by S Bolanos
My appetite vanished, my mouth went dry, and my breaths turned shallow. The darkness from the woods seemed to grow in my mind’s eye, becoming more and more ominous as it threatened to swallow me whole.
“I don’t mean to scare you, but he knows where you live, it’s not safe for you there.” Michael’s warm hand engulfed my knee, rooting me back in the present.
“I can’t live here. I…I mean, all of my stuff, and then there’s work. How am I supposed to…” The jumbled mess of words made little sense to me as they tumbled out.
“I understand and we can figure all that out,” he reassured me.
“Why can’t I stay at a motel or something?”
“Because I can’t protect you there. Please don’t fight this. I want to know that you're safe and that I’m close by if you need help.”
“I suppose it doesn’t get much closer than right down the hall.”
He blatantly ignored the cynicism and offered an over-the-top smile. "I'm glad you agree. We can go over and get more of your stuff later."
"But I didn't... You can’t hold me hostage like this.”
“I’m not.” His second hot dog disappeared as quickly as the first.
“Then what would you call it?” I asked, my own dog abandoned on the table.
“Protecting you.”
“If you’re worried about me being alone, then I can stay at Charline’s.”
He gave me a reproachful look.
Okay, so I didn’t really want to drag her into all of this, but it didn’t change the fact that trust or no trust, he was dictating my every move. We were in the twenty-first century for Christ’s sake.
“Oh, never mind. I'm not going to win, am I?"
"Nope, might as well accept it."
12
Lone Survivor
I stared down at the stuffed suitcase and couldn’t help but wonder if I was overdoing it. After all, there was no telling how long—or short—I’d be camped at Michael’s. I looked around my room again and thought wistfully of my childhood home tucked up in the woods.
The image of my parents poking fun at each other around the breakfast table came to mind and a familiar longing blossomed in my chest. They’d been nothing but supportive in my desperate attempt to prove I could stand on my own two feet. They’d been my rock and safe harbor my whole life…and they deserved to know the truth.
A small measure of guilt wormed its way into my gut. I’d done nothing to create any kind of permanence here, I’d glossed over how well I was doing before, and now I was outright lying. My sigh turned into a miserable groan.
“Is everything alright?” Michael asked as he walked in to acquire the luggage and me.
“Yeah.”
He paused and gave me a look clearly not buying it.
“I always thought when I…” I trailed off, unwilling to admit the truth. That I felt like a failure in my own life. That moving in with him wasn’t nearly the hardship it should have been. That he was nothing at all like I’d expected. And that I always thought when I moved in with someone it would be because we were together. Except this wasn't that and it never would be.
“When you, what?” he prompted, suitcase already in hand.
I looked at him while I tried to come up with a suitable replacement. Unsure of what to say, I took a page out of Charline’s book. “I always thought when I emptied my closet it would be to replace everything.”
He frowned at the admittedly vapid response. “There’s no reason you couldn’t,” he said, then turned and exited.
I gave a silent cry of frustration.
What’s the worst that could happen if I told him I was starting to like him?
My mind immediately came up with a slew of possibilities, none of which seemed the least bit appealing. He could laugh. I could be accused of having something akin to Stockholm syndrome. Or worse, he could feel sorry for me, the sad little wallflower with her hopeless crush on someone way out of her league. I followed after him to the jeep, feeling miserable down to my toes.
Life would have been so much easier if I’d stayed a dog.
“Think you got everything?” he asked as we turned onto the main road.
“Yeah,” I responded flatly.
“We can always get anything you forgot when we come back for your car,” he tried again.
As it was, I was pretty sure the only reason we weren’t taking my car now was because he wanted to be able to hold my clothes hostage.
“I know,” I said, and turned to stare gloomily out the window at the suburban landscape whizzing past.
“What do you want to do for dinner?” he asked in yet another attempt to engage me.
I shrugged, too lost in melancholy to manage words. He gave up trying to talk and we rode the rest of the way in silence. I walked to the guest room in a muted trance where Michael left me to get settled. While I worked at unpacking my things into the small bureau, my thoughts continued on their merry-go-round of doubt.
The fact that I’m essentially living here doesn’t mean anything. This arrangement is strictly strategic.
My hormones didn’t care. The smell of Michael was everywhere, soaking into my clothes and skin. My hands and the shirt they were holding fell to my sides as I stared up at the ceiling.
Oh God, how am I going to explain all of this to Charline?
Misery encompassed me as I refolded the same shirt for the third time.
I can’t tell her the truth. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged into the disaster that has become my life.
I sighed.
I'm going to have to suck it up and tell her the lie she already believes. Michael and I have been seeing each other and things have gotten pretty serious.
She'll love that.
The thought even tasted bitter. I plopped on the bed effectively ruining whatever progress I’d attained. I glared at the once folded clothes that were now on the floor in open rebellion.
"Unfortunately, the power of telekinesis is not among the many perks of being a werewolf," Michael said from the open doorway.
I resisted the urge to transfer the glare and instead closed my eyes and pretended he wasn't there.
