Digging the Wolf: a paranormal romance (Werewolves of Crookshollow Book 1)

by Steffanie Holmes

  I blinked away my tears. I was a wreck. I needed to sort myself out, figure out what I wanted. And I needed to do it away from the trees and the birds and everything that screamed Ben’s name.

  At least I had this trip to town to look forward to. I told myself I didn’t want to be on the stupid news anyway, watching Ruth smirking and preening for the camera. Instead, I would take my sweet time, enjoy a long shower and a real coffee and a Cornish pasty and take a little sojourn from the mud and the cold. I lowered myself into my Mini, and turned the ignition. The tiny car spluttered to life, and I turned it onto the dirt track that met up with the main road.

  After five miles of bouncing like a milkshake in the yard, I met up with the road. There was a couple on a motorbike in front of me, but they pulled over so I could putter past. I waved at them in thanks. The driver – a handsome man with long black hair streaming out behind him – didn’t acknowledge me, but the Asian girl sitting behind him gave me a friendly wave and a smile through her visor.

  The drive back into Crookshollow took me nearly an hour. I was thoroughly sick of being in the car, and it was still another twenty minutes to Crooks Crossing, where my mother’s flat was. I had an idea. My closest university friend, Derek, lived in a flat in Crookshollow. He was studying English mythology as part of his English and History degree. He’d have a shower and a computer I could use, and if anyone knew anything about werewolves, then it would be him.

  Crookshollow had this reputation of being the most occult village in England. Apparently, more witches had been hung there during the seventeenth and eighteenth-18th centuries than anywhere else in the country. I wasn’t sure that was something to be proud of, but the town embraced its sordid history. On the way to Derek’s place I drove down the high street, past crystal shops and signs advertising tarot readings. At the end of the street, the gleaming Halt Institute towered over the surrounding buildings – a modern architectural monstrosity that housed the witchcraft museum, an art gallery, and a few local fashion boutiques.

  Derek’s car wasn’t parked on the street outside his flat, but that wasn’t unusual – sometimes he had to park around the corner if all the spaces were taken. I knocked on the door. No one answered. Odd. He wouldn’t usually be at university this early. Derek wasn’t a functioning human until at least 2pm, mostly because he stayed up until all hours of the night gaming. I did tend to attract geeky friends.

  I banged on the door, hoping to wake him up. I should’ve called first. It had never even occurred to me. After two weeks in the forest with no reception, I was getting used to not being able to contact people via my mobile. If it was good enough for neolithic hunter gatherers, then I could survive for a few short weeks.

  Finally the door swung open. Rodney, Derek’s flatmate, scowled at me, his eyes heavy with sleep. A towel was wrapped around his hips, and his hair stuck out at all angles.

  “Derek’s not here,” he snapped at me. “He’s gone to see his parents for a couple of days, to work on that family history project of his.”

  “Oh, sorry.” I stepped back. “Did he take his mobile with him?”

  “Probably.” Rodney yelled back as he slammed the door in my face. “You really smell!”

  “Thank you!”

  So Derek wouldn’t be any help until he got back. That was OK. Derek had already been a huge help to me. I’d leaned on him pretty heavily after Ben died, mainly because I couldn’t talk to Mum in her catatonic state. I spent so many nights at his flat, sleeping in his arms, sobbing into his pillow. Derek had been nothing but kind to me, and I must’ve been confusing him by clinging to him the way I had.

  He kissed me one night, while he was holding me in bed. I kissed him back, even though I felt nothing for him romantically. It was just comforting to be wanted again, after losing someone who meant so much to me. But it was wrong to lead Derek on, so I pulled away. He confessed he had feelings for me. I told him I only saw him as a friend. We hugged and I cried some more and things had been mostly fine ever since. Sometimes I’d catch him looking at me a certain way, and I knew he still had a few lingering feelings, but he was actively dating and I hoped he’d soon meet someone who would rock his world. He deserved it. Derek was a good dude.

  But him not being home put me in the unfortunate position of having to get back in the car and drive to my mum’s flat if I wanted a shower.

