by Carrie Jones
He kisses the top of my head even though everyone is watching. “Me too.”
I let go and we exchange a look. I don’t need to tell him how scared I am; he can tell by the way my hands shake, I know, and how my voice is this forced, dead calm that’s totally unlike my normal up-and-down, excitable voice. I don’t need to tell him how much I like him either, but I do.
“I really like you, Logan. In a love kind of way.”
He smiles. It’s heartbreaking and slow. Maybe the last smile I’ll ever see. His eyes are as intense as his voice. “I like you that way, too.”
I punch him in the arm for effect. It seems appropriately rah-rah tough for the drama of the moment, but everything inside me is imagining losing him and all the things we won’t ever be able to do. We won’t be able to go to a movie or really make out for hours or watch fireworks or get harassed by Katie or any of it.… He could die. I could die. It could all end now.
For a second I allow myself to give in to all the pain and worries and doubt. I bow my head to lean the top of it against his chest. His hands instantly go to my shoulders. He really does smell horrible.
“Chrystal…”
I swallow hard, press my lips together, fight the urge to cry.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “We can find another way. You don’t have to—”
I lift my finger and press it against his lips to stop him. His lips still against my finger. We both know that I have to. He sighs and sags his body against me. I’m holding him up.
“This all sucks so much.…”
I stagger under his weight, but I don’t fall. I’ll keep us both up.
“It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” I rub my hands along the sides of his face. “Let’s just do this.”
33
LOGAN
The hours tick by. Varmints and night birds go about their business all around us. The sound of an owl snatching a mouse from the ground creeps me out the way it always does. Death from above. On the other side of the ridge, our cattle low and chew up their winter alfalfa in a lighted pasture.
Mr. Thompson dozes and David has to nudge him to wake him up so he’ll stop snoring. Mr. Thompson has a tranquilizer rifle in his lap, as does Mr. Davis. David has his Winchester .30-.30 loaded with silver bullets. I have my bow with the arrow tips moistened with sap squeezed from the stems of the wolfsbane growing in Mom’s flower garden. Four guys. Three different kinds of weapons. I hope at least one of them works.
The police have promised to visit the university and talk to Professor Borgess, but they never called back to tell us what happened. All we told them was that he might know something about where Chrystal’s dad is.
Chrystal said she loves me.
And I said I love her.
We may die tonight. She may live, but leave tomorrow. Either way, I am in love with a beautiful girl who loves me back. No one should die without feeling what I feel right now. Without the fear, of course.
Coyotes yap and howl off to the east.
A huge mama possum with five babies clinging to her back trundles through the clearing, not fifteen feet from where Chrystal sits cross-legged. In the light of the moon and stars I can see her eyes get huge as she watches the possum family. She doesn’t move, and that’s good, because a frightened mama possum can be a mean thing to deal with.
No werewolf howls. No werewolf crashes into the clearing to claim my beautiful, brave girlfriend sitting there like a worm on a hook.
In short, nothing happens.
At about two a.m. Mr. Davis calls it off for the night. We’re all stiff and tired and disappointed, but at the same time I think we’re all more than a little relieved.
“He must still be recovering from last night,” I say as I throw my arms around Chrystal.
“I guess so,” she says. “But that just means we have to do this again.”
“Yeah.”
* * *
Back at the house, we send Chrystal upstairs to sleep. Mr. Davis and Mr. Thompson try to get me to go to bed, too, but I insist on staying up and drinking coffee with them until it’s time for the morning milking. After the cows are milked, then I go upstairs to my room. Chrystal is sleeping in my bed. I’m dirty and I stink from the milk barn, so I gently kiss her cheek, then settle onto the floor with my pillow and a spare blanket.
I wake up to the feeling of being kicked. Not hard, just a gentle, persistent kick to the legs. I peel my eyes open to the bright light of late morning and find Chrystal standing over me. She’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, nudging me with her bare foot.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” she says. “Go take a shower, then come back and talk to me.”
