Falling Silver

by Anne Maclachlan

  Simon sighed deeply and began pacing the kitchen, working out how to handle the next couple of weeks.

  Gregory had immediately taken Old Jake off south somewhere, far from Vertigo’s reach, while laughing himself sick over the idea that nothing would be more wildly dangerous than Karina when she came home from Duluth. He wished Simon luck. “Ain’t no Silverizing against that woman,” he chortled, and sent his love to her. “And I wouldn’t advise you to try saying her name three times, either,” he called from the road, and he and Jake disappeared to pick up the Greyhound bus from outside the diner.

  There were two days left before the first night of the cycle, and Simon was spending part of them reviewing every strand of silver on the outside property, knowing that the house itself was already fully enveloped and impenetrable. “Take what you would have put on the guest house and use it on the main building,” he suggested, and Deputy Moore leaped at that suggestion. So it was done. “Don’t worry about me,” he assured the red-faced lawman, “I’ll just stay in the house with Rina on full moons.” Not a soul had observed his skillful acquisition of enough threading to protect the sleeping area of his little house, just in case he had to secure Karina in there, before the theft became too risky to continue.

  The rest of the time he spent hunting Vertigo.

  There were clear signs that the Firewolf King was still about, even though Gregory had been prompt in removing Jake from the area. But why, Simon wondered, why would a Firewolf be in this area? If he’d been tracking Jake, they all would have known by now, or he’d have taken off south to pick up Greg’s trail.

  Rina was his first concern, as Vertigo’s taste for torture often led him to women and small children. Simon shuddered at a twelve-year-old old memory of a summer’s night in Texas, full of the screams of a mother and tiny child, and Vertigo’s unbridled madness. It was the only time the two werewolves had come face to face, and Simon had failed to stop the slaughter. They’d squared off, circling, when the lights came on in the rambling ranch house and a lone figure rushed towards them. Streaking into the woods in opposite directions, the two werewolves barely escaped; but each now had the other’s scent.

  Thus, Vertigo had to be aware of Simon’s presence and ought to have been concerned. Waterwolves were the thinkers, the planners who were not overtaken as completely as their fellows. Nobody wanted to be on the wrong side of a Waterwolf; even at Apex they were the intellectual masters and could hunt and kill any other of their kind.

  Hunters. Of course. Vertigo was here for the Hunters.

  In the next forty-eight hours, Simon had managed to patch things up a bit with Karina. With just a couple of days before the rise of the next cycle, he was nearly frantic for her safety. A new approach occurred to him, and he risked the whole Silverize argument again.

  "It does work, you know," he ventured as Karina tore up yet another freshly posted "This property has been Silverized™" sign retrieved from the front of the long driveway.

  “I don’t want any of you dying because of me. I don’t want you or Greg, if he comes back, or Jake, or anyone else thinking you hear a noise in this house and coming to save me and — I can’t even say it.”

  “Then stay quiet the next five nights. Promise me that, Rina. Don’t come outside. I’m not a pet.”

  She smiled and nodded, “I know, I know — ‘not behind the ears,’” and Simon exhaled. No more was said about the issue, and soon it was time for preparations.

  ◆◆◆

  “Remember when we met?” Karina asked on First Night as she heaped pre-sunset food onto Simon’s plate.

  She had been walking home from school, taking a shortcut through the woods on a snowy Minnesota winter evening, when a small group of rough boys leaped out of the brush and pushed her into the snow. They chanted slurs and scattered her books. The biggest one, an overgrown 13-year-old, began pushing her face into the snow. Someone else sat on her legs and she couldn’t breathe. The snow packed into her mouth and up her nose. She couldn’t hear a thing, and then suddenly she was able to turn her head and scream with all her might.

  Then it all stopped.

  The boys scattered and eleven-year-old Karina was helped to her feet by a tall, sandy-haired man in a long leather coat. He gently brushed the snow off her, gathered her books and asked if she was hurt. Rina thought he was the handsomest man she had ever, ever seen.