  I wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing my mum. I’d been living with her in our tiny flat ever since Dad died. We got on well most of the time, but she relied on me heavily, always wanting me to cook and clean and spend my weekends with her. She was the reason I’d given up my place at Cambridge to stay in Loamshire. The rare times I left her alone for a couple of days, I’d come home to find her weeping on the sofa, Dad’s photo album open on her lap. But those occasions were getting rarer now.

  In the last year she’d started taking art classes at the Halt Institute and going out to coffee with friends. I was starting to hope that I could leave her alone and do my postgraduate studies somewhere else. Ben had even encouraged me to apply to Cambridge. But then he’d gone and died, and she’d reverted back to her old ways.

  In many ways, Mum had taken Ben’s death harder than me. She seemed to regard it as a curse, a vicious cycle she’d brought on just by existing. She’d dropped out of her art class and the only person she spent any time with was Cynthia, her tarot reader friend who left our flat stinking of patchouli and cigarette smoke. I’d barely convinced Mum that she would be OK if I left her on her own while I was one the excavation, and I didn’t want to think about the reaction I’d get as soon as I got through the door. After everything that had happened with Luke, I wasn’t ready to deal with her just yet.

  What I needed was a distraction. I had the whole morning to myself in the village. I might as well put it to good use.

  I turned the Mini around and headed back down the Crookshollow high street. An idea occurred to me. A crazy idea, but then, everything had gone pretty crazy ever since Luke had shown up on site. I yanked the Mini into a car park, locked up, and walked up to the first occult shop I saw.

  I read the gothic sign above the door. Astarte. This looked like just the place I needed. I glanced along the street, but I didn’t recognise anyone wandering around. It wouldn’t do for one of my university friends to see me heading into a new-age store. It would destroy my archaeologist street cred.

  As soon as I opened the door, a wave of incense hit my nostrils. Choking on the sickly smell, I stepped inside. The shop was dim, with gauzy curtains covered in silver stars obscuring the front window. The place was lit with candles burning along the countertop and on the various wobbly shelves stacked around the small room. Every surface was crammed with books, candles, crystals, packets of cards, and statues of Egyptian gods.

  The woman behind the counter – an old lady with a stooped back and a plait of thick black hair over her shoulder – waved at me, then went back to work. There was only one other customer in the shop – a handsome man about my age with wild ginger hair and broad shoulders. He was scratching urgently at his neck, while arguing with the shopkeeper over a quantity of tiny white pills spread out on the counter. As I walked around the shop, picking up the books and flipping through them, I eavesdropped on their conversation.

  “—I need ten of these pills. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today.”

  “Look, you’re not the only person who’s come in here for these.” The old woman replied, her voice stern. “I can give you these six, but that’s the best I can do until next week.”

  “Fine.” The man gritted his teeth, took a handful of the pills, dropped a wad of cash on the counter and stormed out.

  “Customers.” The old woman looked up and grinned at me, a kind smile of crooked teeth. “They think you can work miracles and just magic up some more stock, although I suppose in a shop like this it’s to be expected. What can I do for you, dear?”

  “I, uh…” I didn’t really know what to say. “I was
hoping you could work a miracle for me.”

  She smiled wider. “As long as you don’t need any Lycan pills, I’m all yours.”

  “Lycan pills?”

  The lady waved her hand dismissively. “It’s a herbal remedy. For hair growth. They’re not a big seller, but I have my regulars who need them.”

  “To cure baldness?”

  “Not exactly.” She glanced at my hair appraisingly. “Your hair looks fine. So what miracle are you in the market for?”

  “I’m looking for…information on werewolves.” I scratched my head. This conversation was ridiculous. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I was a rational person. I believed in the scientific method. I knew crystals didn’t have healing properties. Why was I in an occult store talking to a crone? “I mean…werewolf myths.”

  “I have a few books on the subject. But why don’t you just ask your friend?”

  “Huh?”

  “Please, dear. I may be an old lady, but I can smell werewolf a mile off, and you reek of it.”

  “I…what?” I glanced around the shop, but it was empty. I lowered my voice. “You know about werewolves?”

