Where the Wild Things Bite

by Molly Harper

  I basically had a mental breakdown. Those scenes in the BBC movies where a young noblewoman is sent home from polite society in disgrace and locked in her family’s attic until she comes to her senses? Well, my parents didn’t have an attic. My father was humiliated beyond description to have his daughter leave her problem without a degree. The progress we’d built toward a healthy relationship evaporated. He left for another research trip, leaving me to my mother’s tender care.

  My mother told me not to worry, not to let my failure bother me. I mean, clearly, it was entirely my fault that I’d brought this level of shame to the family doorstep, but it didn’t matter in the long run. After all, I would have been coming home soon enough to take care of Mother anyway, so why would I need a silly old doctorate? It was as if Michael had proven my mother right. Every bad thing she’d ever said about men or work or the outside world was confirmed. I saw my life stretching out before me like a long hallway, and every door was labeled “exhaustion and unhappiness.” I would never have a life of my own, a home of my own, a family. My life was supposed to be taking care of her. So I told her no. For the first time in my life, I told my mother no and meant it.

  To say she was shocked was an understatement. Hell, I was shocked.

  I took off in the middle of the night. I found an apartment and stayed in it. I found a doctor well versed in balancing antianxiety medications. I lived off savings bonds for almost a year, hiding in my apartment, reading, researching supernatural topics that would never lead to publication but that I found interesting. Rachel, a library science major who had been assigned as my research intern before I was labeled “academic poison,” was the one who finally got me off my ass and working again. Recently graduated, she’d lost her interest in academia after seeing how I was treated and was now interested in helping me make “cold, hard cash.”

  Also, she may have had too many glasses of chardonnay at a campus wine-and-cheese mixer and told one of Michael’s chief supporters that he would always work at a second-tier school unless he removed his head from his own ass. Which may have ruined her chances for a good letter of recommendation . . . considering that said chief supporter was her adviser.

  With Rachel’s urging, I finally worked up the nerve to use those vampire contacts, the few friends I had left in academic circles for references. It was ridiculously difficult at first, but I had some family money to survive on until my clients figured out that “freelance” didn’t mean “free.” Eventually, I developed a reputation for being the go-to gal when you had a supernaturally themed book but no information about it.

  Mother refused to speak to me until I apologized, a condition that evaporated when I failed to do so for more than a year. My massive, spectacular failure was not only a public embarrassment for her—intolerable—but the first time I wouldn’t allow my mother to step in and make it all better—inconceivable.

  I didn’t want to be doted on. And she didn’t know how to handle that. It broke our relationship, because I wouldn’t fall into line with what she needed from me. The only thing I could say I was proud of from that time in my life was that I didn’t go crawling back to my mother, no matter how much she pressured me to. I had enough stiff-necked pride not to do that.

  I still smarted over not having my PhD, though. I’d wanted that, to show to my father. And Michael’s actions had taken that away. I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to start another program. I would be too intimidated, too wary of other students. For now, my life was enough.

  Or at least it was until I got dropped into this hellhole.

  I hated Kentucky. So very much.

  I leaned back carefully against the tree trunk. I just had to wait until sunrise. Just until Finn was no longer able to get around. And then I could get far, far away from him. And if Ernie got in my way? God help him.

  7

  You’re going to need to keep a pocket knife handy. Don’t think about why, just do it.

  —Where the Wild Things Bite: A Survival Guide for Camping with the Undead

  If scientists ever figured out how to convert anger into energy, scorned, pissed-off women would be a renewable resource. We could power the world with our bitter, burning light.

  The moment the sun rose over the trees, I hopped down from my oak cradle and set off for the horizon. I was far more prepared for the trek than I’d been the night after the plane crash. I had solid, non-blister-making shoes, a belly full of crackers, and enough anger to fuel me up steep forest embankments I was sure would eventually turn into sidewalks and streets.

