal’s eyes and she’d be able to see all the way down to his tail—if he had one. With this particular wolf, it was hard to go beyond his beautiful bluer than blue eyes. He’d never acted like a dog that would lower his snout on a bowl of water or food. Not once had he touched the cut-up meat and kibbles she’d left for him.
The same time every day, he’d come and sit just inside the door, watch her work on the wheel, and then—the most interesting part—whenever she said I’m done for the day, he would lower his head as if in acknowledgment then he’d disappear into the wooded property. It was the oddest thing. She bet if her father was still around, he’d have an explanation for that kind of behavior.
Marisol wished the wolf would poke his nose at her door tonight. She badly needed company.
A flash of lightning lit the room. It had been raining all day. Wolf must be hiding somewhere dry, or huddled inside his cold and miserable den, wherever that was. Better than being here or in the pound. He shouldn’t be here anyway, but somewhere up in the North Cascades.
Everyone believed the reappearance of the wolves had to do with the missing pets and the number of dead deer carcasses found. Well, wolves were carnivores. They would eat anything. Marisol sighed. She hoped her wolf hadn’t stepped on an animal trap, hoped he wasn’t crying for help right now.
All her life, she’d seen only a handful of wolves. She often thought of them as very private animals that preferred to stay away from people, to keep their distance and watch from afar. Now she believed otherwise. Sometimes, when she spotted them in the woods, she had this feeling that they were guards looking out, watching for...
A loud crash made her jump. “Eeekk!”
What the hell was that about? Marisol stilled, listening. Nothing. She’d left the barn door ajar in case her wolf showed up. The wind must have blown it. Crud, it sounded like someone had tried to break the wall.
A burglar wouldn’t make that awful loud noise, right? He’d be one stupid burglar if he did. It must be the wind. For safe measure, she grabbed the baseball bat that leaned up against the corner of the drying room. Heart hammering against her chest, she gripped her bat with both hands, unsure whether she should she go out there or lock herself in the room until whatever caused the noise was gone. What if she was right about the wind blowing the barn door wide open?
Yup, I should go out there. “This is my barn, for Pete’s sake.”
Instead of rushing outside to see what caused the sound, she moved as stealthily as a cat on the roof. Marisol opened the door and poked her head out real quick. No one was in t
he barn, but the door was wide open. She looked again. The wind howled and whipped against the wall, spraying water on the lump on the floor.
“What the...Wolf?”
If it weren’t for his face, she’d think someone had dumped a bundle of wet carpet on her front door.
Dropping the bat, she ran toward him. He was soaking wet, bleeding like a gutter heavy with rain, and he looked dead. “Oh no, buddy. Please don’t be dead.”
The wind blew, spraying more rain inside. Heck, how was she going to stop the rain from coming in? Buddy here was blocking the door. She dropped on her knees.
“Hey, there. What happened?”
Poultice.
“Poultice?” Marisol looked around. She was sure she heard someone say poultice. It was faint, but she’d heard it. “Did you say poultice? Of course not. You’re a wolf. I must have thought out loud. Bad habit. God, you look horrible.”
She peered closer, where the blood oozed. Through dirt and bits of grass, she could see a big cut and raw flesh. Marisol winced as though she were the one bleeding. God, he must be in awful pain. She must stop the bleeding. Her dad had kept his bandage and medicine in his clinic. “Be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
I won’t.
“You won’t—” Marisol turned to look at the wolf. “Jesus, I must be losing my mind.”
Chapter Two
Marisol ran into her father’s clinic. It didn’t take her long to find the black leather medicinal kit. For a briefest moment, she stopped in the middle of the clinic and took a deep breath. Tobacco. The clinic still held the scent of her father’s smoke. Everything looked the same. Her father’s favorite plaid shirt hung on the back of the old wooden chair, his worn medicine book with the broken spine sat on the small desk, on the corner. A pair of reading glasses lay beside it. Nothing had changed. All that was missing was her father’s presence and his raspy laughter.
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