by Naomi Clark
Published by EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ® at Smashwords
www.evernightpublishing.com
Copyright© 2020 Naomi Clark
ISBN: 978-0-3695-0177-6
Cover Artist: Jay Aheer
Editor: Melissa Hosack
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
For Grandad. I’m glad I got to see you one more time.
THE WITCH’S GUIDE TO WEREWOLVES
Naomi Clark
Copyright © 2020
Chapter One
The New Moon in Scorpio was a perfect time to let go of grudges and make peace with negative feelings, and that was why Callie McIntyre was alone in the Blackhurst woods on a frosty, foggy night in late October.
Earlier that evening, she’d written a list of things she wanted to let go of in red ink, and burnt the list using a red candle, whispering her intentions to the autumn night. Sometimes when she cast this spell, the list was huge, seemingly endless, full of bad habits, unkind thoughts, useless feelings. This time, there was just one item on the list. One name, actually.
Melissa.
It felt strange, almost a betrayal, even six months after they’d broken up. But Callie was ready to move on at last, as Melissa had already done a long time before the break-up, and now here she was, walking through the shadow-heavy woods and breathing in the darkness with a lightness in her spirit that had been missing for some time. Dead leaves crunched under her boots, the trees reminding her that it was natural to let go.
The sky was thick with iron-gray clouds, and fog rolled through the woods, obscuring the trail, but Callie had been wandering through these trees all her life, and with her flashlight in hand, she was sure-footed and confident. There was an old well about another twenty minutes’ walk from here, the last relic of the long-gone settlement that had become Blackhurst town. Callie planned to hike that far and spend a little time at the well, soaking up that vibrant new moon energy and breathe out that release, really tell the moon and herself that her relationship was over.
Melissa had been her first … everything. First kiss, first love, first heartbreak. Three years together. Callie had been thinking forever. Melissa had been thinking for now. She’d explained it gently enough, clearly struggling to express the feelings that must have been churning inside her for months, but the words were still jagged, cutting away at Callie and her sense of how her life worked.
I just think … I need someone a bit more … I just figured you’d grow out of this … stuff, you know? Mature, get ambitious.
Callie frowned at an oak tree, running her fingers over the gnarled trunk as she passed. This stuff was the witchy stuff, of course. Casting spells with candles, telling the moon her hopes and plans, keeping citrine by the cash register at work to attract prosperity to her little shop. Stuff that her mother and grandmother, and all the women of the McIntyre family, had been doing for generations. Little magics, sure, but they were in her blood. The realization that Melissa saw it as immature and pointless had been a cold shock.
In the wake of the break-up, Callie had wondered if it was time to put the tarot cards away, but once the initial grief had passed, she realized that giving up such an integral part of herself wouldn’t have fixed anything. She’d have been miserable, she’d have blamed Melissa, and they would have split anyway. It had been a tough lesson to come to terms with, but now, out in the woods with the wind whispering through her hair and that Scorpio new moon pulsing through the sky, she felt at peace with it. Melissa had moved on, and that was the right thing for them both. Callie would do the same.
The night-time song of the woods surrounded her as she hiked the well-worn trail to the well. Bats flittered overhead, their wings making whispery-snaps in the air. A fox cried somewhere nearby, and countless invisible creatures rustled in the bushes and trees. The dry, fresh scent of dead, wet leaves perfumed the air. Callie could pretend she was the only human alive on nights like this. The town was far enough away that no sounds of civilization pierced the trees, and she could imagine that she was an elven princess or a fairytale witch, powerful, serene, and untouchable.
By the time she reached the wide circle of white spruce trees that marked the old settlement boundary, that sense of serenity had become real, seeping into her heart and bones, and she felt almost airy as she stepped past the trees. After she was done here, she’d head to Aroma Mocha and grab a coffee and a slice of cake before she went home. The café stayed open until midnight, and she often daydreamed away an evening there, listening to gentle, rainy-day jazz and doodling or scribbling in her journal. It was a Friday night, and she tended to open her shop up late on Saturdays, so there was no rush to get home…
She stopped, one hand resting on a nearby tree trunk, as an alien sound interrupted her happy chain of thoughts. This was not an owl or a fox, or any of the night-time creatures she was used to sharing the woods with. This was a distinctly human sound. The sound of a human crying, to be very precise.
Callie held her breath, caution warring with compassion inside her. If someone was hurt, she wanted to help. But then again, what kind of person might be lurking in the woods this late at night, on a cold October evening, in such a remote and isolated spot?
Well, Callie’s mind said reasonably, a person like you, for one.
Fair enough, Callie conceded.
Besides, that sobbing could surely not be coming from anyone dangerous. It was the kind of ugly, gasping, broken crying that a person gave their whole heart to. It was the kind of wretched weeping that bloomed from utter despair or pure heartbreak. Callie had done her share of that kind of ugly crying in the past few months. It wasn’t in her to ignore it here.