  “Do you live far from here? No? I’ll walk with you until you get home. You shouldn’t take shortcuts through the woods,” the man lectured, “you never know who you’ll meet in here. Don’t your parents tell you things like that?”

  Karina nodded.

  “You get along all right with your parents?”

  “Oh, yes,” Karina responded and chattered away as the man grew more agitated.

  “We’d better go faster. It’s getting dark.”

  “I love walking in the dark, especially under the full moon. It’s my favorite thing to paint,” and she talked on. Her companion seemed to be taking deep breaths of her, almost as if she were wearing perfume, and it made her feel quite grown up.

  “My name is Simon, and you shouldn’t talk to strangers,” he said as they reached her house and he walked her up the steps, effectively ruining the little living fantasy she was having about being all grown up and arriving home with her knight in shining armor.

  Simon knocked on the door, introduced himself and explained the situation. He declined the invitation to come in, and as he stood against the dimming light, Rina thought he had the kindest, warmest eyes she had ever seen. Unusual eyes with a slight ring of blue on the outer edge of the irises.

  He saw her safely inside, and leaving her to an angry, part Russian, part Ojibwe, part English parental lecture that she didn’t really hear, he disappeared into the woods.

  Simon remembered this vividly. This innocent, confident child who had been kind to him during their conversation, who later that night lay safely sleeping under the moon as a shadow rose outside the window to fall over her quilt. The shape moved silently, and took form on the white coverlet, with a flattened crown and long hornlike ears.

  Simon shuddered.

  “Time already?” asked Karina.

  “I’d better go. And, Rina,” he paused. “I mean it. I should have told you about Vertigo and I’m sorry I didn’t. Stay inside tonight, please. Remember that there’s something else besides me out there. A true Firewolf.” His voice was beginning to drop.

  Karina looked into Simon’s blue-ringed eyes and promised.

  Dinner in the Diner

  In the Pigeon Creek Diner, Janine and Shari were poring over the accounts and supplies books as they waited for the Hunters to come in for dinner. In spite of the sudden increase in tourists, few visitors had ventured in to the diner, most having arrived in their own well-stocked campers.

  “This is disappointing, to say the least,” sighed Janine. “When those UFO hunters were here, didn’t we clear three thousand dollars?”

  “Three and a little more,” agreed Shari. “I think we might lose some this time. Well, at least the Hunters are here.”

  Sure of their new regulars, the “Diner Ladies” had bought steaks to hold in reserve for the men as a “Hunter Special,” and finally closed the books, deciding that even the local heroes weren’t coming that night. They began chattering merrily about nothing in particular.

  “The guys can eat at our house,” suggested Shari, since the cars streaming past the diner suggested that yet again, nobody was going to stop there that night. “Where are they all going? I haven’t seen this many cars since … I don’t even know.”

  “I heard they’re all going to the Redfeather place, to look for werewolves and see if that Silverizing thing works,” answered Janine as the diner’s bells jingled. Both women leaped up to greet their Hunters, but instead their flirty grins disappeared when their lone customer skulked in. “Looks like that fella in here last month, only with teeth,” shivered Janine. “Oh well. I guess he’
s mine.”

  “Your kids’ll be redheads,” Shari snickered and went to the kitchen.

  The shabby figure seated himself near the door. He was lean and not very tall, with a scraggly reddish-brown beard that hid most of his features. His eyes peered through long greasy hair as if trying to read Janine’s thoughts as she handed him a menu.

  “Is it always this quiet?” Vertigo asked with a slow and unsettling smile. This would be so easy. He was tingling with it already.

  “Aw, everybody’s out at the neighbor’s place. She just got that silver thing done and everybody’s waiting for werewolves to show up.” Janine flinched as the man’s long pinky nail scratched a jaggly V shape on her hand.

  “Sorry,” he grinned.

  “What do you want to eat? We’ve got –”

  “Just water.”

  Janine sulked her way back to the counter and made an ugly face at Shari, who grinned through the counter window. “He’ll be a big tipper. Lucky you.”

