Waxing Moon

by Sarah E Stevens

  Newt spoke. “Yes—I saw two people, running away from the fire.” He gave clear descriptions of the two remaining Salamanders, the one I’d called Surfer (shaggy blond hair, mid-twenties) and Mr. Average (middle-aged, dark hair, clean shaven).

  The firefighter got out his radio and repeated the descriptions, then took down our names and contact information.

  As soon as he let us go, I ran to the car and snapped Carson into his seat. He woke up and started to fuss, but we had no time. We had to get to the hospital now.

  Chapter Twelve

  The drive to Ashland Community Hospital only took eight minutes. Walking in almost seemed like a flashback: I’d never been to an emergency room before and now found myself at two in one week. My hands shook as I pried Carson from his car seat and we all rushed in. Carson fussed slightly and I knew he needed to nurse, but I shoved the pacifier in his mouth, bounced him on my shoulder, and hoped he could wait.

  Tim paced back and forth in the waiting room and shot anxious glances at the swinging doors to the patient area.

  “How is she?”

  Tim tightened his lips before answering. “They’re assessing. Critical burns. She’s sedated so they can remove her shirt, clean and dress her arm. The doctor said he’d be out when they’re done. She’ll be hospitalized, maybe for weeks. Physical therapy to have full use of her hand. They’re talking about flying her up to the burn center in Portland.”

  “Oh my God.” I sank down into a chair and Eliza sat down next to me. She put her arm around me in silent commiseration. I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

  Newt’s face was pale under his freckles. “She’s actually lucky.” When we all looked at him, he dropped his voice and continued. “If they’d been more skilled at different types of flame, she’d be…I’m glad they weren’t more powerful.”

  I couldn’t find my voice.

  Eliza asked, “That purple fire? Is that what you mean? What was that?”

  Newt pulled a chair out of line to face us; Tim stood and watched the double doors, though I thought he listened.

  “That’s…” he paused and shrugged before continuing. “I guess it’s not a state secret or anything. Skilled Salamanders can craft special fire. The purple flames burn only flesh. I used it to attack the others without burning down the forest.”

  “I’ve never heard of that,” Eliza said.

  “It’s not common. Most Salamanders can’t make it.”

  “But regular flame, can it hurt you? I saw…” I faltered at the memory of Newt’s body consumed by a fireball.

  Newt shook his head. “Not me. I can absorb it. Some can’t.”

  Eliza looked at Newt with a very odd expression. After a moment, I decided it was respect. Even admiration.

  Carson squawked loudly and jolted me back to awareness of his immediate needs. I nursed him as we waited to hear from Sheila’s doctor.

  Nearly an hour later, the double doors swung forcefully open and a middle-aged man wearing blue scrubs strode through. His gaze went immediately to Tim, then took in the rest of our group with a quick glance. We all jumped to our feet as he approached.

  “Sheila’s stabilized for now,” he said. “We removed the cloth from the wounds and dressed them. She’s on IV fluids and antibiotics to prevent infection. She will be in a lot of pain when she wakes up, so we also started her on a painkiller. We need to transport her to the burn center in Portland for further care. Her burns are considered critical: third degree burns over nine percent of her body, encompassing her front and back of her shoulder, arm, and right hand. The hand is what we need to watch most carefully—if the skin heals improperly or scars too much, she could lose normal function. Most likely, the burn center will keep her inpatient for several weeks, after which she’ll require intense physical therapy. Depending on how the hand heals or scars, she may need surgical procedures to remove some of the dead skin, but we hope to prevent that—that’s why the best place for her is the burn center. We also need to watch for infection, but the prophylactic antibiotics will lower that risk.”

  The doctor’s voice was kind, though clinical, and I found myself staring through his wire-framed glasses into his blue eyes, hoping to see some reflection of good news. Tears leaked down my face.

  Tim cleared his throat and blinked several times. When he spoke, his voice came out steady. “Can we see her?”