  Now that I didn’t have Finn tagging along, distracting and deviling me, I recalled a good portion of the survival guides I’d read. I remembered that the white powder on the outside of an aspen tree could be rubbed on my skin for a natural sunscreen, protecting my nose from the worst of my “reintroduction” to sunshine. I used the knife to sharpen my walking stick for more threatening-to-Finn’s-chest purposes. I even spotted a few wild mushrooms and little edible white-flowered plants called trout lilies. But I didn’t partake, because I wasn’t hungry enough to add misidentified poisons and/or hallucinogens to my daily routine. Also, trout lilies sounded sort of disgusting.

  And in even further good news, I was making what felt like good progress now that I could see where I was going. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to feel the sun on my cheeks, to see my path through the woods without worrying about tripping.

  I missed Finn. It was weird, but I felt so alone walking through the trees. I’d liked knowing that there was someone in the world who knew I was alive. I missed the assurance of Finn’s steps beside me. I missed his voice, his teasing.

  Nope, I told myself. That way lay madness. Finn was a bad person who had played around with my brain and tricked me into a weird Stockholm/survivor syndrome seminaked relationship. The fact that he was planning to continue to do so, and most likely drop me into the hands of his employers when I was no longer useful to him, hurt the most. I’d shared things with Finn that I’d never shared with any man. Hell, it had taken me years to talk to Rachel about my messed-up family dynamic, and she was my best friend. He’d taken the trust I’d given him and thrown it back in my face. He’d taken any hope I’d had of—

  Nope. Nope. Again with the nope. I had to stop thinking about Finn. I had to think of something that didn’t threaten to drive me nuts. I would think of Rachel, who I knew would be happy to see me when I finally got home. I would think of the Jai Courtney movies I had lined up on my Netflix queue, which Rachel had promised she wouldn’t watch without me. And I would dream of the enormous steak I was going to eat, which I now pictured with a side of warm Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

  My stomach growled at the thought of food. The sun was far past noon, and it had been a long time since the last of my crackers. I searched through my bag, touching the plastic book covering to assure myself, once again, that it was OK. I still had two bottles of water, a few bottles of Ale-8, and the tins of mystery meat among my supplies.

  Grimacing, I read the potted-meat label as I sat on a log in the shade. If nothing else, this long woodsy nightmare taught me how comfortable I had it at home. I wouldn’t take for granted sunshine or being able to get food or water whenever I wanted it ever again. And I would give Rachel a raise, because she’d had to deal with my mother this whole time, and she would probably need the extra money to pay for counseling.

  Just as my butt brushed the ground, I heard a threatening buzz rising above my head. I glanced up just in time to see a small, dark shape flinging itself toward my eyes. Shrieking, I threw my weight forward as a dozen wasps dive-bombed my scalp.

  I landed knees-first on the hardened dirt and crab-walked as fast as my limbs would carry me. All the while, the wasps were circling over my head, buzzing angrily in my ears. One of them caught its creepy little wings in my hair and stung my palm when I batted at it to smack it loose.

  Cradling my injured hand, I tried to figure out what the hell just happened.

 
Just above eye level, a wasp’s nest the size of a beer keg was hanging by a very thin connection to a low-hanging branch. These wasps did not appear to be master builders, considering that the weight of the nest was bowing the whip-thin branch to its limit. And the wasps seemed to know their eviction was imminent, given the way they swarmed out of the imperiled hive at the merest threat . . . like my daring to sit under it to have my dinner.

  I shuddered as the little bastards erupted over the gray papery surface, like Satan’s birthday piñata. And now that I was no longer panicking, I could feel the burning pain radiating from the left side of the nape of my neck and my left hand. Using the cleanest nails on my right hand, I scraped the stinger loose from the back of my hand and rinsed the wound with bottled water. My neck stings were a lost cause, since I couldn’t even see them to treat them. I was just going to have to suffer through it.

  I didn’t want to sound paranoid, but I was pretty sure the woods were trying to kill me.

  “I’m just going to have to find another picnic spot,” I grumbled, very slowly crawling back until the wasps lost interest in flying at my face. I pushed to my feet and hitched my bag over my shoulder, shoving the potted-meat can back inside.