“Hello,” she called out, taking a step forward. “Are you okay?”
The crying turned into a muffled gasp.
Callie shone her flashlight around the clearing. The shadows fell thickly here, thanks to the tall ring of trees, and although she could just about make out the silhouette of the old well, everything else was obscured by fog and darkness. She couldn’t see anybody out there, so they were either hidden in the trees ahead, or maybe sitting on the other side of the well.
“Hello,” she tried again. “If you’re hurt or you need help…”
“I’m fine,” a woman said, against all the apparent evidence. Her voice was raw and hoarse, shaking. “Go away.”
It wasn’t in Callie’s nature to intrude where she wasn’t welcome, and for a second, she almost turned around and walked away. But she hesitated when the woman sobbed again, that naked grief calling to her like the moon to the ocean. How could she abandon someone to such intense misery?
Wetting her lips, she stepped toward the well instead. “If it’s all the same to you,” she said, trying to sound cheerful and nonchalant, “I’m just going to rest here a bit. It’s a long walk up here.”
There was silence, heavy with contemplation. “I can’t stop you, I guess,” the woman said with obvious regret.
Feeling nervous, Callie perched on the edge of the well, gripping the cold stone hard. Dampness chilled her fingers, sending bracing energy through her. She lifted her face to the sky, searching for any gaps in the cloud, any glimpse of the stars. S
he tried to think of something to say, something kind, but not prying. It was surprisingly hard.
“Are you hungry?” she heard herself asking instead, to her mortification. “I’ve got some yogurt-covered cranberries in my bag.”
The woman laughed, a surprised burble of a sound that made Callie flush. “Yeah, okay,” she said after a second. “I haven’t eaten since … I don’t know. What time is it?”
Callie checked her watch with the flashlight. “Nine-thirty.”
“God,” the woman said softly, wistfully.
Callie heard twigs snap as she stood up, and she craned her neck around to get a look at the mystery woman. She kept her flashlight pointed at the ground, not wanting to blind her, and that meant all she could really see was a shadow, tall and lean.
She sat down next to Callie, keeping a polite distance between them, and scrubbed at her face with her jacket sleeve. “Never had yogurt-covered cranberries,” she said.
Callie fumbled in her bag for the tin. “I used to make them with my mom when I was a kid. It’s always been my favorite comfort food.” She popped the lid and held the tin out.
The woman took a couple and they sat in silence for a few minutes, a sort of awkward companionship forming. Callie was acutely aware of it. The woman wasn’t crying anymore, but sadness radiated off her, and Callie didn’t think the cranberries were going to help. She still hadn’t thought of anything useful to say though, and decided the silence was better.
“These are nice,” the woman said eventually, a little shyness in her voice.
“I bought them,” Callie admitted. “I haven’t really felt like making things lately.” She bit her lip, immediately regretting the words. She wasn’t trying to make this about her pain, not when she’d worked so hard to let it go, not when tonight was supposed to be about her happiness, and not when the other woman’s pain was so much more intense and immediate.
But some old hurt must have slipped into her voice, because the woman asked, “Why?” And there was something slightly relieved in the question, as if she was hunting for a distraction from her misery and Callie had provided it.
“Oh.” Callie flexed her feet and stared up at the sky again. The clouds had parted, just a sliver, and she thought she could make out the Big Dipper. “My girlfriend and I broke up about six months ago. I … I probably wallowed in misery about it longer than I should have.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “A break-up is a kind of bereavement, I guess. You shouldn’t feel bad about feeling bad.”
Callie stole a glance at her, now able to see that her hair was dark and cut short, messy, as if she’d been clawing at it constantly. Her nose was crooked, broken once probably. It gave her profile a quirk, a charm.
“I’m done feeling bad now,” Callie said, pleased to find it was true. “Maybe I’ll make my own yogurt cranberries tomorrow.”
It was a lame joke, but it drew a brief, flickering smile from the woman. “You should. Get back to normal. Normal is underrated.” Bitterness spiked her words.
Feeling a little bolder now that they’d had a proper conversation, Callie took a risk. “How about you? What’s … all this?” She waved her hands around the clearing vaguely.
“Christ.” The woman pinched the bridge of her nose and laughed wildly. “You’d never believe it, trust me.”
“Try me,” Callie said brightly. She was open-minded, always had been. You didn’t fill jars with nails and sea salt and bury them in your garden if you weren’t open-minded about the results.
The woman inhaled, sharp and rough, and balled her hands into fists. She shook her head, and then laughed again. “Why not?” she muttered, more to herself than Callie. “The worst has already happened.”
Unconsciously, Callie shifted closer to her. The wind whipped through the spruces, whistling between them and sending an icy chill down her spine. She was suddenly hyper-aware of the night, of the power of the new moon riding high and invisible overhead. Scorpio was a dark sign, mysterious and intense, symbolic of death and rebirth, transformation. A prescient tingle swept through Callie, and for a heartbeat, she wasn’t sure if she was afraid or excited, or why she would be either one.