  The doctor assessed the four of us, five if Carson counted. “Two at a time,” he said. “She’s still sedated, but she’ll wake up soon. She’ll be in significant pain, she may be groggy from the narcotics, and she might be confused. It’s vital you don’t touch her bandages; the wounds need to remain sterile.”

  Tim looked at me. I nodded and handed Carson over to Eliza. Tim and I followed the doctor back into the patient area as he spoke.

  The doctor continued, “Mercy Flights—that’s the transport service—will be ready to transport her in about an hour. One person can accompany her.”

  Tim’s eyes asked the question.

  “You go,” I said. “We’ll follow by car.”

  He took a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

  When we stepped into the room with Sheila, I started sobbing in earnest, then tried to silence my crying so I didn’t make her feel even worse. Gauzy bandages covered the entire right side of her body, from neck to waist. They had the head of her bed raised slightly and her arm—so thickly bandaged it looked like three arms—was elevated. An IV line ran into her left arm—the unburned one—near the wrist. All the color had drained from her face and lips until her skin nearly matched the white hospital bed. Even her blonde hair looked pale. A hospital gown covered the parts of her not bandaged, in turn overlain with a white sheet tucked around her legs. Her chest rose and fell, the only sign of life.

  Immediately, Tim fell to his knees by the side of the bed and clutched her non-bandaged hand. Both of his dark hands wrapped around her slender fingers—as if he could pour energy, life, color back into her.

  I blew my nose and dabbed my eyes with a tissue from the box conveniently located in the room. After I composed myself, I moved to stand next to Tim. I put my hand on her forehead, smoothing away an errant strand of hair.

  Sheila’s eyelids twitched.

  Tim said, “We’re here, Sheila. You’re going to be okay.” He kept repeating platitudes in a low, warm voice until her eyes came open.

  She worked her mouth and closed her eyes again. A weak frown passed over her forehead and she looked at us again.

  “Tim? Jules?”

  “Yes. You’re okay, sunshine.”

  I glanced at Tim, surprised by the nickname. I put my hand on Sheila’s shoulder and said, “We’re all here, Sheila, and they’re taking good care of you.”

  “What…happened?”

  Tim squeezed her hand. “You have some burns, some bad burns. But we’re in the hospital and they’re taking good care of you.”

  “My arm. Can’t move it. Hurts.”

  “You’re all bandaged up, sweetie. They’re going to send you up to the burn center in Portland for the best treatment they have and you’re going to be just fine,” I said.

  Her eyes opened wide in alarm and she moved her head slightly, trying to shake it. “No. Want to stay here.”

  “No, sunshine, you really need to go to the burn center.”

  “How. Bad?”

  Tim and I shared a look and silently agreed.

  “Bad, Sheila. It’s pretty bad. You need to be in the hospital for a while. But everything should heal up fine, as long as you listen to the doctors and do your physical therapy and everything.” I squeezed her shoulder.

  “But.” Sheila’s lips were dry and started to crack. She tried to swallow.

  “Hold on, sweetie, I’ll get you some water.” I stuck my head out the door and attracted a nurse who gave me permission to give Sheila a drink. The nurse also bustled into the room and checked Sheila’s vitals, asked about her pain level, and said the doctor would be in soon
. The nurse adjusted a dial on the IV to increase her pain medication.

  Sheila took a small sip of water and a few ice chips during the nurse’s ministrations. As soon as we were alone in the room again, she said, “Where’s my phone?”

  I found it in a stack of her possessions and held it up in her view.

  “Call Tessa White. Tell her to come. Tell her everything.”

  A glance showed me Tim knew no more than I.

  “Who’s Tessa White? Sheila?”

  Sheila’s eyes fluttered shut again, perhaps because of the remnants of the sedative, perhaps the increased dose of painkiller. She rallied enough to say, “Coven in Salem. She can help.”

  Her eyes opened wide and she gazed wildly at Tim. “Don’t call Mom. Yet.”

  A minute later, she slipped back into sleep.

  “Why doesn’t she want us to call her mom?” I asked. “She made me call after my house burned down.”