  Vertigo sat back in the booth and gazed out the window. “Werewolves, huh? How many of ’em?”

  “They say two, if there really are any.”

  Simon desRosiers, thought Vertigo, and the other fading scent was his little toy Jake’s. There was a third as well, but he didn’t recognize it. Never mind, he had two new toys to play with right here, and they had essentially fallen into his grimy lap. The younger one was pretty, he’d make her watch and take her second. Gear her up.

  He saw the blood streak on the older one’s hand. It was his own little game, to mark a V on his prey. He would wet his pinky finger first, to inject the wolf into them. It would never do to try this after sunset; new wolves bit hardest. He tasted the blood on his fingernail to reinforce the objective.

  Janine brought the water. “Well, sir, we’re going to shut down and go home before sunset. You know,” she winked conspiratorially, “in case they’re right.”

  “Why aren’t you two over there?” asked the man, getting up as he drained the glass.

  “Heck, we just live out back. Oh, no charge,” Janine waved after him as he left.

  Vertigo almost howled. No charge? You’ve no idea what this is going to cost you.

  Wolf Circus

  Pacing her front room, its window glass shimmering in the sunset from the fine silver threads, Karina was frantic. She was certain Simon hadn’t had the time to get deep enough into the woods, and now the place was surrounded by Hunters and questionable press outlets. On her broad yard, there was even a huge gaggle of crypto-tourists who’d read the Creek Run piece, all of them crammed into an assortment of four-wheel-drive vehicles that they figured would outrun any problems — problems which they clearly hoped would show up.

  “I hate this, I hate it,” she fretted to Sheriff Langston, who waited with her inside until the sun had fully set.

  “I’ll call Bill in here and leave him with you,” the sheriff offered, and at the same instant they both said, “Please” in very different tones.

  Langston’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “All right, all right. I hear he does well on porch duty.” He picked up his hat. “I’m just here for crowd control, you know. Aside from that circus, nothing is out there. You do know that?”

  Karina nodded but kept pacing. “Thank you, Sheriff. I wish you could make them all go away.”

  “They’ll tire of it when nothing happens. Where’s your cousin?”

  “Manning the guest house against souvenir hunters.”

  “That’s good, that’s good. I wouldn’t worry, though. Even the Marines couldn’t get in here tonight.” Langston stepped toward the front door, hesitating before placing his hat on his head. “Well, see you in the morning, Miss Redfeather. Hope you can get some sleep.”

  Karina thanked him and closed the door against the flashing lights and the gawking masses. Her heartbeat started to slow as she realized that Simon was correct — in wolf form, he would avoid this mob with their tripod torches and smartphone pitchforks. Perhaps, in the strangest of ways, they would actually protect him.

  By three in the morning, most of the crowd had quit tossing emptied plastic beer cups onto the property, turned off their headlights, and finished having their pictures taken with the Hunters, who were loving every moment of it. A few hours later, shortly after sunrise, Karina saw a small light flicker inside Simon’s log cabin and knew he had come home.

  The die-hards wouldn’t leave for some time, until the weather got the better of them at last. It was a drizzly gray morning, and the mostly hungover crowd dispersed up Karina’s long dirt driveway to line up in front of the diner up the main road. Sheriff Langston pulled up to his office down the street, puzzled as to why the ladies hadn’t opened up. It was after 8:30 already.

  He radioed Bill that he was going to check on the “Diner Ladies,” and walked across the parking lot behind the little restaurant. The door to the Morris house was ajar, so he hopped up the steps and pushed it open.

  Sheriff Langston had spent his postwar career at the scenes of car wrecks and housefires, and had seen more than his share of Army horrors. This morning he took a large step backwards, tripped off the porch and threw up.

  Moon of the Hunter

  By 9:30 a.m., Sheriff Langston was being treated for shock on the way to the hospital, and law enforcement — such as it was in the form of Bill Moore and the Hunters — was taking charge of the proceedings. Karina’s property was invaded by all two members of the Pigeon Creek press, and everybody with a badge, a patch, or a pen seemed to be looking for Simon.