  “Of course.” She tapped the bottle on the counter. “You didn’t think I’d run a store like this and not know a thing or two about shapeshifters. I’m Clara, by the way. My own sons are shifters, you know.”

  “Really?” This conversation had only been going on for a few minutes, and already it had veered into Bizarro World.

  Clara nodded. “They didn’t get it from me. I’m purely human. But their father was a vulpine – that’s a fox shifter – and both my sons inherited his genes. Shifters are much more common than you realise, although werewolves are pretty scarce in England these days. So what is it you want to know about werewolves? You might as well ask me. I can probably tell you more than any book.”

  “I don’t…” I took a deep breath. “I guess I want to know about their mates.”

  “How so?”

  “What does it mean when someone…when they call you their mate?”

  “In most circumstances, it means you are a very lucky girl.” Clara grinned. “Shifters – especially wolves – are caregivers. They’re fiercely protective of their mates, and will do absolutely anything for them, including taking a bullet, if it came to that. Is that a bite I see on your neck?”

  I pulled the collar of my shirt down so she could see the red mark across my collarbone.

  “Ah. I see you have an immediate need of this information. Werewolf mating is very simple, by shifter standards. Werewolves are usually male, and they are instantly attracted to human women who possess the wolven genes. Many werewolves speak of a magnetic pull or an energy coursing through their veins – when they meet a women and instantly know they’re meant to spend the rest of their lives together. Some women feel the same attraction.’

  “That sounds far-fetched.” I rubbed my arms, remembering the way my body tingled and coursed with heat when I was near Luke. Was that what she was talking about? Was that feeling more than just attraction?

  “Does it? Love at first sight happens all the time, among human couples. There are several scientific papers on the subject, and many believe it has evolved as a physiological response to environmental pressures. Why should it not express itself as a physical trait?”

  Woah. Clara spoke my language. She gave me a coy smile. “I get lots of sceptics in here, young lady. I’ve learned the best way to talk to them is to find a way to relate, instead of getting into an argument.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone arguing with you.” I grinned. I liked this crone. “So do you know many werewolves?”

  “No. As I said, there aren’t many left in England now. Most of them stick to countries that already have a wolf population. It makes their lives easier if they’re ever seen outside in their wolven form. I do have a couple of regular customers, but this week has been one of my busiest ever, with all these new wolves in town. Like that last customer, for example.”

  “He was a werewolf? How can you tell?”

  “The smell. It’s obvious once you get used to it.” Clara sniffed. “Plus, he was after these pills.”

  She tossed the jar into my hand. I read the handwritten label. “Lycan pills: take twice daily leading up to the full moon.”

  “Many wolves find the pills help them shorten the length of time they’re under the moon’s spell, and help them to control their wolfish urges. I make these myself, and I usually have enough on hand for my usual clients, but the new wolves this week have wiped me out, as you may have heard.”

  “When did these new wolves show up in town?” Luke had said he was protecting the site against any potential threats. It would be too big a coincidence for more werewolves to show up in Crookshollow just as the caves were being excavated.

  “There’s a ranger in the forest. He arrived two days ago. “ Clara gave me a look. “I gather that’s your man.”

  “Luke. That’s him. How do you know he’s a ranger?”

  “He told me. We had a lovely chat. He’s a wonderful lad, a little rough around the edges, but his heart is pure. His family have a long history in Crookshollow. It’s nice to see a Lowe return here.”

  “You know all about the Lowe pack? About what happened?”

  Clara nodded. “Yes, but that’s ancient history, of course. There would be few here in Crookshollow now who would remember the death of that child, and of those left, probably none that cared, unless there was a descendant of Robert Peyton who still carried his anti-shifter fervour.”

  “That seems unlikely. What about other wolves?”

  “I had my regulars, and that man this morning. I’ve never seen him before, either. I would stay away from him if I were you.”

  My stomach twisted with nerves. “How come?”

  “He smelled your Lowe wolf on you, and likely sensed your genes. He knows you’re a viable mate, and that another wolf has laid claim to you – a wolf whose family name has long been disgraced. He might try to claim you for his own.”

