by Anna Katmore
Something moves in the woods to my right. Both the kitten’s and my head snap around as we hear the crack at the same time. I slow down, wariness creeping into my bones. “Hello…?”
A lordly stag with mighty antlers jumps from the shadows. The deer stops in the meadow for a second as we face off across the thirty feet of distance. Blinking his huge, dark eyes, he tilts his head just slightly to scrutinize me. I’m utterly frozen—out of surprise and awe. I don’t even dare breathe. A moment later, he skips to the side and disappears into the forest again.
Damn! I swallow and turn around to walk on. But the eerie feeling of being watched slithers over my skin. And this time, it’s not the stag.
My little buddy hisses, and his hackles rise to attention. I tuck him back into my pocket, staring into the shadowed forest once more. Something dark glints in the moonlight.
A few days ago, I would have been able to make out a mouse digging for beetles over in the bushes at about a hundred and eighty feet away. Tonight, all I see is dark, blurred trees. Fuck this blood famine. I need my strength back!
Because the little tiger fretfully claws at my hand in the pocket, I move on, keeping watch on the woods from the corner of my eye. Whoever is in there would be stupid to follow now that he’s been noticed—not if he wants to stay undetected. But more and more I get the feeling that it’s not a person hiding in the trees.
Once inside the castle, I close the door and lock it—for the first time since I came here. In front of the glowing fireplace, I squat and free the little tiger. My skin is scratched and bitten. The little bugger did a fine job of turning my hand into a work of cat art. While he hops down from my lap and starts inspecting his new home with his muzzle on the floor and his tail standing straight up like an antenna, I toss a few more logs into the fire. The temperature rises fast, and a warm glow lightens the place.
Exhausted, I slump into the wingback chair and close my eyes, hands placed on the armrests. Just a few minutes of sleep. That would be wonderful.
When tiny kitten claws hack into my jeans, I reopen just one eye. He scales my shin and then balances wobbly on my thigh to find his former bed in my hoodie pocket. The pleased purr makes me draw in a deep breath and shut my eyes again. The feeling between my ears becomes cottony as sleep weighs down my lids like stone. Images of my uncle’s angry face appear in my mind.
The visage blurs into a sneer while a ball of fire hovers over Uncle V’s palm. The fire goes out, and he holds a match between his fingers. “Light it, and you can come home. Show me that you’re good enough to take my place one day.”
Behind him, Cassandra comes up, throwing her long, dark locks back, offering me her neck. Boy, how I need to sink my teeth into that throat. I grab her hard and bite. Her gasp morphs into a moan as she lets me drink. But a foul taste overwhelms my mouth. The blood tastes of garlic. Everything comes back up. It’s a slimy, black goo when I spit it onto the ground.
Pain spreads through my body. I lift my hands in front of my face. The skin of my palms begins to shrivel. In horror, I watch as it turns into a black, leathery hide. Everything feels wrong—dry and burning. I can’t breathe…
With a choking gasp, I startle from my half-sleep. Fuck! Gripping the armrests hard, I pant until there’s enough air in my lungs again. The kitten must have fallen out of my pocket and now sits in my lap, a confused look on his face. “Sorry,” I say and stroke him between his eyes until he settles down again. Finally, I slump back and pinch the bridge of my nose, eyes squeezed shut.
Holy bat shit, my body screams for human blood. But to get some, I need to learn mind control first. Too weak to train, I’ve already gone past the point of no return. What a fucking vicious circle. I grunt. This is going to be a long road of torture until Uncle Vlad comes to peel my mummified body out of my coffin.
“Hello, Quentin.”
In the blink of an eye, I’m on my feet, wide-awake and alert. “How the fuck did you get—?” I spin around. There’s nobody there. Only the shadows from the fire dance across the walls, and the little tiger protests on the floor where I sent him flying with my jumpstart.
“Remind me to bring a stake to your funeral.”
The voice is so close to my ear that I hiss. I whip around once more, but the hall is empty. Hard panting rocks my chest. For seconds on end, I don’t even dare to blink.
And then my brain seems to fry when the voice suddenly breaks into my mind from all sides.