  Turning on my heel, I held up both hands and flipped the wasps the bird, which, when you thought about it, was sort of a zoologically funny concept. In response, a lone kamikaze insect flew at the right side of my nape and gave me a matching sting. “Ouch!” I yelped. “I’m going, I’m going! Little winged pricks.”

  I got as far as the adrenaline and wasp-venom madness could carry me and then flopped petulantly onto my butt in a little clearing with no branches overhead. Waspy jerks. I took a soda bottle out of my bag and held it to the back of my neck, hoping to find some relief from the cool container against the wounds.

  Wait, wouldn’t that just grind the stingers deeper into my skin? I pulled the soda bottle away and set it on the ground.

  I tried not to find it suspicious that the potted-meat label failed to list exactly what the ingredients were, only “miscellaneous cow and pig parts, water, spice mix, and other things.” If I was going to choose a portion of that explanation that bothered me the most, I was going to choose “miscellaneous parts.” What didn’t the manufacturer want me to know was going into the meat? Even hot dog manufacturers were more honest about their recipes.

  My stomach growled again, and despite my doubts, my mouth was watering at the very prospect of food. I sighed, opened the can with its brittle aluminum pull-ring, and popped the top open. I was pretty sure that the contents only met the loosest possible definition of the word “meat.”

  Several odd little brown lumps swam in a congealed gravy-like sauce. The smell was enough to make me consider permanent vegetarianism. It wasn’t spoiled, just very . . . very vinegary, like old dress shoes worn without socks.

  “Thank you, brain, for that super-appetizing thought.” I wiped my hands as best I could on my sweater and reached into the can. I pinched my nose and slid a chunk of meat into my mouth.

  It was as gross as predicted, clammy and cold and overseasoned in an effort to hide the parts of the animal that were compressed into the jiggly cubes. I winced as I moved my teeth through it, but I couldn’t help reveling in the chance to finally chew something that took effort.

  The woman who, just days ago, had used a sanitizing wipe to clean off an airplane vent was now using her filthy fingers to dig potted meat out of a can. It was safe to say I had gotten over my germophobia.

  I swallowed the next bite and the next, lecturing myself to slow down, not to make myself sick. But I just couldn’t stop. For the first time since I’d left the airport, there was a possibility that I might not end a meal as hungry as I started it. I was so distracted by a potentially full belly that I didn’t even hear the monster coming up behind me.

  I’d never been a big fan of movies where the feckless heroine screams her head off when confronted by a monster in the woods. But now I retracted all of my scoffing at the B-list actresses and their over-the-top theatrics. Screaming was precisely the type of reaction you should have when confronted with an eight-foot Greek mythological nightmare.

  How had something so big, with so many horrifying parts, moved so quickly and quietly? It walked on goat’s legs, bent at awkward angles over cloven hooves. Its lion’s torso led to two huge humanoid arms ending in massive, sharply clawed paws. And while I was concerned about all of those features, it was the giant hooded cobra head atop the muscled shoulders that really had me worried. The creature hissed so loudly it could have been heard as a roar, opening its mouth to reveal fangs dripping with poison.

  You know, on any other trip, it would be weird to be attacked by a goat-lion-snake-monster in broad daylight.

  I leaped to my feet. Was this real? Had I finally gone insane? Was this some sort of fever dream, or was I maybe already dead? Or maybe this was a normal side effect of eating potted meat of indeterminate age?

  None of this self-examination was helpful, considering the monster was still standing over me, panting and snarling. This had to be a shifter. Also, shifters were clearly a thing. A big, scary thing. Chimeras wandering around western Kentucky would have made the news, right?