  Tim spread his hands to profess ignorance.

  “Do I call this Tessa White?”

  “Definitely. I’ll wait until we’re at the burn center to call her mom,” Tim said. “Maybe I’ll have more information by then.”

  A coven in Salem, Oregon. Was that some kind of Witch joke? I dialed the number and made a conscious effort not to pace while the phone rang.

  “Second Sight Bookstore, can I help you?”

  “Uh.” I regrouped. “Is Tessa White there?”

  “Yes, who shall I say is calling?”

  “My name is Julie Hall. I’m friends with Sheila Martin.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  There was a pause, during which I heard faint strains of new age music.

  “Hello, this is Tessa.” The voice sounded—was there a feminine equivalent for avuncular? Because the tone of her voice evoked visions of the archetypal favorite aunt: a kind, doting voice that invited confidence and always had fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies.

  “Hi. My name is Julie, Julie Hall and I’m good friends with Sheila Martin. Sheila told me to call you. She’s, uh, had an accident?”

  Tessa’s voice sharpened, not in anger, but as if she’d put down knitting needles and given me her full attention.

  “What happened?”

  “She’s in the hospital with critical burns over nine percent of her body—her right hand and arm and shoulder. It was from Salamanders?” I added the last with some hesitation, but Tessa responded with an emphatic sound, so I knew she understood. “The doctors here want to fly her up to the burn center in Portland, but—”

  “Rightly so. I’ll meet her there.”

  “Um, okay. Tim Rogers, her, uh, boyfriend, is flying up with her in the transport plane. They’re leaving here within the hour.”

  I hung up the phone and told Tim, “She’ll meet you at the hospital in Portland.”

  “I heard.”

  “Do you think she can help?”

  “She wouldn’t come otherwise, right?”

  We quickly stopped talking as the doctor knocked lightly on the door and walked in. After checking on Sheila, he told us Mercy Flights would be ready to transport her soon.

  We both thanked him before he left the room.

  ****

  When I walked out into the waiting room, Eliza and Newt sat sideways in their chairs facing each other. They paused in the middle of an animated conversation. Eliza stood, her arms full of Carson, somehow the picture of grace even when she made such a sudden move. Newt’s face lost its characteristic trace of smile as he turned anxiously to me.

  “How is she?” asked Eliza.

  “Okay, I guess.” I reached out for Carson, who cooed in excitement at the sight of me. “She was awake for a while, but she’s dozing again now. They’re flying her up to the burn center in half an hour. She asked me to call—” I looked around, suddenly aware of others in the waiting room. Choosing my words with care, I continued, “Her ‘aunt Tessa’ who’s part of her, uh, sorority and might be able to help.”

  They both looked puzzled, then Newt broke into an eye-crinkling smile. “Oh, her sorority.”

  Eliza said, “I didn’t know her sorority had a local branch.”

  “Her aunt Tessa lives in Salem, about four hours away, closer to Portland. She’ll meet Tim and Sheila at the burn center.” I took a seat across from the two of them and leaned as close as possible.

  “Newt?” I said, trusting my low tone would keep the conversation private. “What did that tattoo mean?”

  “They’re Eclipsers.” Newt’s quiet voice matched mine. “A faction of Salamanders—you can think of them like a cult—who believe the solar eclipse in December will have severe negative consequences for us. This year will see the longest total eclipse in a hundred years and they’re worried it will drain our powers.”

  “For good? Or while it happens?” I asked.

  “For good.”

  “Is there any basis to that belief?” Eliza asked. “Any historical precedent?”

  Newt shrugged and scrunched his freckled nose. “Hard to say. Certainly ’Manders are greatly weakened during an eclipse itself—much as your powers wane with the moon—but these Eclipsers have their own interpretation of oral history. They believe we’ve lessened over the centuries, that each total eclipse causes a demonstrated permanent loss of our abilities.”

  “Are there many who believe that?”

  “Not openly. But maybe in secret.”

  “But how does this relate to Carson?” I asked.