“You’re not good enough!”
“Who made the fire, Quentin? Who?”
“You want to go home?”
“Kill them. Or I’ll kill you.”
Careening backward, I knock hard into the corner of the stone wall. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” I yell, pressing my palms to my temples. The echo of my shout runs through the hall, down the corridor, up to the ceiling, and then back to me. But it can’t tune out the ghostly voice inside my head.
Frightened by my shouting, the kitten zooms under the chair and peeps around one wooden leg. I rush over, grab him, and dash upstairs into the master bedroom. There, I bolt the door and slowly take one step away from it, backward. Then another. My breathing is an erratic wheeze as I stare at the key in the lock, my heart beating in horror.
“Knock, knock, Quentin…”
Chapter 15
Wolf banter
Abigail
I slept surprisingly well last night. My dreams of Dracula and me in a bouncy castle may have a Freudian undertone, but I’m too punchy this morning to ponder it.
Boy, that chat with Quentin under the apple tree really left my mind reeling. Of course, I’m not stupid enough to underestimate the dangers of what he is and what he can do, but to call a vampire my friend—heck, how many people in this world can say that of themselves? I mean, how many humans?
After a shower, I come back to my room and find a text from Rosemarie waiting. That reminds me that Quentin asked me to charge his phone. I plug it in and then read Rosemarie’s message. She says she’s feeling a lot better and would be happy to see me today.
I throw on some cut-offs and a tank top with the Roadrunner’s Wile E. Coyote on it, then I dash downstairs and call out to Nana that I’m leaving. The radio is on in the kitchen, and as I walk past, I find my grandmother shaking her booty to Last Christmas on a ninety-degree summer day. Something you don’t really want to see.
“What did you say, darling?” she asks as she hacks off the head of a trout, making the juices splatter on the board. Yuck.
“I’m visiting Rosemarie.”
Her head lifts to me. “Do you have the air horn with you?”
“Er…I’m just heading a few houses down this lane. I don’t think wolves will come that near during the day. Right?”
“What if you two decide to go into the woods?” The shadow of a smile on her face makes me feel a little loopy.
“I’m sure we won’t.”
“Anyway.” She wipes her hands on a dishcloth and saunters to me, reaching into that magic manufacturing pocket of her apron.
I half expect my air horn to come out, but it doesn’t. Instead, it’s a…a… “What the heck is that?”
“A whistle, my dear. Canines don’t like the sound.” She puts the slim, three-inch-long silver pipe into my palm and closes my fingers around it. Then her loving gaze turns stern. “Only use it in an emergency. We don’t want to torture innocent wolves or the neighborhood dogs with it.”
“Uh-huh.” Frowning at the whistle, I once again wonder if her apron actually comes from a wizarding store. I pocket the noisemaker and head out the door.
Crossing through the garden, I find a new tag in the tomato bed that’s huge and reads Tomată. It feels like a funny joke that Nana really needs a sign to recognize the plants when they already bear fist-sized fruit. Then my gaze snags on the stick she nailed the tag onto, and I gulp. It’s the stake I made for protection from Quentin and forgot under the apple tree last night. Ugh. My grandma, always the practical woman.
Eyeing the new veggie tag warily, I pass the shrubs and walk out onto the street toward my friend’s house.
Rosemarie is in her garden. It’s good to see that she’s traded the woolen blanket for a yellow t-shirt and baggy, brown pants today. With a pot in her arm, she crosses to the geese compound.
Close by, sitting in the shade of their maple tree, Trayan leans against the trunk and reads a book. “Hi, Abby,” he says with a friendly wave as he glances up from the pages. Passing him, I give him a feeble wave in return and a smile.
Rosemarie turns around at Trayan’s greeting and cheers when she sees me. “Ah, you’re here!”
She looks much more alive as she throws wheat grain over the low, wire-mesh fence and into the compound by the little pond. Five geese come waddling to the feed and pick at their meal with happy chatter. That’s one short of a full gaggle.
“Where’s Lucifer?” I ask, stopping beside her and bending over to stroke Fluffy-Puff as she eats. Rosemarie named them all based on features of their feathers. Lucifer, the gander, has two feathers that stick out on his head and look like little devil horns.
