To Kiss a Werewolf

by Molly Snow

  “Yes, Billy has been an eligible bachelor for quite some time. But I can’t help but feel he should have asked one of the single ladies of our district for their hand in marriage. And, yes, I wished it was me he asked. He’s quite handsome, and what a charmer. Yes, to be totally honest, I really do hate her without ever having met her.”

  Her friend Carrie leaned over. “But you are quite handsome yourself.” She winked, her eyelid sticking shut. “Excuse me for a second.” She popped it back open, slime stretching across from her lower lid to her top lashes.

  Repulsed, Damien couldn’t think of anything else to do but hand Carrie his handkerchief. She accepted it gladly, smearing the goo across the maroon cloth. When she went to hand it back to him, he politely declined. Noticing the gesture caused a bit of the dried flowers to sprinkle across his jacket, he quickly wiped it all away. Their stench was now stronger than ever, and he averted his attention, and his nose, toward other things. …Not that it helped much.

  Seeing all the different zombies in various stages of their decay was new to him. Some looked as young and fresh as he did. Others were like Mary and Carrie, having minor issues. Then there were a couple who looked like barely more than dusty bones excavated straight out of a grave. Damien couldn’t help but visualize Stella’s future. She was now one of them. What would deteriorate first? Her long and beautiful hair? The tip of her cute nose? Maybe her pretty skin? The chilling reality of it all finally hit him, and he secretly shuddered under his suit.

  The man at the organ started a slow melody, and Maggie came out behind the stranger woman he saw at the inn months ago. Their lime green skirt suits and sunhats seemed over-the-top, but somehow worked well with the pale colors of the setting sun. Damien shifted his eyes away from them, hoping to not be noticed. The two ended up in front of the arch of pale blue roses, on one side of a portable podium.

  Damien kept his eyes away from the aisle, knowing Billy would be next. He could hear the gasps of appreciation from the ladies surrounding him, but ignored the urge to look up until he heard the footsteps stop. He leaned his forearms against his knees, to lower himself below the sea of guest’s faces, then snuck a glance at the guy who stole Stella’s life. Even in spite of the injury to Billy’s cheek, caused by none other than Damien himself, the zombie looked like some sort of refined gentleman. It made Damien want to puke.

  The traditional Wedding March started up, and Damien felt his heart pump hard against his chest. He looked back to the tent, and could hardly wait to see Stella, the girl he had been missing so much. Guilt over the fact that he couldn’t rescue her sooner took one more opportunity to gnaw on the raw pit in his stomach. He may not have saved her from turning into a zombie; but at the very least, he’d stop the wedding and save her from a morbid future with her crazy ex and his family.

  And, wow, Stella was gorgeous. At first it was hard to catch even a glimpse of her beside the big man walking her down the aisle with a dopey expression; but when he did, he had to catch his breath. Even with… sand across her skirt—and a lopsided veil?—she was stunning.

  “Oh how I hate her so much,” said Mary. He hardly heard the comment, as he was so focused on Stella. Even his hearing zeroed in on the soft footfalls of her jeweled sandals in the sand. Somehow he could also sniff out a memory of her hair’s floral scent.

  She was obviously nervous. He could see the lump in her throat she was trying to swallow away. A hand repeatedly smoothed a stray curl floating in her face. She was paler than usual, but then, under her current condition, that made complete sense. If blood doesn’t pump through her cheeks anymore, or her lips… Her lips. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her now, and suddenly her temperature became a moot point.

  She stepped to the beat of the slow march, and the closer she came to his aisle, the faster his heart beat. He worried he wouldn’t be able to change on a whim, as Rock and the others taught him over the last couple weeks. What if he, yet again, watched helplessly as Stella’s foul fate was sealed further? There was no glance in his direction as she passed, and he was thankful for that.

  Continuing to slump lower than normal in his seat, Damien’s eyes flickered back to Billy, who wore a slight smile of victory. Top-notch punk.