The woman took another deep breath and stared upward. When she spoke, her voice was carefully devoid of emotion. It made her words that much heavier, and they fell into the night like rocks dropping down the well.
“I was attacked by a werewolf a week ago, and I think I’m going to become one myself, and frankly I am completely unequipped to deal with that.”
Chapter Two
Callie believed a lot of things. She believed in saluting a solitary magpie to ward off bad luck. She believed wearing jasmine and frankincense perfume boosted creativity. She believed making a good pot of real tea was a ritual in its own right, and she believed magic was real and houses could be haunted, and that there were hundreds, if not thousands of things in the universe that she didn’t and wouldn’t ever touch with her own hands, and that they were no less real for that.
Callie had never met a werewolf, but that didn’t mean werewolves weren’t real. And what mattered more than that, was that this woman very clearly believed they were real.
“That’s awful,” she said. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The woman gave her a little sideways glance, as if checking Callie for signs of mockery. Callie held her gaze openly. She knew how it was when people were humoring you. The little signs, the eye rolls when they thought you weren’t paying attention. Whatever she might think about the woman’s dramatic declaration, she wasn’t going to do that. She wouldn’t make her regret confiding.
“I can’t … I can’t talk about it,” the woman said, raking her hands through her hair. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s crazy. It’s all crazy.” Her voice broke, and she started crying again, doubling over while great, wretched sobs wracked her body.
Stricken, Callie leapt up, knocking her bag of yogurt cranberries into the well. “Don’t cry!” she said stupidly—people always said that when crying was the only thing you could do, didn’t they? “Let’s… Come with me! Let’s go for coffee. Take your mind off it.”
“Take my mind off it?” the woman echoed hysterically. “That’s a little optimistic, don’t you think?”
“Well…” Callie trailed off, feeling stupider with every passing second. “I am a Libra.”
To her surprise—and relief—the woman gave a real laugh. It was brief, but held a lightness that made Callie’s toes tingle. “I’m a Gemini,” she said. “Okay, sure. Let’s go for a fucking coffee. Maybe it’ll help.”
“It can’t hurt,” Callie said hopefully. She offered the woman her hand. “Callie McIntyre.”
“Devon Miller,” the woman said, taking her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
She didn’t sound like she meant it. Callie guessed, under the circumstances, she couldn’t blame Devon for that. But she couldn’t help hoping the other woman might warm up to her.
****
After her own second-hand book store, Aroma Mocha was Callie’s favorite place in Blackhurst. The coffee shop was conveniently right next door to McIntyre Books, and the apartment over it that Callie lived in, and on busy days, sometimes it was the only other place she visited. Croissants and a mocha for breakfast, and a grilled cheese sandwich with a vanilla latte for dinner. A bad, delicious habit.
It was almost eleven o’clock by the time she arrived there with Devon, but Aroma Mocha was open and welcoming still, the alluring voice of Nina Simone playing low on the speakers and the intense scent of fresh coffee beans in the air.
Callie stole a nervous glance at Devon as they entered, trying to assess her state of mind. She’d always thought there was no problem a good coffee and a slice of cake couldn’t fix, but then again, she’d never been attacked by a werewolf.
Their journey here had been mostly silent. They’d talked a
little on the hike out of the woods, mostly things like, “watch out for that branch,” and “was that an owl?” Once in Callie’s car, Devon had rested her head against the window and closed her eyes. Not asleep, but shut off. Callie hadn’t tried to disturb her.
Instead she’d thought about what she should do with this woman who’d plainly undergone some trauma. Callie prided herself on being an empathic, good listener, but that really wasn’t going to be enough here. Should she be taking Devon to the police or hospital instead?
But Devon hadn’t asked for that, and even though she was obviously in distress, she didn’t seem physically hurt. She’d handled the hike without problems—she seemed more confident in the woods than Callie felt, even.
Maybe that was a sign she was a werewolf?
In the end, Callie decided it wasn’t her place to make those choices. Devon had agreed to come to Aroma Mocha, so that was where they went. And now that they were here, enveloped by warmth and music, Callie found herself checking Devon for some silent sign that this was the right place to be.
Devon’s shoulders were stiff, her jaw clenched as she looked around, but her posture softened when she saw how empty the place was. Apart from the two baristas, and a middle-aged man reading in a far corner, they were the only people here.
“It’s always quiet at this time of night,” Callie said, heading for the counter. “I sometimes think they only stay open for me.”
“We’re only in business because of you,” one of the baristas, Dipak, joked. “Vanilla latte?”
“Am I that predictable?” she asked him, as she always did.
“Consistent,” he said, as he always did, reaching for the bottle of vanilla syrup.
“Vanilla latte it is. And a gingerbread muffin,” she added, scanning the cakes left on the counter. “And whatever Devon here is having, too.”
