by Naomi Clark
Still, it was very nice to be pressed this close to Devon, who smelled even better than Aroma Mocha, and felt warm and … safe, somehow.
“Well,” Martha said. And then, “well,” again. “You two look adorable together.”
“Thank you,” Callie said. “We need to hurry though. We’ve got somewhere to be. It was nice seeing you again, Martha.”
Devon gave Martha a cheery wave as they swung toward Callie’s car. She kept her arm around Callie’s waist until they reached it, a position that Callie normally found awkward to walk in, but that with Devon felt nice and easy.
“Who was that?” Devon asked once they were in the car.
Callie fiddled with her rearview mirror, trying to decide how she felt. On the one hand, she was annoyed at being ambushed by Martha, but on the other, she was giddy at how Devon had come to her rescue. And then again, on the other other hand, she was scolding herself for getting giddy when Devon had such huge problems on her plate that Callie was supposed to be helping her sort out.
“A friend of my ex’s,” she said. “She thrives on drama. I don’t know why Melissa is even friends with her.”
Devon fell silent, toying with her necklace, a delicate silver dragonfly. Just when the silence had stretched out long enough to be uncomfortable, she asked casually, “You and your ex … was it a bad break-up?”
Callie thought about it as she plugged Noah’s address into her sat-nav. “It wasn’t great,” she admitted. “I wasn’t expecting it, and it really knocked my self-confidence for a while. But now that there’s some distance from it all, I think … I think it was for the best.”
She was happy to realize she meant that, and found herself smiling at Devon. She was even happier to see Devon smile back, soft and thoughtful.
“Good,” Devon said. “I mean, good for you, you know.”
Callie beamed, heart lifting. “Onward and upward,” she said. “Let’s go!”
Chapter Four
The drive to Noah’s lasted about an hour, and Callie guiltily found herself wishing it lasted a lot longer. Devon’s polite request to put the radio on led them to discovering they had a lot in common musically, which in turn led them onto books and movies. Devon thought it was fantastic that Callie ran a bookshop; Callie was slightly overawed by Devon’s encyclopedic knowledge of trashy B-movies.
“There can’t possibly be a movie called The Dolphin Women from Planet X. You’re making that one up,” she insisted.
“I’ll show it to you!” Devon laughed. “I’ll bring it over, we’ll get some popcorn…” She trailed off, suddenly looking wistful. “Assuming I don’t become a Wolf Woman from Planet Earth, I mean.”
“We can watch it even if you do,” Callie said. “I mean, if you do want to. You don’t have to. You know. But we could. Either way.”
“I’d like to,” Devon said.
But her expression was haunted, and it was hard for Callie to find any joy in her words. So she stayed quiet. They were almost at Noah’s anyway, and a somber mood felt more appropriate now.
There was a shroud of melancholy hanging around Noah’s boxy little house. The small lawn out the front was unkempt, piled high with dead, curling leaves. The windows were smeared with dirt and grease, and there was a stack of damp, ignored mail by the front door, things too big to fit through the mail slot. That, more than the other things, alarmed Callie. A dead lawn in October was understandable, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d cleaned her own apartment windows. But the stack of mail might mean Noah was away, and had been for some time.
Or that he was inside and not coming out … for some reason.
She and Devon stood on the front porch, tension bouncing between them. The street was quiet, which didn’t help. The only sound was cold wind whipping up the dead leaves, sending them whirling around the women’s heads. It felt like the world was holding its breath, and Callie was nervous about what would happen when it exhaled.
“Well,” Devon said after a long, heavy silence. “We should knock or something.”
“Right,” Callie agreed.
Neither of them moved. Callie stared again at the pile of mail, picturing a corpse inside the house, sprawled across the bathroom floor, or propped up at the dining table, decaying in solitude as the rest of the world kept on spinning, cheerfully oblivious. She swallowed the ghoulish image and marched to the door. They’d come this far—it would be stupid to back off now. She rang the bell, wincing at the shrill squeal that answered her.
“That’s loud enough to wake the dead at least,” she said.
Devon was unamused. “Don’t even joke about that.”
Callie winced again. “Sorry.”
Nobody answered the door, so after a couple of minutes, Callie bent down to peer through the mail slot. She couldn’t see much except a dimly-lit hallway, but she could smell something that gave her hope—the unmistakable and irresistible scent of bacon sizzling in butter.
“Noah!” she called through the slot. “We know you’re in there.” Then, worried that sounded threatening, she added, “And we’d love it if you came and spoke to us, please.”
“Is he there?” Devon asked, kneeling down to try to look through the slot herself. “Did you see him?”
“I can smell bacon,” Callie said. Her head was suddenly pressed against Devon’s. If either of them turned, they could kiss. The thought was fascinating and sent a warm wave through her from head to toe.
Devon bashed her fist on the door. “Noah! It’s Devon! Open up!”
For a second there was no response. Then a man called back, “I’m not coming out! I’m not speaking to you! Leave me alone!”
There was a world of anguish and fear in the words. Callie could almost taste it, bitter and sour in the air. Empathy welled in her, but really, his answer wasn’t good enough.