  *

  Stella kept her eyes focused on the podium—its dark wood, the finish’s uneven sheen, and the one knot in the center, looking like a hollow eye staring back at her. She didn’t care to see the guests, the preacher, anyone. The decorations weren’t hers, her puffy dress was so not her, she planned none of this; therefore, it wasn’t her wedding, was it? Billy could kidnap her, turn her, and threaten her into submission, but that didn’t mean he owned her. But it was obvious, in the Butte family, once married into them, they believed they would own her. The only thing stopping her stomach from turning at the moment was the fact that she wasn’t really alive.

  Undead isn’t really a proper term, she thought, while only hearing dull echoes of the preacher’s talk on supposed love. No, this, if anything was a death. And being in front of her zombie ex, dressed in white, on the verge of exchanging vows, was Hell. She was in Hell, doomed to that miserable state until Billy and the others would slowly deteriorate away, until finally their insides would turn to Jell-o and they’d collapse, or get drop-kicked by a science nerd with a black belt in Karate. Her mind couldn’t help but wonder what it would look like to have each of them drop-kicked. Maybe she could talk them into letting her have a sports hobby. By the time they’d be withering away, so would she, Stella realized.

  “Billy, do you take this woman…”

  Stella kept her eyes away from Mister Buttehead, though his icy hand took hers. “I do,” he said.

  “And do you, Stella,” blahbady blah blah, she finished his speech in her mind.

  “Stella?” Billy’s voice intruded her thought bubble she was floating away in. Finally her eyes snapped up to his. He looked at her earnestly, raising his brows, to nudge her along. She gave a deadpan stare in return, as if not hearing him.

  “Stella?” He squeezed her hands tighter. Pain was still something she could feel, even as a zombie. Ever so quietly, and through clenched teeth and unmoving lips, he said, “Say I do, darling.”

  How could she? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad letting the entire congregation just shred her to bits and throw her in a fire. Her imagination was on overdrive, apparently, since she caught a smoky whiff, like from a bonfire. Or were they preparing to follow through with their evil intentions, after all, if she didn’t give in? She turned to look over her shoulder, to see if her nose was indeed playing tricks on her. …And, it wasn’t. The darkening sky had a definite white cloud of smoke rising up from beyond a cluster of large rocks.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Stella caught a hard stare from Marsha. “Come on, missy.” The woman’s agitated voice went up an octave. Meanwhile, her daughter, the traitor, Maggie, was mouthing something to someone in the audience. For the first time, Stella looked out at the sea of guests. One in particular, who was mouthing something in return, looked oddly familiar.

  Wait—was that Rock? She had only seen him once without makeup, after the concert. It was harder to tell, seeing him all dressed up, without a patch of leather anywhere. Yet, those were his eyes, and his hook nose. What was he doing there? Could it be, he’s a zombie? After all the time, money and emotion she invested in their band? Was he, too, what she now dreaded more than anything else?

  “I don’t!” Stella blurted out, way louder than she expected. The stillness across the beach was unnerving. The piano player slipped on a note, the ocean seemed to stop its very rippling, and not a word was said from anyone in attendance.

  Then Marsha and Billy both started to put her in her place with their demeaning, demanding words. “You don’t do this to us!” Zombie-in-law was saying, among other things. “Just do as you’re told.” Billy gripped her upper arm, chastising her, actually shaking her: “Just say ‘I do.’”

  Her eyes still looking out to t
he audience in defiance, she then noticed a guy stand up with concern in his eyes. “Damien!” she called out.

  “What is he doing here?” Marsha shrieked. “Nobody invited him!”

  Stella jerked her arms loose from Billy’s grasp and ran toward Damien, feeling like everything was going in super slow motion. She must have had at least a dozen thoughts while rushing toward him: What am I doing? What is he doing here? Holy cow, he looks freaking hot in that suit! Does my breath smell bad? WHAT AM I DOING? I’m gonna get killed! Kiss me, you fool!

  And as if also in slow-mo, Marsha’s normally high-pitched tone bellowed out as low and slothful as Jabba the Hutt’s: “Someoooone graaaaab heeeer…!”

  A few zombified legs and arms jutted out into the aisle, reaching for her, or wishing to trip her. But seeing everything in slow-mo had added benefits when it came to moments like these. Stella hiked her dress’s skirt up with one hand and perfectly, gracefully, athletically, as if the ballet and football gods joined forces for her victory, flew over, ducked under and slid around the obstacles, until she landed right into Damien’s arms like a perfectly passed pig skin… only prettier.