  Despite the overwhelming weight of fight over my natural flight response, I felt weirdly reluctant to use the knife or the stick. For one thing, instead of holding either, I had an open can of potted meat in my hand. Second, I’d swung the blade at Ernie because he was actively trying to kill me. What if this shifter was just trying to scare me? Still, given the height, this person also had to be a pretty big shifter. From what I’d read, no matter what their type, they couldn’t shift into anything significantly larger than their human body mass. Given the difference in our sizes, I was pretty sure whoever was behind all of those creature features would be able to wrestle me to the ground in seconds.

  The fight instinct lost out to more sensible doubts about my bicep strength. I rolled my shoulder, preparing to bolt, and gritted my teeth against the pain that throbbed in my neck. In my head, I doubled my planned donation to a wasp-killing charity.

  Wait.

  Friar Thomas’s book. A significant shock, whether from pain or emotional trauma, was supposed to be enough to jolt the shifter back to his human shape. Friar Thomas had once startled a resistant Russian shifter out of his bear shape by slapping him in the face with a hymnal. Sure, the former bear-man was offended, but at least he and Friar Thomas could have a friendly conversation. I cringed back from the monster, even though I knew that underneath the scary mask, he was probably an office-supply salesman named Marv.

  At the very least, I figured he would be a lot less intimidating if he had a human face. So I reared back and poked the creature in its big golden snake eye with my thumb and forefinger.

  I yanked my hand back, wiping it against my shirt. I hadn’t felt scales, just warm human skin and a wet eye. By the way, yech.

  It seemed that the snake creature was a “skin magic” shifter, more common to the Southeastern tribes. Beneath the illusion of fur, scales, and so on, they remained human and vulnerable. They couldn’t even use the claws and fangs they projected for defense, because those things weren’t real. Other tribes were able to change physical form, something Friar Thomas referred to as “true shifting,” labeling those tribes as more dangerous and unstable. But the skin magic shifters depended on intimidation.

  And while all of this was very interesting, it was still shocking when the chimera let out a distinctly feminine howl and dropped to its knees, collapsing on its face in the grass.

  A blue light shimmered across its skin and revealed an unusually tall, broad-shouldered woman in her late thirties with a no-nonsense cap of white-blond hair. She wore camo cargo pants, a black T-shirt, and an extremely irritated expression half covered by the hand she had clamped over her shiny-clean, raw-boned face.

  “Whoops,” I muttered, taking a step back.

  “Why would you do that?” she growled
in a gruff Midwestern accent.

  “Why wouldn’t you block my swing?” I yelled back.

  “Who pokes a giant snake-lion-goat in the eye?”

  “Well, I didn’t take a lot of self-defense classes, but I think you’ll find that no matter the species, a person has a hard time bullying you if you’ve poked them in the eye.”

  “I don’t want to bully you! I just want to talk to you!”

  “Yes, please excuse me for misreading the intent of your hissing cobra fangs.” I took a step back.

  “I just want the book,” she panted. “Give it to me, and we’ll stop chasing you.”

  “So I’m assuming that you crashed my plane?” She nodded, and my free hand curled forward in a threatening gesture. She scrambled back across the grass.

  “Don’t try to poke me in the eye again,” she warned me.

  “Don’t crash any more of my planes,” I told her, brandishing the can with my other hand in a way I hoped was threatening.

  “My family crashed the plane. If it makes you feel better, I voted against it.”

  Actually, that did make me feel better. I liked knowing that while she might be turning into a six-and-a-half-foot cobra, I wasn’t dealing with a total psychopath.

  “Why do you need it so badly? Why are you so willing to hurt me over this thing? Can’t you just negotiate with Jane to buy it from her? I’ll give you her contact information.”

  The woman ran a hand through her hair, and it fell in disarray around her face, reminding me of a fluffy baby chick. Why couldn’t she turn into a giant baby chick? That would have been a much-appreciated change of pace. “You’ve told her how valuable that book is. She’ll never sell it to us. We thought it would be better that she thought it was lost in the crash.”

  “You had enough money to crash a plane,” I noted. “Murder-by-pilot has to be a pretty expensive proposition. Plus, I can’t help but notice that you left out the part where I would also be lost in the crash.”