“We lost him a few weeks ago.” At her sad voice, I lift my head, my hand still on the goose’s head. Her face takes on an ashen tone. “It was an accident.”
“It’s normal that wild animals go hunting for easy prey when it wobbles in front of their snout,” Trayan’s soft yet lecturing voice drifts to us. I straighten and cast him a glance over my shoulder, but his almost sad gaze is on Rosemarie for the length of a breath. Then his eyes and jaw harden. “You’re too attached.”
Rosemarie’s chin drops as he goes back to reading, but obviously, she isn’t done with him yet. While emptying the pot over the fence, dropping the entire load onto poor Blackfoot, who screeches, she snaps, “Sorry that I happen to like our pets. And when one dies”—she spins around and takes a few aggressive strides toward Trayan—“it makes me sad, whether that fits into your screwed view or not!”
Trayan lifts his head and opens his mouth to speak, but she’s faster than he is. “No!” she barks, holding out one hand. “Just shut up. I’m not in the mood. Not today, okay?”
Ugh. I bite my lip. It’s really weird here lately.
Whatever their problem, Trayan seems to understand that he just crossed a touchy line with her. With a sigh, he lets it go. Thankfully, because Rosemarie sounded like her throat was suddenly clogged with tears.
Their argument would surely make better sense with a little more context, but now is the wrong moment to ask about it. And then Rosemarie doesn’t give me time to do it at all. She grabs a fistful of my t-shirt and hauls me with her toward the house. “Come on, Abby, let’s go to my room. The garden is too full today.”
Casting Trayan a sheepish grin, I follow my friend inside, where she finally releases my sleeve, and we head up the stairs into the light-flooded hallway.
“Trayan said the other day that you’re family. Is he your cousin or something?” Because they tend to argue so much, somehow, he appears more like a long-lost brother.
“God forbid!” Rolling her eyes, Rosemarie grunts. “He’s the foster child of the third cousin of my father’s half-sister in Scotland or some such bull crap. The term family is very loosely used in this context.”
Right. With that string of relations, I can see why one would cut it short.
Rosemarie opens the door at the far end of the corridor and lets me walk in first. Her room looks a lot like mine in Norwich—light wooden furniture, posters of her favorite boybands above the single bed, and a north wall stocked with books that would make a library proud. Mostly, she reads true crime and thrillers, so I wonder if the book Trayan was reading was nicked from these shelves.
“You two don’t seem to get on very well.” I can’t strike out the tentative edge to my voice as I lower to the swivel chair at her desk and swing around.
Blowing out an exasperated breath, she stomps past me and shuts the window. Then she pivots, her hands clasping the ledge behind her. “He’s the most annoying, pestering…”—irritation creases her forehead like grooves in the Grand Canyon—“looming guy I’ve ever come across.”
It’s funny to hear my friend talk about somebody with that passionate kind of chagrin. She usually sees the good in everyone and everything. I get up and stand next to her, glancing down into the garden. “He seems harmless when he’s reading. What’s your problem with him?”
“I don’t see why a stranger has to hang out here the whole summer. He’s just taking up space, eats all my candy, and every time after he showers, the whole bathroom smells of man.” Grumbling, Rosemarie strides to her bed, but under the tree in the garden, a tiny smile slips to Trayan’s face.
Eyes narrowed, I cock my head. Where did that come from?
A drawer bangs shut behind me, drawing my attention back to Rosemarie. “Ugh, I swear you can’t fart in this house without him hearing it,” she mutters then slumps across the mattress, her feet dangling and her shoulders and head propped against the wall. Next to her lies a ripped pack of licorice. She gnaws at one in frustration.
Her gaze moves to me, and she growls, but for the next few seconds, she keeps her mouth shut. When I come away from the window, she offers me a candy stick. I take it and bite off one end, flopping onto the mattress next to her.
“Why did he come here, anyway?” I demand. The thing about the emergency still sits oddly with me.
Rosemarie draws up her knees. “I don’t know. Perhaps because he has no life of his own and now enjoys making mine hell.”