  “Can he do that? Don’t I get a say in the matter?”

  “It wasn’t uncommon in the past for rival packs to clash over viable female mates. Most of that behaviour is verboten these days, feminist wolf movement and all that, but some wolves still stick to the old ways. He struck me as the latter type.”

  My stomach clenched. I’d come to the village to escape this werewolf stuff for a few hours, to give myself some time to think. The last thing I needed was to get stuck in the middle of a territorial wolf battle over my own vagina. “What do I do? Is there some kind of…anti-wolf spray I can use?”

  “I’m afraid no magic is powerful enough to repel the primal energy of a lycanthrope.” Clara grinned, tapping a stack of black card decks on the counter. “I can sell you a deck of Crookshollow tarot cards, though. Each card has different pictures of famous spiritual landmarks of Crookshollow. They’ve also got playing instructions inside.”

  “Playing instructions?”

  “Tarot cards were originally designed as playing cards,” Clara set a deck down in front of me. “If you’re out in the middle of the forest, perhaps you could use a bit of entertainment.”

  “Thanks.” I paid for a set, and Clara threw in a pamphlet about shapeshifters. “A lot of this is New-Age codswallop,” she jabbed a wrinkled finger at the howling wolf and full moon on the cover. “But if you want some good general information on shifters, it’s a good place to start.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I just hope what I’ve told you hasn’t confused you even more.”

  “Confused me?”

  Clara’s kind eyes bore into mine. “I was in exactly your position once, my dear. I loved a shapeshifter, but I had to temper the decision to follow my heart against a world of doubt.”

  “I…I’ve known Luke only a couple of days,” I said. “It’s too early to say that I love him.”

  “If you say so.” Clara turned back to the co
unter, and started rearranging quartz pyramids with thin fingers. “If you have any more questions, you can come back here and I’ll try to help you.”

  “Thank you.” I rushed out the door, my mind reeling. I’d gone into Astarte hoping for some clarity, but instead I felt more confused and scared than ever.

  I went home to the flat. My mother lay on the sofa, staring unblinking at the ceiling, an open scrapbook clutched in her hands.

  “Hi, Mum.” I kissed her on the forehead. “I brought you a Cornish pasty, and a new tarot deck. I thought you and Cynthia might like to try reading my fortune.”

  She didn’t reply, her eyes barely registering my presence. My gaze fell on the scrapbook, and I gave a start as I realised the photographs weren’t of my dad. They were of me and Ben – shots of us grinning from under the family Christmas tree, hiking along Hadrian’s Wall last summer, marching in a student protest against the Iraq War. From every image Ben’s lively face grinned up at me. My heart pounded. Why was she doing this to herself?

  “Anna.” Mum blinked. Fresh tears rolled down her face. She reached up and embraced me with thin, weak arms. “Are you OK? Have you come home to stay with me?”

  “I’m just here to take a shower and grab some stuff. I’m living on site for the next two weeks, remember?”

  “Oh,” her face fell. She clearly didn’t remember at all.

  “Why don’t you call Cynthia to come over? She could help you finish that Monet puzzle you started?” The box still sat on the kitchen table, the border completed, a few splashes of colour dotted in the centre. It didn’t look as though she’d fitted any more pieces since I’d last been home.

  Mum’s eyes fluttered shut. She pressed the scrapbook tight to her chest. “No. I don’t think so.”

  I sighed. “That’s fine. I’m just going to take a shower, and then I’ll fix you some tea.”

  The one advantage of having a mother catatonic with grief was that I didn’t have to listen to her complain about my smell. I took a long shower, using an entire bar of soap, and tried not to let my mother’s behaviour get to me. As I soaped down my body for the fourth time, my sadness at seeing her like that flipped over to anger. When I was eighteen and we lost Dad, I had to hold things together while she fell apart. I had to cook and clean the house and pay the bills and deal with the lawyer and the funeral home. And I did it all while the pain of losing my father rubbed my heart raw. I did it for her, so she could fall apart and retreat into her own private grief.