“Noah, come on,” she called, kneeling down as well now. Her back was starting to stiffen up from being bent over. “Whatever’s happening, we can deal with it together.”
“There’s nothing to deal with!” There was an edge of desperation in his voice now. “Just go away. Leave me alone.”
“I can’t,” Devon said. Her own voice fell low, loaded with anguish of her own. “You know I can’t, Noah. You owe me. You know you do.”
There was a crash from inside, followed by a string of curses.
Callie and Devon both stood, backing off from the door.
“Do you think he’s coming out?” Callie whispered.
“If he isn’t, I’m breaking in,” Devon said grimly.
Callie had a breathless moment to imagine Devon breaking the door down with her bare hands, full of wild, werewolf strength. And then the door opened, which was almost disappointing. Noah—assuming it was him—stood in the doorway, sucking one finger, his expression pained and guarded. He was slight and baby-faced, his round glasses and pale hair giving him the look of an adolescent owl.
He locked eyes with Devon, and if there had been tension in the air before, now it was electric, like the aftermath of a lightning bolt. Fear and anger zipped between them both, and they trembled, poised to either fight or flee. It took all of Callie’s nerve to step between them, but it felt like the only way to diffuse the skyrocketing pressure.
“Hi,” she said brightly to Noah. “You must be Noah.”
He broke eye contact with Devon to glare at her. He wasn’t intimidating, Callie thought. Or at least, he wouldn’t be, normally. She was a little taller than him, and she was pretty sure she’d win an arm-wrestling contest with him. But somehow, despite his unassuming appearance, he was intimidating. Hot, snarling energy poured off him, making Callie’s skin itch. She wanted, desperately, to step back and put some distance between them, but her instincts screamed to hold her ground.
Don’t give him something to chase.
“Who are you?” he asked, taking his finger out of his mouth. It
looked badly burnt.
“I’m Callie. You know Devon, obviously. Can we come in? What happened? Did you drop your frying pan or something? Sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you, but we really need to talk to you, and there’s no time like the present, is there?”
She kept up the babble, edging carefully forward the whole time, and was relieved when he started shuffling back in response, until all three of them were inside the house.
Devon stuck close to Callie’s back, and the same heat rolled off her. But from Devon, it wasn’t scary. It was reassuring.
Noah’s little hallway was just big enough to hold a side table covered with unopened envelopes and a couple of garbage bags. Callie dragged her finger across the table surface, grimacing at the coating of grime she came away with. Noah was functioning, but barely, that was clear. It made it harder to be angry with him.
Still, it wasn’t her place to be angry with him or not. She shifted aside a little, letting Devon step forward.
“You need to tell me exactly what happened that day,” Devon told him, her tone broking no argument. “And then you need to tell me exactly why, and exactly what the hell is going to happen to me.”
For a second, Noah looked like he was going to argue, and Callie tensed. Then he sort of slumped in on himself, all the fight in him collapsing into sullen resignation.
“I can’t help you,” he muttered, staring at the floor.
“You can help me a damn sight more by talking than by hiding,” Devon said.
Unable to meet her eyes, he nodded and started sucking his burnt finger again. Without another word, he turned and skulked into the kitchen.
The women followed, Callie a little breathless over how stern and assertive Devon was.
If she did become a werewolf, she’d be a great werewolf.
Probably better not to say that to her, though.
The kitchen was a mess, beer bottles and empty pizza boxes stacked up on the side, the sink full of dirty plates. A frying pan lay on the floor, the bacon and melted butter spattered on the pale green tiles in a vaguely modern art style. Noah knelt to scoop up the ruined bacon with the frying pan.
“This is the first time I’ve tried to cook in days,” he said, half-apologetic, half-accusing.
“Sorry,” Devon said, obviously not.
He mumbled something inaudible and continued attempting to flip the limp, greasy bacon back into the pan. After about thirty seconds, Callie was about to self-combust with second-hand embarrassment, and she shooed him out of the way.
“You talk to Devon. I’ll do that,” she said.
His feeble noise of protested died under Devon’s stony glare, and he went to sit at the kitchen table with Devon.
Callie raided his cupboard for cleaning supplies, wanting to be as unobtrusive as possible while he talked. Right now, he seemed more like a skittish rabbit than a fearsome wolf, and having two pairs of eyes on him might just clam him up.
But she was also careful to keep the frying pan close at hand while she cleaned, just in case the rabbit turned savage.
Chapter Five
When Noah started talking, it almost seemed to be a relief to him, a great unburdening. Callie could almost see the darkness leaving him with every word of his bizarre story.
“My Grandpa Blakesley always said the Blakesley men were cursed. My mom said he had PTSD from Vietnam, though, and that I wasn’t allowed to ask him about it. But I remember … every time we went to visit him, he’d be sitting by the fire in this old rocking chair, chewing tobacco. He’d look at me like he wasn’t really sure who I was, and then he’d ask my parents if the curse had hit me yet.”
“Did he ever say what the curse was?” Devon asked.