  Seizing the moment for all it was worth, before getting shred to bits and thrown into the awaiting inferno beyond the rocks, Stella reached around Hotstuff’s neck and pressed her lips to his. Oh it was warm. So, so warm, and so inviting, and so passionate. Damien seemed just as thirsty for her as she was for him, mashing his mouth to hers, moving from her top lip, to her bottom, to her top again, taking her all in, tingling her nerves to life more than anything could.

  By the time they separated for air, about a dozen hands clenched them. And the moaning. The horrid moaning of over a hundred zombies rioting, re-chilled her bones.

  “RUNNN!” Maggie’s voice rose above all the clamoring. And run he did. One zombie in particular kept a firm grip on his suit jacket, his body thumping along the sand as they went.

  Soon Damien was down the shore more than twenty yards, Stella still in his arms, feeling every swift bump, the sea breeze cheering them on, when she hugged him tighter and saw a clenched and gray hand still gripping his coat. “Ew!” she yelped, and whacked the cold, hard thing off him, and it soared and spun through the air until it landed in the ocean, swallowed up and taken away.

  Damien slowed to a stop, the wedding in the far distance, and surprisingly no one chasing after them. That didn’t mean the chaos had come to a standstill. Stella could see something like a trio of Tasmanian devils—brown, hairy creatures—blasting through it all, even knocking down the archway and tent.

  Damien set Stella gently onto the sand, not even out of breath, his black hair with only a few strands sexily out of place. He cupped her chin in his hands and tilted her to his mouth again, for another long, sweet, hot kiss. His touch lit her insides on fire, literally feeling like he melted one by one, her popsicle arms, legs, neck, mouth, and finally heart. “I… love… you,” he said between kissing her lips.

  “I… love… you,” she responded, while kissing some more.

  “Everything will be okay now.” He rubbed his hands through her hair while pressing his lips to her forehead. “Now, I need to go back and help the guys.”

  “But—”

  “Just stay here. I’ll be back soon, okay? Stay here,” he said emphatically, petting her hair some more.

  “Um…, okay. Alright. You’ll be okay, right? Right?”

  “I’ll be okay.” His brown eyes glimmered and he gave a sweet smile of reassurance.

  They separated, with their hands slipping gently out of each other’s grasp. As Damien ran back toward the crazy scene, Stella watched him amazingly transform from right before her eyes into a bulging, muscle-y, beast of a thing, his dark brown fur rippling over his neck and tufting out through the seams of his suit.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Damien felt so alive. So amazing. He was ready to kick some butt.

  Chairs were tipped and strewn all around, the podium knocked like twenty feet away from the scene, the archway of periwinkle roses, looking like it went through a mulcher. By the looks of things, he expected the zombies to be finished off. But there were still tons of them. And most were stronger than those who grabbed at him and Stella just a moment ago, wrestling with the guys from his pack.

  Mary and Carrie rode C-Lo’s back, their skirts hiked up on their greenish thighs, shrieking as they squeezed his neck. Damien crossed his hairy arms across his chest and approached them. “Mary, Carrie, this is so un-lady-like,” he teased, knowing C-Lo was more bothered than hurt.

  Carrie’s eyelid was glued to her cheek again, goo oozing out from it more than before. “You deceived us!” she seethed.

  “Think of it this way—I’ve got Stella now, so that means Billy is an eligible bachelor again.”

  Mary spoke through her jack-o-lantern teeth. “You dog!”

  Damien grabbed Mary’s wrists, wrenching her off C-Lo, who rushed off to help Rock. She fell on her rump against the sand, and Carrie collapsed with her. “I don’t believe in hitting girls,” he said, looking down at them.

  “What—are you afraid?” they teased.

  Damien waved at the stench of their breath wafting to his wet, black nose. “Tic Tacs, girls. Tic Tacs.”

  They stood up, their arms jutting straight out, ready to strangle him. “It would be my pleasure to kick their butts,” a voice said beside him. It was Maggie. She took her earrings out and shoved her suit’s sleeves up her thick arms, excited to get going.

  “Oh, look! Fat Maggie thinks she can beat us up!” Carrie wailed a laugh.