That coaxes a snicker. “I’m sure that’s not the reason.”
She nails the window with a scowl. When her attention returns to me, she heaves a resigned sigh and swallows the rest of her candy. “Mind if we go for a walk? I need some fresh air.” Then her molars grind as if crunching ice. “And distance.”
I have a feeling that she won’t relax as long as we’re so close to the guy who’s obviously driving her crazy. So, I get up from the bed. “Let’s go.”
Visibly relieved, she jumps up, too, and we saunter downstairs again. But as we make to head out the door, a tall guy blocks not just the sun but also our escape. “Where’re you going?” Trayan demands, his face lined with concern. Man, Rosemarie really didn’t exaggerate when she called him looming. This is creepy.
“Just stretching our legs a bit,” Rosemarie retorts with a tight sneer. Then she slaps her flat palm gently against his chest and squeezes past him. “Try not to miss me too much.”
Oh, Jesus. I duck my head because his frown lands on me next, and I don’t want to face the Scottish inquisition. It must be so weird to have someone like him in the house for weeks. “See you, Trayan,” I mumble and rush after my friend. She doesn’t look back, yet I can’t resist glancing over my shoulder as we head out of the garden and take the road away from the estate to the woods. The Scot’s disapproving scowl follows us. I seem to be the only one concerned about it, however.
Rosemarie sets a speedy pace, which she only slows once her house is entirely out of sight. Glad that we didn’t take the road to the castle but are just strolling through the cool forest now, I finally tuck my hands into my pockets and…feel the little silver whistle there. A shiver of an entirely different kind skates down my back. Damn! Could Nana have really foreseen this?
Then again, it’s not so unusual for Rosemarie and me to head out into the woods on a sunny day. So, no big deal, right? Heck, I’m really getting paranoid here.
“You okay?”
My head shoots up, and I notice that I stopped walking, holding the whistle in my palm. Rosemarie stands a couple of feet ahead, scrutinizing me.
“Yeah. Sure.” I lower my hand and catch up with her.
“What’s that?” The wariness in her voice is still there.
I shake my head. “Just something Nana gave me this morning. It’s supposed to keep wolves away.”
“Really?” Her brows tip together. A second passes, and then she cl
ears her throat. “Can I see it?”
I hand her the slim pipe. She spins it through her fingers, examining it with interest, but when she lifts it to her mouth, my hand snaps out, and I take it away from her. “No, don’t! Nana said I should only use it in an emergency because, apparently, it’s torture for canines.” I don’t want to start a ruckus in the forest for nothing if this little thing really does the trick. And there’s no reason to doubt what she said after the little horn Nana gave me the other day probably woke half of Ardeal.
“So, your grandma is scared of the wolf, too? Does she think it will attack humans?”
I slip the whistle back into my pocket and pick up a broken branch instead. “Not really scared, I don’t think. Nana just wants me to be careful.” It’s enough that I’m scared as hell these days, and not just because of a wild animal. The things that Quentin said—about the possible werewolf—ring ominously in my ears. My gaze zooms about the forest. Wonderful. Are we heading straight into the werewolf den?
Rosemarie gathers her silky, honey-colored hair into a short ponytail and fastens it with the rubber band she keeps on her wrist. “You seem a little on edge these days. Is everything really okay?”
I stare into her beautiful green eyes for the length of a breath. She arches one brow. Last time, I wanted to tell her everything about the vampire living in Castle Dracula. But now I can’t. I don’t want Quentin to get into trouble because I can’t keep a secret. My gaze drops for a moment. “Yeah. Just getting used to being in the country again. Life is so much different here.”
She laughs. “I bet. You need to fill your tanks with clean air as much as you can before heading back to the city.”
Grateful for the change of subject, I nod and then climb onto one of the few rocks beside the path. A thin well springs from the ground where I settle down, and I ignore the debris. Even with the whistle in my pocket, I don’t want to head too deep into the woods today. With my feet dangling, I wait for Rosemarie to sit beside me. “So, what about you? Did you decide what you’re going to do after the summer?” I ask, dipping a finger into the narrow stream of water between us.