Sitting, I rub at my face. “What’s up?”
She drops to the floor in front of me. “I was thinking. It took me forever to get to sleep because I was thinking about the same thing I thought about the whole time I was waiting out there being bait for that werewolf thing.”
Her face is so serious and so pretty. I want to lean in and kiss her, but I know my breath must be atrocious.
“Thinking about what?” I ask.
“That you should take a shower,” she says.
* * *
My shower is quick, although I’m so nervous, I drop the soap twice and the huge bar of green Zest sounds like a boulder when it hits the porcelain of the tub each time. I finally rinse, turn off the water, and towel dry. The whole process takes about ten minutes, or half of my normal time. I like a good, hot shower, where I can think under the water.
Wearing just a pair of boxers and a T-shirt, I slip back to my room. To my surprise, Chrystal is in bed. I listen closely as I close my door. There’s not a sound coming from anywhere in the house, other than the steady hum of the air conditioning. I push the door closed and lock it.
“Everyone’s still asleep?” Chrystal asks.
I turn around and nod. “I think so. Didn’t hear anybody.”
“Good.”
Our bodies sort of pivot toward each other and then it just happens—our lips meet. Her hand grabs my bicep. Her hand is small but strong and cool. My hand goes to the small of her back. My palm presses against her skin. Her shirt’s ridden up a bit, but I’m glad, really glad, because I like the feel of pressing against her. But that’s not what I’m focused on, not really.
The lips.
It’s not like our lips are just kissing. They hint at things, at good, good things: gesturing out our souls and wants and aches and fears. She is nice and strong and kind. Her lips move a little more solidly against mine. My hand slides up her arm, to her shoulder and then to her hair. I want to press her lips into mine as hard as I can, so I can only think about them and nothing else, just her, her lips.
“It’s like coming home,” I say against her mouth, then I pull away and collapse against the bed. “Oh, that was so corny.”
“It was nice,” she says.
“No, it was corny.”
“And nice? It’s totally corny, too, though.” She just waits. “Want to try again?”
I hold up my hand because I do, but there’s something … something not right. A noise.
Barking.
The dogs are barking.
Chrystal’s gaze moves from me to the window, so I look there too. I don’t want to, but I go to the window and move the curtain aside. A silver Toyota Camry is pulling up to the house. Thunder and Daisy are baying like crazy, their teeth showing, while Galahad rushes at the driver’s door, snapping and growling before backing away to do it again.
“What is it?” Chrystal asks.
I can’t actually see the driver, but with the way the dogs are acting, there’s really only one person it can be.
“I think it’s him. Professor Borgess.”
“What?” Chrystal sits up on the bed.
“I’m going downstairs. Wake David up. I’ll get Mr. Davis up. He’s human if he’s driving a car, and I don’t think he’ll get out with the dogs there. Hurry.” I start to rush out,
but stop. There’s a werewolf in my driveway and a girl in my bed. This is just too bizarre to ever happen to anyone else, ever.
I lean over Chrystal and kiss her hard on the lips. “We’ll get back to this,” I promise.
Then I slip out of the room, closing the door behind me.
* * *
“Galahad! Come here!” I yell at the dog. Thunder and Daisy are already beside me, still growling, but waiting. They’re hunting dogs. They know to wait for a command to attack. Galahad is just a sweet, dumb mutt. Still, he’s a good dog, and eventually he comes to me. I turn to Mr. Davis, who is standing in the doorway with his shotgun in his hand. I’m holding my own shotgun. “Will you call Galahad and keep him inside?”
He does. Galahad doesn’t want to go, but when I gently pop his rump with the butt of my gun, he goes up the porch, looking over his shoulder at the car, promising pain if he’s allowed to give it. Mr. Davis lets the dog pass him, then he steps onto the porch and closes the door.
Professor Borgess opens his car door and steps out. He’s wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a short-sleeved denim shirt. There are no signs at all of his face being burned. As he steps toward me, his limp is gone. Only his throat shows signs that anything has ever been wrong with him. The skin there is pink and new-looking.