  “I’m not exactly sure, but my guess is the birth of such a strong Were makes them anxious Weres will gain power during the eclipse, at the expense of Salamanders. Some of our people—both Salamanders and Weres—think about our powers as a constant tug of war. Sun versus moon. I think we’re more like complements, yin and yang.”

  Newt’s gaze rested on Eliza as she spoke, but his words held no rancor. Eliza raised both eyebrows and nodded thoughtfully.

  The strong Were in question, my baby, cooed happily while bouncing on my knees and didn’t seem like much of a threat to anyone. I sighed and looked at the clock on the wall.

  “Do you two want to go see Sheila before she’s transported? Take turns?” I asked.

  Eliza went first. I watched her disappear, long legs striding with confidence across the floor, back straight as a ballerina, fawn-colored ponytail swinging. I didn’t know if her grace was due to being a Were, or if it was just her. I turned to speak to Newt.

  “So,” I said, then paused. “Seems like you and Eliza made up, anyway.”

  “Yes.” Newt turned a serious face to me. “I’m really sorry about Sheila.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  We sat in companionable silence. I wasn’t quite sure what went through Newt’s mind, but I couldn’t stop thinking how this was all my fault. Sheila jumped into a fight meant for me and now…

  “She did really well, you know, held her own against them. I think she stopped focusing on the fight,” Newt’s voice dropped to a murmur, “and was working a spell to call rain when that woman attacked her.”

  I nodded. Sounded like Sheila.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner to protect her.”

  I sighed. “Me, too. I mean, I’m sorry I wasn’t there. You were busy fighting and putting out fires.”

  Carson was restless, so I walked him around the waiting room. A few minutes later, Eliza came out and told us Sheila still slept. Tim wouldn’t leave her side, but Newt went in for a visit.

  When Newt came out again, he walked over to me, as I bounced Carson in the corner.

  “So tell me about this Were,” he said.

  With a start, I realized he didn’t know anything about Dave Blythe or his brother Tony.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  Newt cocked an eyebrow at me and made a gesture to indicate we had time.

  “Okay. Well, I guess it all started last winter when Carson’s father Mac was murdered. After I found out a few months ago, Eliza and I headed to Veg
as to try to see if we could figure out what happened. Not just for revenge, but also because the enemies were after me and Carson, too. They also killed another Were from Eliza’s pack—a council investigator sent to look into Mac’s murder. We discovered Dave Blythe from the Greybull pack had allied with the mafia and exposed secrets about Werewolves to the humans. The mafia tried to use bone marrow from the Weres to turn regular humans—their people—into Weres. They wanted Carson because he was so powerful and they hoped for better results from his bone marrow. That’s where we met Tim; he was another council investigator on the same case. Sheila came to help us—that’s when the two of them started dating.”

  I stopped and looked at Newt. “I’m not sure this is making much sense. This is the really abridged version.”

  “Enough sense I can follow it. So what happened to Dave?”

  “The council executed him. Even though he was just a pup—just seventeen.” I sat quiet for a minute. “I wasn’t there, of course, but Eliza told me about what happened at the council. And about the execution. I—we should have been able to do something for him before it came to that. He was really troubled.”

  “So this Tony is his older brother?”

  “Yes. But Tony left the pack about five years ago after a family tragedy ended with both their parents dead.”

  “Wait. Their parents died and Tony ran off and left Dave alone? At, what, the age of twelve?”

  “No, Dave stayed with his older sister. She’s a dark moon, though, not a Were.”

  Newt’s freckles creased in concentration as he tried to figure that one out. He looked at me for confirmation and I nodded.

  “Yeah, the sister had a different father—a human—that was part of what destroyed the whole family. Another long story.”

  “Tony has lived as a wolf ever since?”

  “As far as we know,” I said. “And I guess now he’s back for revenge.”

  Newt let out a long, low whistle and shook his head.

  After a minute, we moved back to the others, sat down, and waited for Sheila’s transport to Portland.

  Chapter Thirteen