  A few terrified neighbors dropped by seeking company and to discuss the previous night’s horrors. For all the isolation of Pigeon Creek, nobody could remember similar tales of a madman on the loose. And the dear Diner Ladies, of all people, they whispered. It wasn’t as if they were the sort that would materialize at the truck station and disappear into the night with who knew whom.

  “What do they mean by ‘werewolves?” someone asked. “I thought they just made that up as a term for psycho killers.”

  “Who cares what you call it? I certainly don’t,” added another, “because we’re getting out this afternoon. Hell, most of the town is leaving.”

  In the meantime, the Hunters gathered on the porch, followed by an assortment of odd amateur Web reporters holding up phones and a wide range of other portable video recording devices.

  “I did not see desRosiers last night!” Deputy Moore declared meaningfully, and several times, to anyone within earshot. The three Hunters leaned against the porch railing and trained their eyes on Karina, daring her to make up excuses, as she appeared on the doorstep.

  “I’ve told you, he spent the night protecting the guest house, where he lives, from the actual lunatics.” Karina held her front door open for the Whitehead family, whose three small children carried teddy bears and blankets into the house.

  A slight noise rustled near the porch, and Simon appeared. “I saw you,” he informed Bill, “at about three o’clock in the morning, trying to coax phone numbers out of tipsy coeds outside my window.”

  The Hunters grinned and Karina went cold. Simon winked at her but his eyes were serious. He quietly asked her to take all her guests inside the house, leaned toward Adam and handed him a piece of cloth, speaking barely audibly. “I’d get dogs in if I were you. Guess you know Howler Sign when you see it?” Adam nodded and slowly stood up straight from his leaning post. Dogs won’t track Howlers, and desRosiers knows it. What’s his game here?

  “Come on then,” Simon continued. “I’ll take you out there and show you his base. Karina,” he called inside, “what do you say to a neighborhood sleepover? I don’t think that many locals are staying behind.”

  In fact, those few residents who were not yet ready to leave town were only too happy to stay at Karina’s well-protected house, whether they believed in werewolves or not. Karina was able to take in the Whiteheads and another local family, the Hillstroms, along with a young tourist couple who had requested sanctuary
when the Pigeon Creek motel shut down. They all arrived bearing personal supplies and enough food to sustain them over the next few days and nights. It was a tight squeeze, but she put the couple in her bedroom, the Hillstrom family in the living room and the Whiteheads in the bright, airy studio. All the other locals had simply left town, leaving behind the morbid thrill-seeking reporters and a large gang of lookie-lous. Everybody in Pigeon Creek had known and liked the Diner Ladies, and the silence in town had a tangibility to it.

  A legitimate TV reporter finally arrived from Duluth with his team and was shouting questions as the Hunters disappeared with Simon into the woods.

  “Follow them or talk to me,” Bill ordered the news crew and for once, Karina was glad of his distractive presence. She went into the living room to settle people into the well-cushioned, comfortable furniture there. Not surprisingly, everyone was quite happy to squeeze in next to the warmth and comfort of someone else they knew. Karina reminded the group that they would be fine moving around and even going outside until dark, at least as long as Bill was protecting them. There was a nervous giggle at that, but nobody moved. Karina turned on the television, which sprang to life with an image of her own front porch.

  “And we are here live with Acting Sheriff William Moore. Sheriff Moore, what else can you add to what we have heard already?”

  “This is definitely the work of werewolves. All you skeptics out there, listen up. Two of these things have been spotted in the area so take the proper precautions. You don’t,” he turned directly to the camera, “repeat, you do not know who your neighbors are here.”

  Everybody groaned and then laughed heartily for the first time. “Do I know you?” became the afternoon’s catch phrase, along with observations like “I’d pass the bread if I knew you,” and then finally the adults let the kids out on the porch for some fresh air.