“You’ve mostly recovered,” I say, crossing my chest with the shotgun.
He looks at the gun and smiles at me. “Yes, I have,” he says. “Rest is the key. Rest and water. We must stay hydrated. How is your father?”
“Better,” I admit.
“I told you he would be,” Borgess answers. “But, as I also said, what I gave you was only a temporary cure.”
Behind me, the screen door bangs closed again. I want to turn around to see who it is, but I don’t dare take my eyes off the werewolf professor. He, however, looks past me and there’s a tiny bit of shock in his eyes.
“Chrystal Lawson Smith,” he says. “Daughter of the pacifist hunter of Bigfoot, werewolves, and alien life-forms, musician, lollipop eater, and nemesis. I never expected to see you holding a gun.”
A gun?
I can’t help myself. I turn my head just a little. Just in time to hear the gun go off. It isn’t loud, though. Not nearly as loud as it should have been. Something whizzes past me, then Borgess grunts. I look back to him.
A tranquilizer dart with a fuzzy end sticks out of the right side of his chest.
Above me there is the sound of wood slamming wood. Glass breaks. Then another muffled pop. And another dart appears in the new pink flesh of the werewolf’s throat.
Professor Borgess looks at me, then drops to his knees. “We had a deal,” he says, then his eyes roll up into his head and he slumps to the ground.
I look behind and up to see David leaning out my broken bedroom window, holding the second tranquilizer gun.
“He’s down!” Mr. Davis calls out, then he whoops. “Whoo-ee! We got him. Let’s get him in that cage.”
34
CHRYSTAL
The moment that Dr. Borgess falls down, I remember to breathe. David’s arm muscles are tight and the gun quivers a little. He’s just standing there at the window above me, rifle at his shoulder, yelling like a crazy man.
“Holy … holy … oh man … oh man … oh man…”
Two darts stick out of Dr. Borgess’s body. I hope it’s enough.
“David, keep your gun on him!” I yell. I race down the porch stairs before I can even think about shoes.
Logan and Mr. Davis approach Dr. Borgess. The professor isn’t moving.
“I shot a man.” David’s like a zombie, repeating it from the window.
“Dude, it was a tranquilizer. It was okay. I did it too.” I step farther onto the driveway. It’s too hot for my feet to bear for more than a second. I hop onto the grass and step forward. The bottoms of my feet touch the wide, thick blades. The air smells of hot tar, hot metal, the sweat of people’s fear. It’s like it’s gone into slow motion as I move forward.
One step.
Logan and Mr. Davis are lifting Dr. Borgess. Neither of them are holding guns.
Another step.
A bird caws from a tree. Another answers. They must be crows.
Another step.
I’m by the garden. I reach down with my free hand and grab some wolfsbane, tuck it into my shirt pocket right next to the collapsible mug I found with other camping gear in Logan’s bedroom.
Another step.
Mr. Davis jerks back, dropping Dr. Borgess’s arms. Dr. Borgess doesn’t fall, though, not like he would if he were really asleep.
Another step.
“I don’t have a shot!” David yells.
Mr. Davis scurries backward. Logan’s still holding on to Dr. Borgess’s legs. You’d think the man would fall backward, hit his head on the driveway, but instead he bends upward, reaching for Logan. As he reaches, his body starts to change.
“Drop him, Logan!” I’m screaming the words without thinking, charging forward.
Logan drops him and runs backward. The moment Logan lets him go, Dr. Borgess twists, lunging toward Mr. Davis.
I struggle with the gun. It jams. “David!”
A shot goes off. It hits. Nothing. It doesn’t even slow Dr. Borgess down. Hair sprouts everywhere and he’s bigger. His body twists as it moves, reshaping itself into something insane and disgusting and wrong … just wrong. He grabs Mr. Davis and throws him. The nice feedstore man’s body flies soundlessly through the air. He doesn’t scream, just lands in the grass with an oomph.