"Now, why is it that every time I walk by you look more and more forlorn? And if I didn't know any better, I’d think that your clothes are magically unfolding themselves."
I cracked an eye to see him leaning casually on the door frame. A flare of anger surged through me at his cavalier attitude. "Why do you think? I've basically had to move out of my house—which I feel like I’ve barely finished moving into—in order to be under armed guard here. And all because some psychotic killer werewolf is out for blood. My blood," I finished with a huff and flopped back.
The bed shifted beneath me as Michael’s weight pressed into it. "Come on, here's not so bad. Is it?” When I refused to respond or even look at him, he changed track. “Now about this 'psychotic killer,' we should probably talk about that."
"What more is there to say? He attacked me without provocation and is foaming at the mouth to finish the job."
"There’s a little more to it than that. Get off your butt and join me in the living room for a drink," he commanded, smacking my leg as he got up.
For lack of anything better to do, I followed him to the main room and took what was quickly becoming my customary seat. I expected him to bring me a big glass of something dark. What I didn't expect was that something dark would be coffee. The smell wafted seductively out of the warm mug in my hands. I took a sip and lost myself in liquid bliss.
"How's the java?" Michael asked, joining me.
All I could manage was a grateful "Mm."
He laughed. "I'm glad you like it."
Half the cup was gone before I could detach myself. "So, what are these extra complications you mentioned?"
He took a big drink before answering, "They're not complications, so much as why he's so messed up." I sat forward, strangely eager to learn more about my assailant.
“P
roceed, good sir.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad to see the coffee is doing its job. You certainly look more awake than you have in the last three hours.” I scowled at him. “There’s no need to be like that. I understand that none of this is ideal, but maybe with a little more perspective you won’t begrudge it quite so much. And maybe you wouldn’t fight me so hard on literally everything,” he added under his breath.
I chose to ignore the snarky comment and focused on the warmth seeping into my hands from the mug instead.
Michael gave an exasperated sigh and went on with his tale. “You already know that he’s a werewolf, or at least I hope you’ve put that together.”
I looked up from the half-empty cup. “You don’t say.”
“Just making sure you’re listening.”
My shoulders slumped. “I get that you’re trying to help, to somehow make this easier to bear,” I said, “but it doesn’t really change the fact that I’m hiding from a monster and my life.” I hadn’t meant to add that last bit, but it was too late to take it back now.
His face softened and I looked away. I didn’t want his pity. I wanted all of this to be over so I could go back to my lackluster life.
Is that what you really want?
I shrugged off the undermining question. The truth was, I didn’t really know what I wanted, not anymore. I was starting to wonder if I ever had.
A minute passed and Michael’s mug chinked on the coffee table. “Something you may not have guessed, is that he was bitten as well.”
My head shot up and I met Michael’s steady gaze. The lamp beside him lent his features an almost ethereal glow accentuated by a dark cast to his eyes that sent a chill down my spine. “How did that happen?” I asked, my mouth dry.
“Before I get into that, I want you to know that I've been watching you and I truly believe that you’re adjusting well."
My eyes narrowed. This was starting to sound suspiciously like yet more important information that he’d conveniently neglected to tell me.
"Not all changes go well, especially when combined with traumatic experiences like..."
"Like mine?" I whispered, an edge to my tone.
He winced. "Well, yes, like yours, but you obviously managed alright since you haven't gone on a violent rampage."
"I take it Mr. Crazy did?"
“Were society would call him a mutt,” Michael said.
“So, our mutt,” the word felt strange, yet oddly appropriate, “he snapped.”
Michael hesitated. "It's not very common—not that we have real cases to reference—but yes, there are stories where a change caused people to snap.”
“And you’re just now mentioning this?” The ceramic mug creaked in my hand as I squeezed it.
He gave it an anxious look and went on. “I didn’t want you to be so worried about it that—”
“That I triggered a change,” I finished for him. “I’ve heard all of this before. What you’ve failed to mention is why I didn’t.”
He seemed to flounder in his search for words. All of the blood drained from my face as the reason he would withhold such pertinent information floated up.
“It’s still a possibility,” I asked almost soundlessly. Suddenly, maintaining my gaze seemed impossible for him. “Is that the real reason you’ve been spending so much time with me? All of the lunches? The outings? Keeping me caged here? You were keeping tabs on me!” My voice rose with each accusation.
“No! No, Sara, that’s not why. If I truly thought you were a danger to yourself or anyone else then…” he trailed off and I guessed the rest.
“You wouldn’t have slowed down when you hit me on the road.”
Despite the faint light, Michael was starting to look a little green around the gills. “You’re here, because I don’t want him anywhere near you,” he said softly.
I was at a total loss as to what to say to that, so I set my mug down and leaned back into the cushy embrace of the couch. "I guess it's too late to worry about it now, right? I’ll either eventually go off the deep end or I won’t.” The sardonic comment was maybe a hair melodramatic. “Is this a risk for all weres?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation back on track.
He looked up hopeful. “Yes. Certain weres are more susceptible to it, but it’s a reality that all of us face. Enduring something that traumatizing every month takes a toll; not everyone can manage it.”