  “Fat Maggie!” Mary repeated. “You always were jealous of us. Come and get us, you cow! Moooo!”

  “Moooo!”

  There was nothing for Damien to do but stand there a moment in shock, waiting to see how this would play out; see if Maggie would need help.

  Maggie made a low “rah!” sound and charged at them. The double-clothesline move to their necks was impressive, and Damien wondered if Maggie was a fan of WWE. It wasn’t until she body-slammed them both, from off a buffet table, his hunch was confirmed. Mary and Carrie were flattened deep into the sand, motionless, a deluge of puss spurting out Carrie’s eye. With satisfaction, Maggie wiped her hands and smiled smugly.

  “That was amazing,” Damien said, still a bit in shock.

  “Yes, well, I’ve had practice.” She wiped some messy, blonde hair out of her eyes. “I flattened my own dear grandmother a couple months ago… on purpose. The wicked ol’ witch.” She narrowed her eyes in disgust. “Watch out!” She pointed to behind him.

  It was Billy. “Crashing my wedding was a big mistake,” he said.

  *

  Stella huddled behind some rocks. The skirt of her gown was torn, so she ripped it to her knees, making it shorter, then pulled the taffeta under-skirt off. So much better. So much more comfortable. She peered back across the shore, spotting one of the werewolves spinning a zombie round and round in the air. No one was heading her way, thank goodness.

  She thought too soon….

  A hand spidered its way across the sand, out of the ocean. Stella stood up, readied herself, and then kicked it as hard as she could. It flew high in the sky and then the sea gobbled it up again. Moments later, though, the hand made a comeback, creeping out of the water again, this time with a strand of seaweed around a finger.

  “For real?!” she yelled at it.

  Then the last conversation she had with the PAA at the grange came to mind. She looked beyond the big fight scene, to the smoke billowing up in the darkening sky. The fire.

  Feeling squeamish, Stella picked the hand up by the strand of seaweed, and headed toward the fire. Any time it tried to climb up to grab a hold of her, she’d swat it back down.

  *

  “You should have just left Stella alone,” Damien warned.

  “You don’t know anything about it. I loved her. Love her.” His once perfect hair was out of place, and his suit torn in a few places. He obvious
ly already had a tussle with another werewolf, and somehow got away.

  Maggie said, holding onto Damien’s bulging arm like a security blanket, “You’re a liar, Billy. You don’t love her.”

  “Shut up, Maggie.”

  “No! You don’t love her! You don’t know what love is! No one in this dysfunctional family knows what love is!”

  Billy let out a laugh. Then laughed some more, louder. “And you think you know what love is? Crushing over werewolves, our sworn enemies? You’re a hoot, sister!”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “What? Sister?” He took a step closer, and she clung tighter to Damien. “You don’t want me to call you sister now? Well, that’s fine. How about this? Traitor. Yep. That sounds more like it. Traitor. You are the one who conspired this whole werewolf-zombie meet-up, aren’t you? On my wedding day, no less. If that’s what you wish, then fine by me, traitor. You know what we do to those like you; don’t you, traitor?”

  In all the drama, Damien hadn’t noticed that the zombies were starting to overtake his pack. Even the zombies strewn around the ground were starting to pop back up to life. None of the bodies had been shred or taken to the fire, so even broken-off limbs were writhing around, eager to kill. It wasn’t until Carrie and Mary peeled themselves off the ground, Carrie popping her slimy eye back into its socket, Damien realized the horror.

  A few howls pierced the sky. Rock, C-Lo and Joe were each tied to their own pole, taken from the event tent. They couldn’t break loose from their metal bands taken from the archway’s once perfect floral arrangement.

  “Run away,” a voice entered Damien’s mind. It was Rock.

  “No,” Damien said out loud, shaking his head.

  “Run, dude!” C-Lo said next. “Get out while you can!”

  “I can’t,” he said out loud again, and Billy looked at him inquisitively.

  “Run!” three voices ordered this time.

  But he watched as a horde of zombies lifted his friends on their poles like giant shish-kebabs, heading in the direction of the fire. There was no way he would run away, though fear told him he was being a fool. Billy smiled in glee, even putting a hand up to his chin and tilting his head at the surprising situation.