Another step forward. I try the gun again. Logan yanks it from my hands.
David shoots. The tranquilizer lodges itself in the fur.
It’s not enough.
The wolfman turns and meets my eyes. He brushes away the few remaining scraps of clothing. I’m what he wants. Logan and I? We’re too late; our timing was bad.
Still, I step forward again.
Someone yells my name.
I never believed in bad, but now I do.
I never believed in my father, but now I do.
I never believed in monsters, but now I do.
I can control this. I can choose my own destiny.
“I’m right here,” I say.
“Chrystal!” It’s Logan. He yanks at my arm, but it’s too late. The wolf grabs me around the middle, tugging me with him. He smells—it is horrifying—and he’s all hard muscle and fur. His teeth elongate and grow even as I watch, but something in his eyes is still a tiny bit human. Not for long, though. I know it’s not for long.
“You don’t want to do this,” I whisper.
He tucks me into his side and runs. My arms are clamped down. He’s so strong. Still, I don’t struggle. My feet don’t touch the ground, just dangle there as he takes off down the road. He detours across the lighted field, jumps a fence, and runs into the woods, but he doesn’t go too far in, just twenty feet or so, zigzagging around trees, blasting through shrubs. Twigs snap beneath his paws. My chest feels like it’s about to explode. And then he stops.
He stops.
I’m not scared for some reason. My brain is calm. I think of what to do, what I can do against something so huge and so wrong. The wind beats down on us, hitting the world. The sky is cloudy, so cloudy, and smells of dirt.
He grunts and loosens his hold a bit. I land on the ground. Twigs rub hard against the soles of my feet.
“You made a promise,” I tell him. My voice is barely a whisper, but I know he can hear. “You promised a cure. Give me your blood first.”
I pull out the collapsible mug I stashed in my pocket.
He snarls. The tiny hairs on my arms stand up, but I keep holding the mug, searching those monstrous eyes for any tiny bit of human.
“You promised,” I say again. “You promised.”
He howls and lets me go completely. Then, before I really comprehend what he’s doing, he slashes his forearm with his own claw. It rips through fur and skin. Blood streams out. Some dribbles
on the ground before I come out of shock enough to capture it in the mug. It fills quickly.
“There,” I say as calmly as I can. “Good. Just let me put it down.”
I place it in the roots of the tree and think as quickly as I can what to do. I turn to face him, stepping away from the tree, protecting the precious blood that will put the Jennings family back together.
“I don’t want this,” I tell him. “I’m not like my ancestors. I don’t want to hunt you. I don’t want to mate with you. Don’t you care?”
He snarls again—this primal, evil noise that pretty obviously indicates he doesn’t care.
“I know you really don’t want me for a mate. That was just lies and mythology and trickery. I know you want to be in control, the way you weren’t then, when you were young, when my ancestor killed one of you 250 or so years ago. Who was it? Your father?”
He doesn’t move.
“Your mother?”
He unleashes another snarl. The wound on his arm is already starting to heal, which is not good. I need that wound.
“Fine,” I say, opening my own arms wide. “Come and get me.”
He flings himself toward me. I try to jump away, but he knocks me hard against a tree trunk. Pain ricochets through the base of my neck, the back of my skull. I fight to stay conscious. I have to stay conscious. Consciousness is part of the plan. He growls above me, all wild, all teeth and fur and claw, brute strength. I kick at him, try to distract him, fight him off, but I’m no match to really fight him. Of course, that’s not what I’m trying to do.
As he works to get a better hold on me, I take the wolfsbane that has been in my hand since I took out the mug. The purple blossom is warm and damp with my own sweat. Limp and dying. I shove half of it into his wound, push it inside the red muscle and blood, the ripped skin. He howls and I throw the rest in his mouth. His teeth snap and graze my hand, tearing the skin of my wrist and all along my pinkie. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter, because he swallows. He is not smart enough to spit the flower out. He lets go of me and claws at his face and throat.