He shrugged. “My dad used to joke he meant puberty, but if I asked Grandpa—or anyone—what he really meant, my mom would just hush everyone up and say he had PTSD and that we shouldn’t encourage him. Then when I was about twelve, we moved away for my dad’s job, and I didn’t see Grandpa Blakesley anymore. We’d speak to him on the phone every so often, but as he got older, he just got weirder and meaner, and eventually Mom didn’t want any contact with him. They’d argue every time they spoke, I remember.” His voice softened, eyes unfocused. “I think they were arguing about this curse, now. I remember believing there must be something, for him to be so persistent about it my whole life.”
Callie emptied the sink of dirty plates and filled it with warm, soapy water, wishing she had a little rosemary essential oil to add to it. It was good for both cleansing and protection, and she felt like Noah’s house needed a good dose of both—as did Noah.
“And the curse turned out to be…” Devon prompted when he fell silent.
“Nothing, for a long time.” Noah shrugged. “I drove myself mad waiting for something to happen to me. Premature baldness. Schizophrenia. And when nothing happened, I started looking for things to happen. Was I drinking too much? Did I have an undiagnosed heart defect? A weird sexual predilection? I must have driven my doctor mad. I was there two or three times a month demanding blood tests and sperm counts and whatever else he could give me.”
Callie couldn’t help laughing a little at that, but he gave her a reproachful look and she turned her attention back to the mac-and-cheese encrusted plates.
“Do you know what it’s like, just waiting for something terrible to happen to you?” he demanded.
“I’m starting to get it, yeah,” Devon said drily.
Noah swallowed nervously. “Well. Last year, something finally happened. It happened. I didn’t understand at first. I thought maybe it was a mental breakdown, because I had these long memory gaps, and some weird dreams—at least, I thought they were dreams—and I was finding things … tears in my clothes, bloodstains on my boots, a chicken one time…”
“In your boots?” Callie asked before she could stop herself.
Both Devon and Noah ignored her. “What did you do?” Devon asked, her voice hoarse with nerves.
“I called Grandpa Blakesley. I asked him what the curse was. And he laughed and laughed, and said about damn time, and said I should come and see him. So I went.” Noah rubbed his nose.
“And what did he say?” Devon asked, gripping the table hard enough to make the wood creak. “Goddammit, Noah—”
“He didn’t say anything, because he died of a heart attack the same day I spoke to him,” Noah said flatly. He looked up, meeting Devon’s eyes for the first time. “So I can’t help you, because I don’t know anything. I just know … it happens. And when it happens, sometimes I remember it, but sometimes I don’t. And I don’t know when it’s going to happen. I didn’t bite you on purpose, Devon, I swear, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart, I really am, but I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know if you’ll be like me. I don’t know anything useful. I never have.”
For a long, bleak moment, there was silence in the kitchen. Devon’s face fell into despair, and she clawed at her hair, looking as though she was fighting not to claw at Noah. He sat stock still, misery chewing him up.
Callie couldn’t let them both sit there like that. She set down the glass she was scrubbing and dried her hands off, trying not to think about the stains on the tea towel. “But you do know some useful things,” she told Noah. “You just don’t know they’re useful.”
He frowned at her, adjusting his glasses. “Like what?”
“Well, for example… When did you first change? Was it a full moon or a new moon? Are you … allergic to anything now that you weren’t before? Are you craving raw meat?”
“Why would any of that matter?” he asked, exasperated.
“Because it can tell us what to look out for with Devon. If you changed for the first time at a full moon, for example, that means we’ve got roughly two weeks before Devon might change. If you suddenly wanted raw steak when you never did before, we look for changes in appetite. If you’re allergic
to silver or whatever, maybe that’s a sign too. Get it?” Callie asked them both, hoping she was right.
There had to be something, after all. Changing from a man into a wolf had to have some symptoms or warning signs, surely?
Or maybe not. They were talking magic here. Big magic, world-changing magic that went way beyond burning red candles for courage or keeping amethyst under your pillow when you couldn’t sleep. Maybe the kind of magic that turned man into wolf struck like lightning, without warning.
Oh, but even lightning had signs, didn’t it? Callie sighed. She was confusing herself and that wasn’t going to help anyone.
“Callie’s right,” Devon said slowly. “There must have been something, surely? Even just the moon thing. Werewolves and moons, that’s a thing, right?”
“I don’t know what kind of moon there was,” Noah said. “I had other things on my mind.”
“Well, can you remember the date at least?” Callie asked, pulling out her phone. She had an app that told her what phase the moon was in every day, to help her plan her spells.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his head. “Early September? No, not that early. I don’t know, maybe mid-September?”
Callie consulted her app. “It could have been a full moon, then. The Harvest Moon, even!”
“Is that significant?” Devon asked.
“Oh, well. Probably not. It’s just a nice, big moon,” Callie said. “The November full moon is called the Beaver Moon. That’s because… Well, never mind,” she finished, realizing it absolutely didn’t matter. “Okay, so let’s work on the theory that your first change happened on a full moon. That’s one useful thing we now know. Does it always happen at night?”
Noah nodded, then shook his head, then just shrugged. “I guess so? Dark, at least. It was dark when it happened with you, right, Devon?”
“It was dusk,” she agreed. “What about anything else? Bad moods, stress, anything like that?”