I nodded my understanding. "So, what's our guy's deal?"
"From what I’ve been told, there was an upheaval in a northern pack. I don't know the full story there, but the gist of it is that some of the members split and started to go after humans. You need to understand, even if they hadn’t murdered innocent people, they risked exposing the pack, exposing all werewolves. That alone is a crime punishable by death.” He paused to make sure I grasped the gravity of his words.
It wasn’t like I had any intention of going after humans and I definitely didn’t plan to out myself as a werewolf to rest of the world—not on purpose anyway. I swallowed thickly and nodded again.
“Naturally,” he continued, “the pack devoted all of their efforts to hunting them down. Unfortunately, several people were slaughtered before they could put a stop to it.”
His word choice brought to mind horror movies of people being attacked by wild animals and mauled to death. Layered over the imagery was my own indistinct memory of blood and pain. I gave an involuntary shudder.
“One of the rebels was found attacking a group of humans. News reports say they were homeless, but the truth is unclear. The only thing that was clear from the report, was the massacre that was left behind. What police didn’t know was that the pack was able to catch the rogue and one survivor.”
“So our guy is the rebel?” I asked, a little confused at the twists in this tale.
He shook his head. “The rebel was sentenced to death for his crimes.” I swallowed hard at the finality in his voice. “I know it sounds harsh, but werewolf justice has to be swift and merciless by necessity. Packs can’t risk exposure and mutiny is never tolerated.”
I grabbed a folded blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around myself. But the cold I felt was deeper than even the thick fabric could touch.
Michael rolled his empty mug between the palms of his hand. “Anyway, they nursed the survivor back to health. As you know, that didn’t take long and by that point, there was nothing else to do but wait for the full moon to see if he would change.”
“Obviously, he turned,” I interrupted from my cocoon.
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Honestly, everyone always believed the tales of turned weres were nothing more than ghost stories. No one really knew if he would change or not.” Michael paused. His gaze flicked up to me and back down again.
I heard what he wasn’t saying.
“They thought he’d die.”
He nodded sadly. “Until then, he was welcomed into their society much as any were. He seemed to get along well enough, though he did have volatile outbursts that grew more frequent as the moon approached. Again, that wasn’t wholly unheard of, but with him being bitten not born, they weren’t sure if that was the normal-they-knew or something they should be concerned about.”
“Clearly it was the latter.”
His eyebrows rose in silent agreement. “By the time they found out, it was too late. The night he changed, he slaughtered ten weres, including women and pups barely old enough to change. In the chaos, he was able to escape. They hunted him for weeks until he passed out of their territory. Since then, he’s been plaguing the east coast, never staying in one place longer than it takes to kill.”
“How do you know any of this?” My voice sounded hollow even to my ears.
“The second he crossed territory lines other packs were notified. The Vermont pack shared every bit of information they had about him, which arguably wasn’t much.”
“Why haven’t the police been more involved? This is the first I’ve heard about a
serial killer on the east coast.”
Michael’s gaze was steady as he met mine. “Do you normally follow animal killings?”
My jaw dropped. It wasn’t possible that no one hadn’t noticed anything. Then again, the EMTs had asked me about a dog, not a monster.
“As far as anyone can tell, this is the longest he’s stayed in one place and the closest we’ve come.”
My voice shook as I asked the only question that really mattered, “Why me?”
“It’s been suggested that he might have been killing long before he was a were, that maybe he didn’t snap, but was always this way. The were-gene only emphasized what was already there. If that’s true, then it’s likely his MO has stayed the same. And his targets,” he added quietly.
The cold reached deeper to freeze my core. I would have given almost anything for Michael not to continue.
“He typically targets young, single women without any apparent connections.”
I shook my head, desperate to deny what he was saying.
“You’re the only one to survive,” Michael whispered.
The world around me fractured. “I’ll never escape that night, will I? Not ever. It wasn’t random, he came for me. And he’s going to keep coming and coming until I’m dead, ripped apart and bleeding out.” I choked back a sob. Thankfully, Michael didn’t try to comfort me, I doubted I could’ve handled anyone’s touch at that moment. Gradually, I pulled myself out of the downward spiral, fighting tooth and nail to focus on my current state of safety. Finally, I asked, “How did you know to be there that night?”
The look on his face said it all.
“You didn’t,” I answered for him.
The guilt on his face deepened. “I’d picked up his scent a few days before near the office and had been tracking him.”
“How did you do that?” I may have had plenty of practice identifying people I could see, but nothing like what he was suggesting.
“Previous packs have managed to collect samples like scraps of clothing. The pieces have been spread around so anyone would be able to sniff him out. When a report came in of a similar attack in Wilmington, I was sent a piece.” He gestured to the table that held the mail I’d sifted through what felt like a lifetime ago. “Once I recognized the stench, I started tracking him. I’m so sorry I didn’t get there sooner, Sara. If I hadn’t wasted so much time trying to figure out where he was staying, I could’ve realized that he wasn’t wandering aimlessly and the scent by the office wasn’t a coincidence—he was stalking his prey.”
